Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,31
suppose I could have done it, but I can’t bear to look at him, let alone meet him face-to-face. Ever since our kiss postmortem, there’s been an unspoken tension that coats the air between us like smoke. The less we interact, the better.
Even sitting across the hall from him, listening to his deafening keyboard punches and tapping is too much. At least out here, physical space separates us.
Unexpected moments of eye contact are the worst, though. Even during our daily volunteer shifts at the worksite, we still manage to accidentally catch sight of each other, then awkwardly look away. Jamie would be a fun diversion, but he left for his hiking trip the morning after we met up for a drink and won’t be back until tomorrow. We’re due for a proper date that doesn’t involve rock climbing or a predate kiss from Tate.
To stay busy, I’m taking progress photos of the worksite. Hopefully, sending them with the pitches I’ve written to local media outlets will drum up community interest in the charity homebuilding project.
I take a panorama shot, shrugging through the dull ache in my side that’s been plaguing me since yesterday. I blame the heat wave, which seems to be cooking me from the inside out. Or maybe it’s stress induced from the silent standoff between Tate and me. A weekend of resting is the cure, I suspect. I just have to stay preoccupied for the rest of day, avoid Tate, and I’m golden.
“Can you believe how the frame is coming along?” Lynn claps her hands in delight. She’s exchanged her trademark costume jewelry for jersey walking shorts and a pink hard hat. She looks downright adorable, like a mom in a Hallmark movie helping with a home renovation.
I gaze around, my professional mask in place. “It’s definitely something.”
In a few weeks, the family we’re building the house for is scheduled to stop by and view the worksite. Lynn mentions plans for a swing set in the backyard for the kids. What a thoughtful surprise that will be. I hope the family loves everything we put together for them.
“It was Tate’s idea,” Lynn says, waving at someone behind me.
When I turn around, I’m rewarded with the sight of Tate. Beautiful, exquisite, toned Tate. I try not to stare, but I fail miserably. He’s wearing this long-sleeve, skintight silver workout shirt that clings for dear life to his muscled arms and torso. I can’t say I blame the shirt. I’d cling to that body too.
If only the designer of this shirt could see Tate wearing it, doing it incredible justice. The way his torso cuts through the fabric is how that shirt is supposed to look on a body. He sets the hammer clutched in his fist on a nearby sawhorse. The visual reminds me of Thor decked out in all his superhero costume glory: hard, chiseled mass bulging through every inch of fabric. The shiny gray color is the perfect counter to his glowing white skin. He is the god of thunder dipped in a milk bath.
I’m not the only one who notices. No fewer than a dozen women and a couple guys at the surrounding worksites whip their heads around to gawk at him as he walks up to me.
Lynn is called away to answer a question, leaving us alone.
“What?”
Crap. I’m staring, and it’s obvious.
“Long sleeves,” I say quickly, shaking my head. I focus on the grass. “Interesting choice. A little warm for that, don’t you think?” I manage to sound seminormal after four days of not speaking to him.
“It’s moisture-wicking fabric. I’ll be fine. Besides, I need the sun protection.”
My memory bank pulls up an image from the beach next to the neighborhood I grew up in, of tourists encasing their children in sunscreen and thin long-sleeve T-shirts. Tate would fit right in.
He squints at me, and for a moment, I wonder if he can tell just how much I’m drooling over him. “Any reason why you’re standing around taking photos instead of helping with the frame?”
I roll my eyes before directing my gaze back down to my phone. “I’m taking progress photos of the worksite for our special project.” I swipe through the pictures I’ve already taken.
When I rub my forehead, my fingers pull away coated in sweat. Damn, this heat. Already I’m drenched, and I’ve only been here an hour. I can’t wait for the roof to go up so we’ll have a reprieve from the unrelenting sunshine.
Tate crosses his arms, his brutal stare