Page 63 of The Overtime Kiss

And that makes me even hotter.

16

OFFICIAL YOGA POSE

Sabrina

He’s drilling. I repeat—my hot, single-dad boss is drilling. I might as well strip out of all my clothes right now. Instead, as I hold the bookshelf against the wall, he drills holes into the brackets. He’s inches from me, and his woodsmoke scent taunts me, curling past my nose and drifting into my mind.

I swallow roughly as his arm vibrates from the drill.

Pretty sure I vibrate too.

His body is so close. I let myself stare freely—the way the muscles in his corded forearms flex, how his biceps move, how his shirt clings to him.

His focus is intense, his eyes narrowed on the bracket on the second shelf, since he already hung one. A few more seconds pass, then he turns off the drill and shifts his gaze to me.

His hazel eyes radiate hopefulness but also pride, as he asks, “What do you think?”

Like hewantsme to like it.

But news flash: I love it. And what I really think is that I was today years old when I discovered my new guilty pleasure: hot dad capableness. Yum.

“I think it looks…well hung,” I say before I even consider the words leaving my mouth. The second I do, I slam my palm over my lips. I should not be allowed to speak sometimes. Where does this part of me even come from? Little Miss Perfectionist Sabrina never blurted out her dirty thoughts when she was with Fuck Chad.

Tyler blinks. Once. Twice. But when he clears his throat, he’s no longer caught off guard—he’s in control. “It is, Sabrina. It is,” he says, his voice low and amused as he pats the shelf. “Sturdy. Want to give it a tug?”

My heart beats too fast. He’s playing with me, and I love it. “Yes,” I croak out.

I reach for the shelf, grab it, and yank. Yep. This shelf does not lose its strength at all. When I let go, I scramble for something appropriate to say but completely fail. Instead, I blurt, “Chad was never handy. I like handy.”

“Well, that works out for both of us, doesn’t it?” Tyler’s charm flashes, teasing, a little flirty—but never quite crossing the line.

“It does,” I manage, trying to focus on anything other than the inferno my body has become. Almost two weeks in, and I’m a burning fire. There has to be something to gutter these flames.

I roll through conversational topics in my mind and land on the one that’s been nagging me all week. Surely, it will douse my desire. “What happened with Elle?”

His brows knit. I probably shouldn’t have asked. I wave my hand dismissively. “Actually, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry. Forget I even asked.”

I gesture to the items on the floor—the yoga blocks, a bolster, a strap, candles that smell like sunshine and orange trees, and allthe accoutrements. “I want to set up the shelf now and enjoy the Official Yoga Corner,” I say, bending to grab a few things.

He reaches for my arm.

“Nothing bad happened,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But nothing great either.” His eyes flicker with something like regret.

For the years they spent together? The choices they made?

Or maybe for the end of it.

“Oh.” My heart sinks. “That must’ve been hard at times, being in a marriage where it felt…like that.” I hesitate, but the question spills out anyway. “You weren’t really in love?” It feels important that I know this.

“Maybe at one point we were, but it didn’t feel like sparks. It didn’t feel like lightning. It didn’t feel the way my pulse beats faster and harder when I get on the ice. You know what I mean? It wasn’t like hockey.”

Goosebumps rise along my arms. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel that way too on the ice,” I murmur.

“Great minds,” he says, but it feels likegreat hearts.

Like we have too much in common.

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