Page 5 of Inked Soul

“Only about a hundred more things,” she says.

“I’ll make you a deal then,” I say. “You get the beer and pizzas, and I’ll assemble whatever you want.” Standing up I wipe my hands on my jeans.

She looks at me skeptically. “Why would you help me?”

“My dad died when I was a junior,” I say honestly. “My mom raised me and my sister by herself. But once a month, Mr. Murdoch from down the street came over and did all the little DIY stuff she needed help with. She always paid him with beer and pizza.”

“You assume there isn’t a man in my life,” she says with another glare.

I consider asking her about the asshole I met in the hallway, but he isn’t important. If he was her man, he would be assembling her furniture instead of me.

“I assume,” I say instead, taking a step closer to her, “that no man worth his salt would let his woman struggle on her own for a month. That a real man wouldn’t leave his son to cry through the night but would be there to help the mother through this. And I know if you have a man in your life, he sure as shit would not let the neighbor assemble your furniture with you wearing those shorts.”

“What’s wrong with my shorts?” She stares down at her body.

“Not a damn thing,” I mumble, looking at her legs once more. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Fine. But I like pineapple on my pizza.”

Chapter Three

Helping A Sort-of Friend Out

Abigail

Watching my huge and insanely attractive neighbor put together furniture for the entire day before taking a seat at my kitchen counter and enjoying a beer has me smiling the entire time. He is funny and sarcastic, giving me shit the whole time about nothing in particular.

I have caught him staring at my legs several times throughout the day and I have to say I am not hating it. It makes me feel desirable, which I haven’t felt in ages. I usually just feel like I’m a breath away from falling apart.

“The pizza should be here in a minute,” I say as he finishes half his beer in a couple of gulps. When did watching a man drink beer become a sexy thing? It must be the sexual deprivation. I haven’t been with anyone except my vibrator since before the divorce. “I’m just going to put Tyler down, but there is money on the bookshelf for the food. You know, the one you assembled with your fancy tools.”

“Damn right, I built that shelf.” He puffs out his chest in what I assume is fake self-importance and I laugh. Luke doesn’t strike me as the type of man to toot his own horn. He seems much humbler.

After putting my son in his crib, I join Luke in the kitchen where he already has one of the pizzas open and is putting two pieces on a plate he hands to me.

“Thank you.”

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