Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(10)

“Technically, same day. I dropped you off at 2:30 a.m. On Sunday. And how did you make them so quickly?”

Her nostrils flared.

Yeah, I was giving her shit—couldn’t help it. Also couldn’t help noticing how sexy she looked when annoyed.

Her cheeks grew a deeper shade of pink. “I accomplish amazing work when channeling sexual frustration.”

Ah, got it. I scanned her warehouse filled with art. “You must be frustrated a lot.”

Gaze locked to mine, she exhaled slowly. Then she squatted beside the stack of panels. When she glanced down and wrapped her hands around the edge of one, a lock of her dark hair fell over her face.

With a stout puff, she blew the curl away from her eyes and stared up at me. “We swapping life stories…or are you helping me?”

I didn’t answer. Because learning about where she lived and what aggravated her only made me want to know more—what made the fascinating girl in front of me tick: what made her scowl, what made her laugh.

So I bent down, gripped my side, then lifted.

The metal panels she’d created were incredible. Rusted foundations supported fluid patterns of countless smaller welded pieces: a slice of gleaming hubcap, rows of oxidized chain, curling strips of tarnished steel, a field of uniform scales.

“These are amazing, Kiki.”

Her eyes lit up. “Thanks.”

And then she smiled. At first, it was tentative, a gentle curve of her lips while she scanned over her work. Then she glanced at me, and I got the full effect. Genuine. Heartfelt.

Damn. I suddenly wanted to learn more of how to make that happen.

Not for you, D. If I repeated it in my head enough, maybe I’d believe it.

The panels were heavy. It took us three trips to transport them to my truck, two stacked panels per run. The edges of each sheet were curved inward, so even though she wore gloves, I gripped them with no problem. Once we laid the last pair outside, I pulled my sound board stands down from the truck bed and set them on the ground.

She pointed to the nearest panel. “That’s an end. Lift it and hold it in front of the right side.”

When we moved it into place, she inched it forward. “There. Can you lean that against the frame? Good.”

We followed with the longer front piece, angling it up until the seam lined up flush with the first.

“Can you hold them steady like that?” She examined the edge where the pieces fit together.

I nodded, then lowered into a comfortable squat, keeping a firm hold on each panel.

The ends had hinged brackets bolted onto the outside. She reached behind her, pulled out the screwdriver from where she’d tucked it into her waistband, then began screwing them into place.

She hovered close, near enough for her vanilla scent to waft around me. A slight breeze caught strands of her hair, brushing them over my arm. When she tilted her head and turned, her upper body leaned into my side. She fit perfectly there.

My brain fogged. “Plenty of places for sex.”

Her twisting hand paused, midturn. “What?” she croaked.

“At your real place, the warehouse. No questions. Plenty of places.”

Her chest expanded, then the screwdrivering resumed. “Thought we weren’t having sex.”

“We aren’t.”

“Then why are you talking about it?”

“I’m not.”

“Uhhh…” Her soft laughter puffed warm air over my forearm. “You are.”

With a flex of her wrist, she tightened one last turn before crouching lower, breaking our intense side-to-side contact. My brain cleared in that fraction of a second.

Change the subject, Einstein.

I ignored logic. “Only pointing out facts. Guys don’t ask questions. When sex is on the table, it’s on the table, the floor, couch end, sturdy piece of art…”

Another pause in her twisting lasted only a second. Then she picked up the pace, screwing furiously. “Well, if we aren’t having sex—”

“We aren’t,” I reiterated.

“—then maybe we shouldn’t be talking about where we’d do this imaginary sex.”

“I didn’t say ‘we.’”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone held doubt.

I grinned, loving every moment of frazzling her. Had no idea why I’d started, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

“There.” She suddenly burst up, then backed away from me.

I stood from my crouch, stretching my legs.

She eyed me warily. From a good four-foot distance.

“So, no sex.” She pointed the screwdriver at me.

“No sex.” Decision made. But the ban on sex didn’t mean I couldn’t tease. I enjoyed the hell out of riling her.

As she stood there glaring at me with suspicion, my gaze traveled down her body. Couldn’t stop myself. All five-foot-five of her—hair wild, dark smudges on her face, hands now propped on her hips—grew more adorable when provoked.

You do not want her.

My body didn’t listen; arousal lingered behind the fly of my jeans.

“Stop staring at me.” One of her brows arched provocatively. “No sex.”

She crossed her arms, which pushed her breasts together—not helping. But then she leaned onto one hip and propped her other foot out.