Page 6 of Her Father's Best Friend

He points to a section of wall where copper pipes are partially visible. "These run to the upstairs bathroom. Don't want to drill into them."

"That would be a mess," I agree, leaning in to look where he's pointing. My shoulder presses against his, and I feel him tense at the contact. "So where should we start?"

For the next twenty minutes, we work side by side, him measuring and marking the wall, me handing him tools when he asks. I make sure to brush his fingers with mine every time I pass something to him. Each touch sends electricity up my arm, and I can tell by the tightness around his mouth that he feels it too.

"Hold this end for me?" he asks, positioning a level against the wall.

I step in close, our bodies nearly touching as I hold the level steady. His scent surrounds me—sawdust, soap, and something uniquely Mitch that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Like this?" I ask, my voice deliberately breathy.

"That's good." His voice is strained. "Keep it there while I mark the drill points."

As he works, I let my gaze wander over him—the strong column of his throat, the way his jaw clenches in concentration, the slight tremor in his hands that betrays his composure isn't as solid as he wants me to believe.

When he finishes marking, I don't move away. "What next?"

"Need to drill pilot holes." He steps back, putting space between us. "You might want to stand back. Dust gets everywhere."

"I don't mind getting dirty," I say, the double meaning hanging between us.

His eyes darken, but he says nothing, just turns to retrieve his drill from the toolbox. I watch him work, mesmerized by the play of muscles under his shirt as he drills into the wall. Dust indeed sprinkles down, settling on his hair, his shoulders, the floor.

"Can I try?" I ask when he finishes the first hole.

He gives me a skeptical look. "You've used a drill before?"

"I'm not completely helpless," I say, moving in to take it from him. "Show me."

Reluctantly, he hands over the drill. "Keep it steady. These walls are old—hit a weak spot and you could puncture something you don't mean to."

I position myself in front of the next mark, and he steps behind me, his big body surrounding mine as he guides my hands.

"Like this," he says, his voice a low rumble near my ear. His chest presses against my back, his hands covering mine on the drill. "Not too much pressure."

I push back slightly, my ass brushing against him. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Sorry," I murmur, not sorry at all. "Just getting my balance."

The drill whirs to life, vibrating in my hands as Mitch guides the motion. The combined sensations—the tool's vibration, his body heat at my back, his breath on my neck—make my knees weak. I shift again, deliberately this time, and feel something hard press against my lower back for a brief second before he adjusts his stance.

That's when it happens—whether by accident or my subconscious design, I'm not sure. The drill slips, skidding across the wall and hitting one of the copper pipes with a metallic screech. Water erupts from the puncture, spraying across my chest and face.

I shriek, dropping the drill as cold water soaks my shirt. Mitch curses, lunging for the main water valve in the corner. The spray diminishes to a trickle, then stops completely as he shuts it off.

"Are you okay?" he asks, turning back to me, concern written across his face.

I stand there, water dripping from my hair, my shirt plastered to my skin and completely transparent. His eyes drop to my chest, where my nipples stand hard and visible through the wet fabric.

"I'm fine," I say, looking down at myself. "Just wet."

His throat works as he swallows. "You should go change."

Instead, I reach for the hem of my shirt and peel it upward, revealing inch by inch of my stomach, my ribs, the undersides of my breasts. "No point going upstairs dripping wet."

"Delilah." Her name is a warning on his lips, but he doesn't look away.

"What?" I pull the shirt over my head, standing before him in just my cutoff shorts, water droplets running down my bare chest. "Nothing you haven't seen before, I'm sure."

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