Page 32 of Her Dirty Defender

Angus’s grin turns devious. “That's exactly what I had in mind.”

She spins back around. “What?”

“Beckett needs to keep busy. You need help when you’re here. Seems like a perfect solution.”

“No.” George's voice could freeze hell. “Absolutely not.”

“I'm a quick study,” I offer, enjoying the way her eyes narrow. “Good with my hands, too.”

The wrench clatters against her workbench. “Angus, I swear to God?—”

“Look at it this way,” Angus interrupts, already backing toward the door. “Now you'll have someone to throw wrenches at besides the goats.”

She turns on her heel. I watch as her hips sway in those coveralls that do nothing to conceal her curves, and I don't bother hiding my appreciation.

Angus whistles under his breath. “What happened between you two? Looked like she was about to set you on fire.”

I stretch, rolling my shoulders. “She can try.”

Angus snorts. “You’re a goddamn menace, Beckett.”

I don’t argue.

Not when George has just become my new favorite problem.

“I should get back, too,” Angus says. “The carpenters need direction on the barn. You good here?”

I nod, already planning. “I'll do a perimeter check and get familiar with the layout.”

He claps my shoulder as he heads off. “Good to have you here, Beckett.”

I pick up the wrench George dropped, testing its weight. I wait until Angus has disappeared before approaching the workshop. George is bent over the engine again, but the tension in her shoulders says she knows I'm here.

“I'm working.” She doesn't look up.

“I can see that.” I study the way her coveralls strain against her breasts when she reaches for another wrench—beautiful breasts I remember tasting. “So, where do we start?”

Her laugh is more of a growl. “We don't start anywhere. This is my workshop. My rules.”

“Your rules?” I step closer, close enough to catch a hint of citrus that's haunted me for almost two days. “Funny. Didn't hear you complaining about my rules the other night.”

Color floods her cheeks. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

She gestures vaguely. “That was then. This is now.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “By the way… ‘Shadow’? Really?”

I blink, playing dumb. “What about it?”

“That’s the name you gave me. Shadow.” She folds her arms. “I figured it was a fake. Or a stripper alias.”

I chuckle. “You think I moonlight as Magic Mike?”

“I think you’re avoiding the question.”

I shrug. “Shadow’s a nickname. Been mine since before I could grow a proper beard and just… stuck.”

She eyes me, unconvinced. “From what? Lurking in corners and brooding professionally?”

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