Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(5)

Moving the bracket a little to the right, I mock a nail up to the top hole. I give it a tap. Instead of going in the wall, the nail shoots sideways and drops to the floor with a ping.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“What are ya doing up there?” The caramelly voice rings from behind me as I take two nails out of my pocket.

“Trying to hang a speaker.” I put one nail in between my lips and hold the other against the hole.

“Need some help?”

It’s clear he’s entertained. That only makes me more determined to show him I can do it by myself.

“Nope,” I say, biting the nail a little too hard. “I got it. Thanks, though.”

“I’m just going to stand here and make sure.”

“You do that.”

I mock up another nail. Before I swing the hammer, I ensure my weight is evenly distributed and the bracket is poised exactly where I think it might work. Now that I have an audience, I can’t fail.

“You know, if you move that about two inches to the left, there’s probably a stud,” he says. “I mean, there’s one behind you, too, but you probably aren’t looking to nail the one with the great abs. Or are you?”

My eyes roll so hard it almost hurts. I blow out a breath in exasperation. “I’ve nailed a lot of great abs. Unfortunately, the abs are usually where the greatness stops.”

Harper’s laugh barrels across the room and mixes with my self-appointed supervisor’s chuckle. If I weren’t so focused on getting the speaker hung and mildly irritated at his confidence, I’d probably really enjoy the timbre of his voice.

“All jokes aside, there’s an outlet by the floor underneath you. Outlets are always on a stud. So if you really want to hang that thing, move it over two inches like I said, and you’ll be fine.”

“I was doing just fine without you,” I say. But as I think about the logic behind his remark, he’s probably right. Damn it.

“Suit yourself.”

I wait for him to move into my line of sight. He doesn’t. He stays positioned perfectly behind me so I’d have to actually look over my shoulder to see him. The thought crosses my mind that he might be checking out my butt, and I’m thankful I wore my good jeans today.

I want to see him but don’t want to turn around. That would be obvious. I also don’t want to move this bracket two inches to the left and prove him right, but I have to.

Ugh.

Sliding the metal across the drywall, I hold my breath and wait for him to say something. I put the nail into the hole and wait again. Still nothing. Just as I draw the hammer back, he speaks.

“Are you new around here or what?” he asks.

My hands drop to my sides as I spin around. The bracket pings as it hits the floor. “Why do you ask so many quest . . . ions . . .”

It’s like his gaze is waiting for me. It plucks mine out of the air and locks it in place. As soon as our eyes meet, an audible gasp escapes my lips.

Holy. Shit.

I’ve seen those eyes before. They were lit up by a makeshift fire beside Dogwood Lake as we dined on a bag of cheesy chips and a can of soda from a machine by the bait shop.

He’s smiling up at me with the deepest, sexiest dimple that God ever gave a man. “You are definitely new around here. I’d remember seeing you.”

My mouth opens to call bullshit, to tell him he’s seen more of me than what he’s looking at now, when I stop myself.

He doesn’t recognize me.

Well, hell.

Nothing like a kick to the self-esteem when your one-night stand doesn’t recognize you, even if it was ten years ago.

His brows pull together. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I—ah!” I move too fast for the old ladder. It rocks beneath me, the stabilizing bars on the sides wobbling. Before I know it, my legs are going one way and my top half is going the other and I land

In.

His.

Arms.

My breath comes out in panicked huffs, my heart thundering in my chest. I take in a deep lungful of air that’s tinged with a clean, masculine scent—a scent that is like electricity in my veins.

Holy freaking crap.

One of his thick, muscled arms is wrapped beneath my legs. The other is cushioned around my back. He holds me with no effort and looks down, completely pleased with himself.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to ignore the way a ripple of goose bumps speckles my skin.

“That’s okay. I’m used to women falling for me.”

I pull my hand away from across his wide shoulders, letting my fingertips trail the back of his neck for only a split second. “Put me down,” I say while I have the sense to say it. “Please.”

“Sure thing.” He grins as he sets me on my feet. “Want me to hang the speaker for you?”

“No, I do not,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “I can do it.” It takes everything I have to rip my eyes from his tattooed arms—the arms I was just cradled in—and look at Harper. “You were right.”

My phone rings in my hand. My mother’s number is displaying on the screen. Even though I generally just put her to voice mail to avoid a lecture on how I’m screwing up my life, her timing is perfect.

“I was right about what?” Harper asks.