Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(55)
He props the helmet under his arm and looks out toward the creek. “I couldn’t find anything in Boulder, at least nothing I could afford that gave me a little land and some privacy. I really hate neighbors.”
I laugh and look around to see he’s completely secluded here. His own private little sanctuary plunked onto a stretch of the wilderness a mere twenty minutes from Boulder. “Well, this is perfect. Something like this would easily cost two million in Boulder.”
“No shit,” he replies instantly and rubs the back of his neck. “As I said, it’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.”
I smile brightly and throw my leg off the bike. “Show me the inside!” I have to stop myself from jumping up and down like a doofus.
He chuckles softly. “Okay, but then we’re getting dirty in the garage.”
“Okay,” I chide and let him drag me upstairs and through his front door.
He’s in a hurry to get back down to the garage, but as I take in the space through his rushed tour, I can see that Miles has vision. Most people probably wouldn’t have looked twice at this property, but he’s already turned it into something really unique and special.
He first points at where a big wall was knocked out last summer that originally separated the dining room from the living room. Since it was a load-bearing wall, he put in knotty wood support beams stained a deep espresso color that contrasts nicely with the white shiplap on two of the living room walls. The desired effect is a rustic, shabby chic farmhouse feel that oozes charm and natural light.
His furniture is minimal. Masculine. A leather couch and loveseat face a giant big screen TV. His kitchen is his current work in progress, but the new slate countertops were just installed last week, and now, he’s refinishing the cabinetry. The cupboard doors are all removed and apparently down in his garage awaiting their next coat of varnish.
He shows me to his bedroom, and it has a giant bed screaming practical comfort. But when he walks me around the corner to his master bath, it’s clear where all his money has been going.
A huge two-headed waterfall shower occupies one whole wall of the bathroom with a perfectly clear glass door to showcase his incredible tilework. I may have sprouted a lady boner when he told me he did the work himself. He also removed the wall that separated the bathroom from the spare bedroom so he could turn that space into an attached walk-in closet.
Honestly, his ex is a fucking idiot. This man is husband material right here.
He quickly shows me a spare bedroom adorned with shag carpet and wood paneled walls. He says it’s next on his list, but it’s kind of fun to see because it shows how much work he’s already put into this house. Miles is clearly not someone who sits idle.
As we walk down the interior steps and he opens the door to his garage, he smiles over his shoulder and tells me this is where the magic happens.
You know the kind of sex that’s fumbling and messy and shit gets knocked over a lot, and you feel like you’re apologizing for everything the entire time, but you still somehow manage to have an epic orgasm and break something?
No?
Yeah, me neither…until tonight.
Not only did Miles show me his filthy garage and list all of his tools that seriously sound like they were meant for a sex toy room. He also gave me a hard and rough quickie by bending me over his toolbox and getting my arms all grimy from some spilled brake fluid. I had to wash up in his paint-splattered work sink afterward just to get the smell off me.
Whatever was bothering Miles earlier, the tour of his house and the quickie he gave me seemed to have helped calm him down immensely. And considering I had a glass-shattering orgasm, I’m not complaining one bit.
Before heading upstairs to clean up in that stunning fucking shower, Miles walks me over to his second garage to show me a project he’s been working on.
He pulls on a couple of metal chain switches on the ceiling, and the illuminated bulbs swing over our heads, showcasing a stunning classic truck.
“It was my grandpa’s,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets, his muscles extra veiny from our efforts in the other garage. “It’s a ‘65 Ford pickup. I just got the white paint completed a couple of months ago, and the interior done last week. All it needs now is this special carburetor that only works in this particular model. It’s really hard to find and crazy expensive because of that. Most of my money has been going into house renovations, so I’m waiting until I have the funds to get it up and running again.”
“So it looks pretty, but it’s not functional,” I state, sliding my hands over the glossy white paint. It’s perfect. The chrome finishes shinier than a mirror. I smile and add, “It’s like art.”
“You could say that,” he replies, watching me curiously from the doorway.
I continue my perusal. “It looks like it belongs in a Pixar film,” I muse with a smile, checking out the front end and imagining the grille opening up to talk.
This makes Miles laugh, which is nice because I’ve missed the happy-go-lucky demeanor he had when we were camping. I should have guessed classic cars were boner-worthy for mechanics.
“You said this was your grandpa’s?” I ask, walking around the hood toward the passenger side door to check out the interior a little closer. The white leather bench inside the cab is beautiful.
“Yes.” Miles nods, his posture visibly tensing as he adds, “He passed away two years ago.”