Well Matched (Well Met #3)(11)

Then I stood up too, and the cracking of my knees reminded me of who I was, and who he was. All joking about MILFs aside, I was at least a decade older than anyone he’d be attracted to. Cut it out, I told myself. He’s being a nice guy and helping you, and you’re ogling him while he does so.

I was the actual worst.

“How’s it going up there?”

I started guiltily. Oh God, had he caught me watching him? But he looked guileless as he tilted his head up and looked at me from where he stood in the backyard.

“Um.” I looked at how much I’d gotten done. “Not too bad?” I had a few boards left, but I was almost to the French doors. The plan was for me to stain backwards until I backed myself into the house. But now I saw the flaw in this plan. I looked across the mostly stained deck, down the stained steps to Mitch. “You’re kinda trapped, huh?” We’d painted him right down the steps and out of the project entirely.

He waved a hand. “I’ll go around to the front and meet you.” He popped the lid onto the can of stain, hammering it on with the heel of his hand.

“Sounds good. It’s time for a break anyway.” I knelt back down (knees cracking all the way) and applied my brush back to the boards, finishing another one as I heard the front door open and close in quick succession. A few moments later I felt his presence in the doorway behind me. I tried to ignore him and concentrate on finishing up, setting the brush and stain aside and wiping my hands on a rag before I stood up to face him. My knees didn’t crack this time: small mercies.

“Want something to drink?”

“I’d love it.” He gestured, waving me to walk in front of him to the kitchen. I moved to the sink to wash my hands, and behind me the fridge opened, and closed again as he made a disgusted noise.

“No beer, huh?”

“Nope,” I shook my head. “You know I’m a cider drinker. Wine sometimes. But beer’s never been my thing.”

Behind me Mitch let out a long-suffering sigh, but when I glanced over my shoulder I caught his smile that said he wasn’t being serious. Of course. Was he ever serious?

“Sorry,” I said. “I should have said it was BYOB.”

“Next time,” he said as he took two bottles of water out of the fridge. He handed me one and we leaned against the counter on opposite ends of the kitchen. I tried not to notice the way his throat worked when he swallowed. But not noticing Mitch, when he was standing right in front of you like that, wasn’t easy.

“So the dinner with your family . . .” I said, desperately trying to find something innocuous to talk about. “It’s only a dinner? I only have to be your girlfriend for one evening?”

“Gee, thanks. Try not to sound so excited.” He made an attempt to look insulted. “I’ll have you know I’m a catch.”

“Your mama tell you that?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“Every day.” He quirked an eyebrow right back, and I had to laugh. He made it so easy to laugh around him. He grinned in response to my laughter, and his smile lasted just a beat too long. Long enough for my blood to spark with heat, and for me to wonder what I needed to do to keep him looking at me like that.

“Anyway, yeah,” he continued, as though he hadn’t noticed how something inside me had just shifted. “Sometimes it’s an afternoon barbecue situation—Grandpa got a smoker not too long ago, and he loves that thing—but the latest info from my mom is that it’s going to be a dinner out somewhere.” He shrugged. “So it’s only a few hours, really. You’re getting off easy.” He coughed into a fist, and I was pretty sure the cough sounded like that’swhatshesaid.

I pretended not to hear. “Okay,” I said. “That sounds doable.” I hoped so, anyway. Malones everywhere. I suppressed a shiver. Could anyone be ready for that?

“A little enthusiasm would be nice, you know.” He drained the rest of his bottle of water and left it on the counter.

“I know,” I said. “I know. You’re a catch.” I reached for the empty bottle so I could throw it in the recycling, bringing me in close proximity to that chest I’d been ogling outside.

“I am.” He didn’t move, he just stared down at me, almost in a challenge, while I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet his eyes. Don’t show fear. Or anything else that might be heating up this room.

“Thanks for helping with the deck,” I finally said, my voice throatier than usual. “This would have been a pain in the ass on my own.”

“Sure.” He hadn’t moved and neither had I, and somehow in these few moments our breaths had syncopated while our gazes locked. His chest rose and fell in time with mine, and good God, how did eyes come in a blue that vivid?

“How soon are you, uh . . .” His voice was hushed, hesitant. “Moving?”

Moving. Right. That was an excellent idea. I stepped back from him. “Not till the fall, at least.” I took our bottles to the recycling bin on the other side of the kitchen. “Caitlin’s graduating from high school and all, and of course she’s volunteering for the Renaissance Faire—”

“She better,” he interrupted. “She’s a veteran.” The way his voice warmed when talking about my kid made a flutter kick up in my heart.

“I know. She looks forward to it every summer. And I don’t want to disrupt any of that. I thought I’d get all this stuff done over the summer and put the house on the market in the fall, after she’s gone.”