“How’s it going in here?”
She stepped forward as she asked, poking her head into the sitting room. Her first thought was how much bigger it looked when it wasn’t dwarfed by too-large furniture.
Her second thought?
Oh, mama.
Claire had never been the type to ogle a man, but then she’d never seen a man who looked like this one. She had the epitome of man candy in her home.
He wasn’t particularly tall—an inch or two shorter than Scott, who was on the other side of the room doing something with a tool and an end table, and who Claire purposely ignored.
But what the fantasy man lacked in height he made up for in sheer brawn. His biceps were tanned and filled out his Yankees shirt to perfection. His dark hair was cut short, his teeth white and even against his tanned skin. He was also clean-shaven, not a hint of five-o’clock shadow in sight.
Simply put, he was the personification of a boy-toy fantasy. The type of man that would be cast as the “young hot stud” with whom the middle-aged divorcée has a steamy vacation fling.
He must have felt the weight of her stare—or sensed her drool—because he grinned her way with a polite nod. “Ma’am.”
“Hi,” she said, her voice a little breathy, like the shy freshman who’d just earned a wink from the senior homecoming king.
Scott glanced up, eyes narrowed as he studied Claire for a moment. She saw his gaze drop to the pink beverage still in her hand before rolling his eyes.
Turning back to the younger guy, Claire’s hand lifted almost against her will, as she gave a ridiculous little finger waggle of a wave.
Worse and worse.
She was grateful he’d already turned away from her and missed the awkward gesture. Scott, however, was still watching her, a puzzled What the hell am I looking at here? expression on his face.
Ignoring him, Claire ordered herself back to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She eyed a package of mixed greens, debated making a salad for lunch. She shut the refrigerator without taking anything out. She didn’t want salad. She wanted . . . damn it, Oliver. She wanted sex. Or at least the prospect of it.
Maybe she’d just check on the movers, see if they needed anything . . .
The gray-haired guy with the ponytail had returned, only to leave the room once more with the other chair in hand. Scott was nowhere to be seen, but dark and hunky was still in the sitting room, unscrewing a lightbulb.
You can screw my lightbulb.
No, too obvious.
Light my fire?
Too awful.
Still oblivious to her staring, or too kind to embarrass her by noticing, the man bent down and began adding some sort of protective tape to the underside of the glass of her coffee table.
The muscles of his forearms flexed slightly, and—
“Seriously?” said a male voice close to her ear. “He’s not a day over twenty-five.”
Claire jumped in surprise, though she refused to feel guilty as she pulled out of sight and glared at Scott.
“Really,” she said, pulling him farther down the hallway so as not to be overhead. “And I’m sure every woman you’ve hooked up with has been in your age range, right? Thirty-two and above?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, then he shrugged. “Point taken. Still, you’re practically drooling.”
“I was just looking,” she said, refusing to be embarrassed. “He’s very . . .”
“Young?”
“Hot,” she corrected. “He is hot.”
“Dean also has a job to do. Stay out of the way,” Scott said, before brushing past her and going to join the movers.
Dean. She could work with that.
She was tempted to return to the kitchen. Scott, while an ass, was right. Dean was too young for her; he was here working for Scott . . .
And yet Oliver’s reminder that there was only one way to learn a new skill wouldn’t stop running around on repeat in her brain.
“Oh hell, why not,” she muttered to herself.
New Claire gave in to whims, and right now, she wanted to dust off her stale flirting skills.
Ignoring Scott’s high-handed order to stay out of the way, she strode into the sitting room, adding a little waggle to her stride, hoping it was sultry and didn’t look like she was drunk. The disgust on Scott’s face told her she wasn’t terribly successful.
Practice.
She walked straight to where Dean was crouched by the table. “Hi, I’m Claire, owner of the ugly furniture you’re so kindly moving. Can I get you anything? Water?”
My loins?
He stood slowly, giving Claire a boyish smile. “No,