Page 93 of The Beach Trap

I tilt my head up and Henry closes the distance between us, his lips finding mine. He tastes like peppermint and coffee and I want to drink him up.

There’s nothing tentative about our kiss this time—it’s hungry and impatient, like we’ve both been waiting more than a week to do this again. I feel myself melting into him and I wish we could spend all day doing this, but we’ve got work to do.

Breathless, I pull back just the slightest bit, my nose still grazing his. He gives me one more kiss.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he says.

“Me, too,” I tell him. “It’s been a long week.”

Henry shakes his head. “I’m talking about that first day I saw you at the bank. Maybe even before then.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I slip my hand in his and thank him with another kiss.

“Let’s see this mess you made,” he teases, pulling back, but not letting go of my hand. I lead him toward the offending spot on the ceiling.

Henry blows out a long, slow breath and shakes his head. “It’s not pretty,” he says.

My heart drops and I realize I didn’t even consider the possibility that Henry wouldn’t be able to fix this.

“Is it beyond repair?” I ask.

“No such thing,” Henry says. He squats down and I try not to stare at his adorable ass as he runs a hand on the dark, mottled wood floor. “It’s almost dry; Blake did all the right things.”

I frown at the implied comparison, knowing Henry got stuck with the wrong half sister to help with this project. Then he glances back at me with a smile so warm that I know for certain I’m not his second choice.

“You ready to get to work?” he asks.

I put my hand out and haul him up. “Let’s do this.”

•••

Over the nextfour days, I discover muscles I never knew existed. They all ache, making even the smallest movements a struggle. But I finally understand the phrase “hurts so good.” There’s something satisfying about not just seeing the results of your hard work, but feeling them, too.

And I’ve been working hard. Harder than I’ve ever worked before. Although I’m sure Henry could’ve done it all faster and more efficiently on his own, he seems to know how much it means for me to help. He has the patience of a saint—a sexy saint—as he teaches me how to work the sander, and the difference between painting with and against the grain while we’re staining the floor. And after a couple of days, I feel more confident in my abilities.

He comes over every morning and stays all day until it’s time to pick Sunny up from summer camp. The two of them come back here until dinner—I cooked the first night; after that we’ve ordered in—and they go home before Sunny’s bedtime.

I want more than anything to go back to the cute little blue bungalow with them, but Henry wants to take things slow around Sunny, which I respect. He puts her first like the good dad he is. Still, I’m starting to wonder if we’re ever going to take this beyond a few stolen kisses.

This morning, we added a layer of clear coat over the stained wood, and all that’s left to do is wait. I suggest heading down to the beach and taking a well-deserved break, but Henry Alexander apparently doesn’t believe in relaxation.

After I’ve followed him around like a puppy dog, “helping” as he fixes other odds and ends around the exterior of the house for what feels like hours, he declares the floor dry and the room ready to put back together.

“You’re going to have to remind me where all this furniture goes,” he says, folding up the sheet that had been covering the couch.

I have every intention of helping him, but the couch looks so soft and inviting that I can’t help myself. I collapse onto it, letting my body sink into the plush cushions.

“First, come sit,” I say, reaching toward him.

Henry frowns, but luckily accepts my outstretched hand, and I give him the tiniest tug I can muster.

“Every muscle in my body aches,” I tell him.

He squeezes in behind me, a leg on either side of me. “Let me help you out with that.”

I sigh as he starts kneading the muscles of my neck and shoulders, then squirm as he reaches a particularly sore area. “I’m such a wimp.”

“No, you’ve done great this week. I’ve been impressed. Really.” He pulls me closer toward him, the little spoon to his big one, wrapping his arms around me in the warmest, gentlest hug I’ve ever experienced. I love how he makes me feel small and safe, curled up against his broad chest. But I really hope this isn’t all he wants to do before he has to go.

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