Make Me - Tessa Bailey Page 0,24
were equally strong. Push her away while wondering if he might draw her closer. Maybe Louis was right, and he did need a therapist. “Uh, the kitchen is to the right. Family room to the left. There’s a bedroom in back and two more upstairs, along with an office. It’s a pretty standard layout. Most of the houses on this block are the same.”
She propped the cupcakes on her hip and placed one hand on the staircase banister. “Maybe it was the same before, but you’re doing all this great . . . stuff to it.”
His lips twitched. “Stuff?”
“Yeah.” Finally, a hint of her smile. “Great stuff.” It went away just as fast as it had appeared. “Anyway, Darcy told me where you were. I’m glad she did. I can’t believe no one knows about this place.” Her gaze swept over the entryway. “You’re going to live here?”
Russell nodded even though he wasn’t sure of anything. “Since you’re here, I might as well show you around. Head on up.”
On the way up the stairs, he kept his head focused on her ankle. No higher. Just enough to make sure she wasn’t limping. If he got an eyeful of her ass or a flash of thigh, he’d be showing her a lot more than the bedrooms upstairs. His cock had already grown heavy, recognizing her from a million fevered dreams. She was the fuel that had provided the guy downstairs with hours and hours of frantic stroking, and dude wanted to say a personal thank-you. But it would not be happening. This was a good thing. She’d come here wanting things back to normal. Russell wanted that, too. Right? Right.
When he reached the landing, her yellow dress beckoned him into the small office, adjacent to the master bedroom. “Office,” he said, stating the obvious, like an asshole.
“Wow. Such great lighting in here.” She went up on her toes to look out the window. “That’s one thing my office at work is lacking. It could be nighttime, and I wouldn’t even know if I didn’t have a clock.”
He felt his features arrange themselves in a scowl at the thought of her in an airless, windowless room, but remembering what she’d said Monday night about his always being mad at her, he erased the expression before she could turn around. “The jobs we’ve done, a lot of customers don’t like too much light in their offices because it creates a glare off their computer screens.”
“Oh. Not me. I’d want it to feel like I was working outside. Maybe even a big old skylight.” She tucked a stray strand of rich, brown hair behind her ear. “Everyone has their own tastes, though. It’s perfect the way it is.” Still carrying the cupcakes, she passed him and left the room. Russell considered the small space a moment, ruminating on the merits of added sunlight, before following.
It was ridiculous, but he actually hesitated on the threshold of the master bedroom. At this point in time, it wasn’t a bedroom just yet. He’d managed to put up Sheetrock on all four walls, but beyond that it was mainly sawdust, tools, and another worktable. Not the place he was possibly planning to sleep for the rest of his life. But once he saw Abby within those walls, would he be able to take it back? Or would she be there every time he fell asleep, even fifty years from now? Peeking out the window in her yellow sundress, outlined by the rain?
Russell took a steadying breath and entered the bedroom. Abby had set the cupcakes down on the worktable so she could pick up his hammer drill. Ah Jesus, Abby holding a power tool. His two favorite things in one. Code fucking red.
“Why aren’t you at work?” he asked, kicking at some sawdust on the ground.
“I took an extended lunch break.” She set the drill down on the windowsill, as if it had grown too heavy. “I have to go back later, though. I just—”
“What? You just what?” God, why couldn’t he stop being such a jerk to her? Maybe because every second he spent breathing white-grape sunlight caused a buildup in his chest, crowding his insides and threatening to spill free. It wasn’t so much being a jerk as trying to hide his panic.
Abby smoothed a hand down the skirt of her dress, big hazel eyes trained on him. “I just don’t like that I’ve deleted about a hundred text messages to you since Monday, okay? Or