me with the rubber tubing in her hands, lugging it like it’s the weight of a fire hose.
“Nice work,” I mutter as I round the corner of the garage and reach for the spigot. My hands slip over the rusted metal, and I grunt and groan, hoping the energy in my voice will budge this thing. I raise a foot, bracing it on the paint-cracked siding, and attempt to twist again.
“I just . . . need . . . a little more . . .” An arm reaches around me, and I drop my foot, twisting as I step back and slam into a wall of chest. My hands brace against him, sweat-laden and smelling like sunshine, sunscreen, and all man. My fingers have a mind of their own, and they coast down his pecs and trail over his abs before I come to my senses and pull my hand back.
What the hell was that?
An electrical current ricochets between us, but the connection drops as soon as I release his skin. Holy God, that was intense—and kind of nice—but it would be totally inappropriate to attempt again. That is, to touch him as I just did, with more of an exploratory stroke than simply catching myself against him.
“What are you doing?” I snap as if I wasn’t the one just touching him. Placing one hand on my hip, he leans around me, and with the flick of a wrist, turns the spigot. Despite the rush in my ears of my heart racing, I hear the water release into the hose.
When Jess pulls back, righting himself before me, his eyes roam down the front of my shirt. The swell of my breasts sticks out a bit over the lip of the large shirt, exposing a black bra underneath the sheer white material. Then he turns his head as if what he sees disgusts him, and my eyes catch on the short stubble along his jaw. Compared to his lighter colored hair, the fine facial scruff is a bit darker, giving him more of a laborer look than the day before. And I want to labor with him.
Stepping back with the thought, I knock the back of my knee into the spigot and bite my inner cheek from the sting.
Damn, that hurt, but he isn’t leaving much space between us, taking up all the oxygen rushing from my lungs.
“Her name is Katie,” he says, his voice rough like it was yesterday. “She’s five, soon to be six, and she doesn’t speak.”
I stare at him, my brows pinching. What does he mean?
“She can hear you just fine, but she won’t answer you. I’m almost done with the Mueller’s roof, but if you have a problem, holler.”
With that, he steps out of my space and oxygen finally fills my lungs. He disappears around the corner of the garage, and I take a step forward to watch him retreat from the yard. He walks over to his daughter, hoists her up by her upper arms until she’s face-to-face with him, and speaks to her. Some might think the stance is aggressive, but it’s sweet in a way. It shows his strength but also his intensity. He’s bringing her to his level, and then he kisses her nose and sets her back on her feet. Sensing me watching them, he turns his head in my direction, nods once, and then slips between the bushes, which scrape just under the waistband of his jeans, along the line of his zipper and back pockets in equal measure. I’ve never been so jealous of shrubbery as my fingers twitch, eager to curl over that ass and test its firmness. I wonder about his front region before I stop and shake my head again.
I’m so ridiculous.
Returning to my charge, I turn up the music playing from a portable speaker in the yard and begin to sing along with the famous pop song. My backside wiggles, and my voice bellows off-key but I don’t care, and neither does my partner who sways side to side with the beat.
“You like this song?” I question, knowing it’s a current favorite on the radio. I turn up the volume and wave my hands in the air as the song suggests, keeping my eyes on Katie to encourage her to follow along with me.
“Come on, Katie bug. Shake your groove thing, girl.” Her body freezes at the nickname.
“You don’t like Katie bug? It’s like ladybug. Did you know those bring good luck? You can even