Page 24 of Beau & Autumn

“White with two sugars?”

“Yep, cause’ I’m not sweet enough.” He grins.

“We both know that isn’t true.” I head inside before I make an even bigger fool out of myself. Why am I a dithering mess all of a sudden? It’s like I can’t string two words together. Enough already!

I go about making the coffee, unsure how Brook and Hudson take theirs, but they’ll get what they're given.

I wish I could be more help, but all I can do is listen to them stomping around on my roof while Bruiser sits on high alert on his cat run, wondering what all the fuss is about.

“No, we’re not going to fantasize about a certain someone. We are not.” I say out loud. “Especially when that certain someone smells like a Dior advert and sprouted muscles and a package that leaves little to the imag?—”

“You got a wrench?” Beau’s deep voice rumbles across the kitchen. When did he come inside?

My eyes widen and I freeze on the spot. I slowly turn, my cheeks already flaming red. There is no way in Hell he didn’t just hear me.

I clear my throat. “Uh.” I frown. “Do I look like the kind of girl who knows if she has a wrench?”

He stares at me for a moment, a smirk on his lips. Oh, he definitely heard me alright.

Shit.

Abort mission… Wait, what mission? Mission to sound like a complete lunatic? Mission accomplished.

“Where’s your toolbox?”

He. Did. Not.

Why does everything we say now sound dirty?

“I… I don’t really have one.” I think for a second. “Wait! When my brother was here, he was fixing my leaky washing machine last month, so he probably left some tools out in the garage.”

He’s still smirking at me. “Great. Lead the way.”

He knows the way to the garage. He freaking knows.

“Umm.”

There’s amusement laced in his voice, “You good, Autumn Leaf?”

With my back to him, I set the cream down. “I’m fine, Beauster.” Somehow, his old nickname doesn’t seem enough. “I’m just grateful you guys came over.”

“What are friends for?”

Is it just me, or does he accentuate the word friends. God, now I’m hearing voices.

I shake it off. I need to clear my head, but at every turn, Beau’s there, smelling like a freaking Greek God and looking like the cat who got the cream. “Can I pet Bruiser?”

I love how he still asks. “If you want your hand bitten off, go for it.”

By some miracle, he manages to get my cat into his arms and… Bruiser purrs like a kitten as Beau tickles his stomach, calling him a good little kitty.

Good little kitty?

Every single thing he says touches a nerve deep down inside me.

“He likes me,” he says.

Of course my cat likes him. Anybody on the planet would like him.

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