“Back to work,” he says.
But I can still feel the heat of him, lingering.
A moment later, I’m perched on the edge of the drop cloth, one foot braced on the floor, the other on the windowsill as I reach up to sand the top strip of trim. The angle’s awkward, my arm already sore, but I’m determined not to ask for help.
“Careful,” Damien says from across the room. I feel the heat of his eyes watching me.
“I’ve got it,” I shoot back, stretching just a little farther. And then my boot slips.
I let out a startled gasp, the block clattering to the floor. Before I can fall, Damien’s there, one arm banded around my waist, the other gripping my forearm tight enough to keep me upright.
The world narrows to the solid heat of his body against mine, his breath brushing my temple.
“You were saying?” His voice is low.
I should step back. Thank him. Anything. But for a second, neither of us moves. His hand stays on my waist, thumb restingjust inside the seam of my hoodie, the pressure warm and steady.
The front door creaks open downstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on stairs.
Ronnie appears in the doorway with a bag in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. He stops dead, taking in the scene.
“Well,” he says, grinning slowly. “Okay, I see now what happens when I’m not around. You sure you two are gonna get anything done when I leave?”
Damien drops his hands and steps back like I’m suddenly made of fire. “We were just working,” he mutters.
Ronnie just shakes his head, that grin not fading as he disappears into the hall.
I bend to pick up the sanding block, but my fingers are trembling, and it has nothing to do with almost falling.
Ronnie’s whistling fades down the hall, his footsteps echoing until the front door shuts again. The house settles back into that quiet hum, but it feels different now. Charged.
I keep my focus on the trim, but my pulse is still running high. Damien works on the opposite side of the room, jaw tight, movements sharper than before.
“Thanks,” I say finally, my voice softer than I mean it to be.
He doesn’t look up. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
I smirk, though he can’t see it. “Saving me or touching me?”
His sanding slows for half a second before he says, “Both.”
We work in silence after that. The only sounds are the scrape of sandpaper and the faint thump of Ronnie moving around downstairs.
When I leave later, Ronnie’s leaning against his truck, sipping coffee like he’s been waiting for me. “Day one and you’re already getting handsy,” he says, smirking. “Oh, what fun.”
I roll my eyes, heading for my porch. “We got work done.”
“Sure,” he says. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”
Inside, I hang my coat and try to shake off the weight in my chest. But I can still feel Damien’s hand at my waist, the steadiness of it, and the way my body reacted like it had been waiting for that touch.
It’s only day one.
And I’m already breaking our own rules.
Chapter Six
Damien
