Page 34 of She Was Made for Me

“Ah, here he is,” Bob calls, and I make sure not to glance Kyle’s way. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of even a simple “good morning.”

Beside me, Phil wolf-whistles. “Looking sharp, boss.”

“Whoa, who the hell is this guy?” Ryan asks behind a grin.

I force myself not to look, focusing on straightening a few of the Post-Its on my chart.

“Ha, ha,” Kyle drawls behind me. “It was time for a trim, that’s all.”

“Did you go to that place over on Montague?” Dale inquires.

“Uh-huh.”

“They’re good,” Bob agrees.

Okay, now I’m curious.

I twist around, meaning to casually glance at Kyle and then down at my laptop, but my eyes find him across the room and refuse to leave.

Oh,holy fuck.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him without that cap on his head, and he looks… different, to say the least. His messy hair has been neatly trimmed, close on the sides, longer on top, the hints of gray at his temples more subtle now that it’s shorter. And his beard—honestly, if you’d asked me yesterday, I would have said he needed to shave the whole thing off, but he hasn’t, and I’m glad. Instead, it’s been trimmed and groomed, so it’s much neater but still a full beard, dark with flecks of gray. And, well, let’s just say I think I’m a beard girl now.

Kyle is strapping on his tool belt, above which I notice a clean white tee under a forest-green plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled back to the elbows. It’s the same sort of thing I’ve seen him in many times before, but it looks different. Cleaner. Tidier. Sexier. Have his forearms always been that muscular?

His gaze lifts to find me staring, and something flashes in those piercing green eyes. Satisfaction, maybe, but I can’t be sure. Whatever it is, I feel a bolt of awareness spread through me, a tingle of heat low in my abdomen.

Christ.

I whip my gaze away, my cheeks warm. Overnight he’s gone from being my dad’s rugged, kind-of-handsome friend to a freakingsmokeshow.

Goddammit. How am I supposed to focus now? I can’t even remember what we’re supposed to be doing today. Instead, all I can think about is walking across the room and running my hand over his beard. I wonder if it would be coarse or soft. I wonder what it would feel like against my neck. Between my thighs.

So much for not being into him.

Argh. Fuckity-fuck.

This is a problem. This is a real problem. In all my time working with men, not one of them looked like a sexy carpenter from some kind of HGTV wet dream. Who knew that was my type?

It doesn’t matter. You have a job to do.

I blink, forcing my attention back to the task at hand. I’m here to work, not ogle the foreman. I need to get my head on straight.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

“Yes, Kyle, you look very pretty,” I say dryly. “Now, if you ladies are finished exchanging beauty tips, maybe we can get to work?”

This earns a few chuckles from the guys, and Kyle’s eyebrows slam down. I’m relieved when he plods up the stairs, followed by the crew. It gives me a chance to catch my breath.

Right. Work. I need to work.

I glance at my laptop, feeling antsy. I don’t want to sit still right now. I need to move. There’s a weird itchy energy running through me, something I’m not used to. Something I need to work out of my body.

I take the steps two at a time down to the basement, then stride to the doors leading out to the garden. Well, ‘garden’ is a little generous; it’s more like an overgrown tangle of weeds, old building materials, and what I think was once patio furniture. We haven’t had a landscaper out here yet because we’ve been focused on getting the interior work done, but I’ll need to organize one soon. Until then, I can make myself useful by clearing away some of this mess.

I find an old wooden ladder leaning haphazardly against the exterior wall of the house, probably left over from the previous attempt at renovation. Tugging free some vines tangled around it, I drag it to the back wall and prop it against the brick. This yard faces onto the back of another building; four solid stories of white brick, with some kind of ivy-like plant spilling down over it. In the middle of the yard stands a tall magnolia tree, the last of its pink and white blooms falling to the ground as the heat of summer starts in earnest. The yard would be pretty if the brick was cleaned up and the other weeds weren’t threatening to engulf the back property.

I climb the ladder carefully, determined to strip away some of the weeds along the back wall. The ladder wobbles a little and I pause, making sure it’s steady. Some of the rungs have seen better days, but it feels fine, so I continue.

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