Page 27 of Just This Once

“Shut up.”

“I’d like to talk to him. It’s always nice to have a contractor’s name in the back pocket in case of emergencies.”

Ever since ICE knocked on the door last week, Dante has been coming every day, not only to check in on the progress, but also to work. With whatever needs doing, he jumps right in.It’s frustrating how good he is at his job, makingmyjob of ignoring my attraction to him all the more difficult.

Competent in his skills and kind to everyone. What a considerate pain in the ass.

At that exact moment, the pain in my ass saunters into the kitchen, sweaty and covered in sawdust, wiping his forehead with a bandanna he always keeps in his pocket unless it’s wrapped around his forehead like some 1980s action hero. It’s gross, really, how cute he is. Like, he shouldn’t be. But he is.

“Hey,” he says, noticing his audience, and he tucks the sweaty bandanna away before skimming his hands down his jeans. “Sorry to interrupt. I only wanted to grab a water.”

“Why are you still here?” I ask, double-checking the time. “It’s almost five.”

He waves the question away. The crew left around three, as usual. He should have as well.

Charitable asshole.

Ian cuts Dante off, sticking out his hand. “We’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Ian Stone.”

“Dante Moretti.”

They shake hands, sizing each other up.

“Seems like you’re doing a great job here,” Ian says. “You’ve managed to do the impossible and impress my sister.”

Dante flashes an irritating smile my way. “My new mission in life.”

Ian slaps his shoulder. “She could use some impressing.”

I stick up my middle finger behind Maddie’s back as he asks Dante about a business card. They exchange information, and I definitely don’t pay attention to the fit of Dante’s jeans or how the sleeves of his T-shirt mold to his biceps. Instead, I ask Maddie about her day and what she wants for dinner. We haven’t fully restocked the kitchen, but there is enough food for sandwiches with an assortment of chips, dips, and fruit.

After Ian finishes his conversation with Dante, he drops a kiss to Maddie’s head and one to my cheek for good measure. “Let me know how Jake does.”

“I will,” I promise and lean against the counter.

Dante moves toward me, motioning to Maddie. “And who’s this?”

“My daughter.” I reach out for the pickle jar she can’t open, but Dante beats me to it, popping it open without any effort.

I shouldn’t swoon.

And yet, I do.

Inwardly, at least.

“Thanks,” Maddie says quietly when he hands the jar back, ducking down to her level.

“I’m Dante. What’s your name?”

“Madeline. Maddie, I mean.”

“Madeline, that’s pretty.”

That earns him a small, shy smile.

“You mind if I have one of your pickles?” When she shakes her head, he uses a fork to scoop one out, biting into the spear with a crunch. “Mm, my favorite. I love pickles.”

“Me too,” she volunteers, and of course, the one guy my daughter isn’t afraid of is the one I’m trying to stay away from. Maddie has always been on the shier side and is especially distrustful of men—thank you, Craig—but Dante eases into conversation with her.

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