He lifts the hammer, raising a brow. “Wanna smash something? It’s like free therapy.”
I hesitate. But the thought is tempting. I glance toward the bathroom, then back at him. “Why not? Lead the way.”
Dylan gestures for me to follow him. I set my laptop aside, and before I know it, I’m stepping into the half-demolished bathroom.
He hands me a pair of goggles and a hammer with a warm smile.
“Warning, I’m a klutz and probably shouldn’t be trusted with this thing,” I say before taking a swing. The crack echoes through the empty room. It’s oddly satisfying. I swing again. And again. Hard. Every bottled-up frustration shattering against those ugly green tiles.
I lose myself in it until my arm aches and I’m gasping.
“Jenna?” Dylan’s voice breaks through the haze. “Feel any better now?” he murmurs, his fingers grazing mine as he takes the hammer from my grip. The faint touch is enough to set every nerve in my body on fire.
I nod, stepping back.
“My older sister Amelia used to love demo days,” he says quietly. “Thought it helped with anger and boy problems.”
“Used to?” I ask with curiosity.
“Yeah. We don’t talk much anymore.” His smile slowly reappears. “Love the new inside-out look, by the way. Only you could make that work.”
I laugh, glancing at myself—dusty, disheveled, wearing a dress never meant for demolition. And somehow, he makes me feel like none of it matters. Not how ridiculous I look. Or how many times I screw up.
“Thanks for the smashing session. It felt… really good,” I say, handing back the goggles. I hesitate, imagining what it wouldfeel like to hold his hand, and something stirs. Something I shouldn’t want. Something electric. It’s in the way he sees me. How he makes it so damn easy to be myself. But I have no right to feel this way. So I let go of the goggles.
Izzy bursts in, her energy slicing through my thoughts. Guilt crashes over me. She has no idea what’s going on with Dylan—hell, neither do I. But I know it’s wrong. The thought of her questioning things leaves me unsettled. How much has she noticed? How long until someone calls me out?
“Hey, La Primavera Venue canceled. Shantel’s pissed and looking for you.” She pauses and glances at Dylan. “Looking good as always, Dylan.”
He grins. “I should probably get back to work.” He bends down to pick up the tile pieces, his back to us.
Izzy watches him with zero shame, then says softly, “You’ve been talking a lot to Dirty McHottie. Should my brother be worried?” The noise of the workers in the background seems to muffle any chance of him overhearing.
I force a laugh, brushing it off. “He’s good-looking, sure. Maybe a little too friendly. But nothing to worry about.”
Even if I can’t explain what’s happening between us.
She presses a smile. “Right. He’s probably flirting with every woman in the building and has three girlfriends at home waiting.”
I roll my eyes. “Renovations are temporary anyway.” A deflection, weak at best.
She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, he’s not flirting with me,” she grumbles. “And honestly, I’d love to do more than just flirt with that man.”
God, I know, me too.
Over the past few weeks, things between Dylan and me have gotten… complicated. It started small—quick chats, drawn-out smiles, his hand brushing mine, and not pulling away fast enough. At first, it felt harmless, just two people connecting. But now, the more we talk about life, dreams, and everything in between, the harder it’s getting to ignore this pull between us.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Just two people having fun at work. I can totally be friends with an attractive man. But every shared laugh, every glance that lingers, pulls me somewhere I shouldn’t be. Dylan has become my escape. A reminder of who I was before responsibility, before marriage, before the scars of trauma I’ve spent years trying to cover. Maybe even a glimpse of who I want to be.
One night, after a long day at work, I find myself ruminating about Dylan. And all the ways I can’t have him as I watch him from the safety of my new SUV. The parking lot is nearly empty, but hopefully, he still doesn’t see me just sitting here like a creep.
Dylan leans against his motorcycle, carefree, like he has no worries, no responsibilities. He pops a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly. What. The. Hell. Somehow, he makes eating chips look so freaking hot.
My brain immediately protests.Nope, absolutely not my type. Look away.
I answer my buzzing phone instead.It’s Jacob. Another trivial argument—doesn’t matter that it’s my birthday today. This time, about buying the wrong flavored water. I barely listen, glancing back at Dylan, needing out of the endless back-and-forth. “Uh-huh, okay. Sure.”
I hang up and blast music, needing to silence the frustration. Singing my heart out to Usher’s,You Got It Badlike I’m auditioning for a singing contest. Mid-verse, I catch Dylan staring—just as I fumble with the gear shift.
