Page 29 of The Way Back Home

“Cleanin’. What’s it look like, princess?”

“You don’t have to do that. It’s fine; I’ll be fine.”

“When’s your opening date?”

“A month from today.”

He glances around the ruined shelter meaningfully. “Yeah, you need my help.”

“August,” I say, but he shoots me a look.

“I got nothin’ better to do today. Now come on, time’s a wastin’,” he says, and leaves the room to collect more of the scrap from in the back.

Come lunchtime, he doesn’t make any attempts to slow down, and I’m beat. I wipe the sweat from off my brow and watch him a while. Damn, is the man fine. He’s a wall of muscle and determination as he strips wallpaper from the walls in great big sheets that have no intention of letting go. As much as I hate to admit it, I really do need his help. Otherwise I’ll still be here next July, attempting to get the place sorted.

“Hey, you hungry?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope.”

“Thirsty?”

“Nope.”

I frown. Well that’s just not natural. A huge man like him, expending all this energy, and he ain’t hungry? “Well I am.”

“Okay.”

“Do you, do you mind if I take your truck? I wanna get some water to keep on hand here.”

“You? Take my truck?”

“What? You think I can’t handle it?”

“I know you can’t, princess. What was your first car? A Jaguar?”

I frown again. I sure am doing a lot of that these days. “A Chevy, actually.”

August raises a brow but doesn’t say anything.

“We had this big old bomb of a thing. My daddy taught me how to drive it before he passed. Never did teach me how to fix it up though, so she turned into a rust bucket that had to be towed away from the trailer. Broke my heart to see that baby go, but Mamma needed the cash for ...” I glance at him, realizing I hadn’t meant to divulge all that. For a man who’s as accommodating as a sheet of paper in a rainstorm, I sure find myself talking an awful lot around him. “For food.” I finish, wetting my lips and glancing at the wall to avoid his scrutiny.

“You grew up in a trailer?”

I dust my hands off on my shorts. “Yep. Not all of us had a big old house like Tanglewood to grow up in. Who’s the princess now?”

His brow furrows. “I didn’t know.”

I chuckle and side-eye him. “Would it matter if you did?”

He nods and then fishes in his pocket, tossing me the keys, which of course I fail to catch and have to bend over to retrieve. When I come up again, August’s gaze darts from my ass to my eyes, and the corners of my mouth turn up in a grin. “Were you just checking out my ass, Mr. Cotton?”

“Yep,” he says, and goes back to working on the wall.

“You want anything?” I ask again. I have no intention of not feeding him, but I’d prefer to know his likes and dislikes than buy him something he might be allergic to.

August stares at me as if I’ve just asked him a loaded question, but he doesn’t answer.

“August?”

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