Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,9

were on and so I could see jack shit outside.

Thump-thump.

“Shit,” I muttered, heading toward the door. Stupid as hell, to be considering opening it when fuck knew what was out there. But I had to at least make sure it wasn’t someone on the sidewalk needing help.

I glanced through the window.

And immediately my heart was the thing doing the thumping.

Charlie.

She raised her arms, and I saw they were piled high with boxes and bags then realized the thumping had been from her foot doing the knocking.

Hurrying, I flipped the lock and opened the door. “Charlie, are you okay?”

“I’m sho-kay,” she said, and I realized she had a bag in her mouth, too. Grabbing it and the rest of the bags that were precariously perched on the box, I stepped back. She came in, smiled up at me. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I saw the lights on as I drove by and figured I’d drop the stuff by for tomorrow. But I should have waited when I couldn’t get a spot in front.”

I lifted a brow.

She explained. “The fittings are expensive, and I didn’t want to leave them in my car. It’s somehow still running, but not exactly secure, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t. Not really. Was it really old? Or had someone taken a baseball bat to it?

But instead of asking, I just shut the door behind her and asked, “Did you want this stuff in the back?”

“Oh, I can get it,” she said. “It seemed like you were ready to go.”

I didn’t want to argue with that, so I just shifted the bags down my wrists, snatched the box from her arms, and walked toward the back room.

“Garret!” she exclaimed.

“Charlie!” I exclaimed back.

She huffed.

I kept walking.

“I’m fully capable of carrying—”

God, she had spine. Why did I have to love women who had spine?

“I know.”

“So why are you—”

“It’s pretty late to be delivering supplies on a Sunday,” I said, attempting to divert her focus.

It worked. Sort of.

“I was at another job,” she said, coming up behind me and trying to take the box back. Her scent filled my senses, tropics and salt, her bare skin brushed mine . . . and my cock pulsed.

Oh boy.

“Can you grab the light?” I asked, shoving down the sensation.

Tig’s friend. Delia’s friend.

Not mine.

Not—

She froze, stepped in front of me, and crossed her arms, circling back to the topic at hand—the bags and box. “You’re not going to let me carry any of this, are you?”

Yes, focus on the carrying of plumbing items and not the fact that I’d been dreaming about her for the last four days . . . or that’d I’d jerked off to the image of her wet, see-through T-shirt and those gorgeous dusky nipples peeking through more than once.

I shifted the box higher, the bags’ contents rattling. “Nope.”

A sigh.

Then she moved by me.

“And it’s not because you’re not fully capable,” I said as she turned on the light in the back room and held the door wide for me. “Because I think you’ve proven you’re very capable.”

A roll of her eyes. “Except for carrying heavy things, apparently.”

I stopped, nodded at the items in my arms. “How far did you carry these?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Two blocks.”

“How long did you work today?”

A beat. “Since seven.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah, so?”

It was nine-thirty at night now. “So you’ve worked all day then”—I was guessing now—“rushed over to the store before they closed to buy stuff for tomorrow then stopped by here and hauled them two blocks to the shop—”

“It’s better that than up three flights of stairs to my apartment,” she muttered.

“That’s it.” I set the box on the ground, settled the bags next to it. “Show me.”

Her brows pulled together. “Show you what?”

“Show me the guns,” I said, pretending to squeeze her bicep. I respected her hustle and wasn’t going to make her feel bad for it. I also wasn’t going to stop myself from trying to ease that burden a little bit.

And why, Thompson? Why do you care?

A legitimate mental question and one that made my stomach churn. But I pushed that aside and kept my tone light. “That shit is heavy, and you hauled it two blocks. Your arms have to be bigger than Arnold’s.”

“If we’re making pop culture references, I prefer Hemsworth’s.”

I laughed outright.

“I guess I should start pumping iron to keep up with you.”

She snorted. “Or maybe join the rest of us doing real work instead of playing with needles all day.”

I grinned. “Why do I feel like you’ve