Page 34 of Her Dirty Defender

Chapter9

George

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been.

Two weeks since Beckett Lawson tilted my world upside down and made me want to turn one night into forever.

But the last thing I need right now is his infuriating ability to get under my skin. Yet here he is, looming like a six-foot-four reminder of what should’ve been a mistake but felt more like a blessing.

I don’t have time for this. Not today.

Not when the Veterans Day Fundraiser is in three days

Which is why I’m standing in the newly constructed barn at six in the damn morning, setting up speakers and wiring sound equipment instead of fixing engines.

Awareness prickles across my skin like lightning before a storm. My hands falter on the heavy speaker I'm setting up, and my breath catches. My stupid, traitorous body already knows Beckett is here before I turn around.

The humid morning air mingles with sun-warmed wood as I adjust the speaker cables, trying to focus on anything except his presence. But it's impossible to ignore him.

When I glance up, Beckett is talking to Angus. He's leaning against the barn door frame, one shoulder propped against the weathered wood like a romance novel cover model who got lost and wandered onto a ranch. Yet his hazel eyes are on me like a wolf tracking its prey. His jaw tightens as though he's restraining himself from coming to help.

I can’t look at him without remembering how his arms felt braced above me, his body pinning me in place, his muscles flexing under my touch. I long to lose myself in that again—inhim—and hate myself for it.

Because wanting him feels like a rebellion. He’s here to do a job, not build a life. And if I give in to whatever this is between us, I’m scared of how much of me he’ll take when he leaves.

My boots scuff against the worn wooden floor as I adjust my grip on the heavy amplifier rack. The metal case weighs a good sixty pounds, and while I can handle it, the awkward dimensions make it tricky to maneuver between the support beams. One wrong move could damage several thousand dollars' worth of equipment.

I stumble, and heat floods my cheeks—because, of course, he notices, just like he notices every detail in the workshop.

After two weeks of working together, I have to grudgingly admit that Beckett is good. Really good. Yesterday, he diagnosed a transmission issue I’d been puzzling over for days, but instead of showing off, he asked for my opinion. He walked me through the solution like we’d been partners for years, and his interest made me feel as if I was teaching him something.

He probably knew the answer all along, and that makes him dangerous. He's as competent as he is infuriating. Those hands that drove me crazy are as skilled at rebuilding engines as they were at making me shiver. He makes me feel capable, deferring to my expertise on a repair, then spends ten minutes arguing about the correct way to organize socket wrenches.

Tolerating the situation would be simpler if he were just a pretty face mansplaining my job. Instead, he’s quickly becoming the best mechanic I’ve worked with, yet he makes me feel like the star of the show.

I grit my teeth, carefully shifting my weight to keep the rack balanced. I've moved this equipment dozens of times, but the humidity makes the metal slick under my palms. I adjust my hold, letting muscle memory guide my movements.

“Need a hand?” he asks in a lazy drawl.

“I've got it.” I heft the rack higher, determined to prove I don't need his help. My fingers itch to throw something at him. Or caress his chest. Or both.

Beckett pushes off the doorframe, covering ten feet in three long strides. He fills the narrow space between me and the equipment racks, making the barn suddenly feel intimate. “Sure about that?”

“I've run sound for every event in this town since I was sixteen.” I don't need his help. “Pretty sure I can handle one setup.”

“Sixteen, huh?” His voice drops low, intimate enough to make my toes curl in my boots. “Always this stubborn?”

I arch an eyebrow, refusing to acknowledge how his black t-shirt stretches across those ridiculous shoulders. “Always this annoying?”

He’s distracting. The rack is awkward, my palms are sweaty, and I'm losing my grip.

“Let me help.” Before I can stop him, he's there, his hands sliding under mine to take the weight. “Before you drop this very expensive piece of equipment on your pretty boots.”

I hate how easily he steps in—quiet, capable, always there. I’m not used to being the one who’s caught when I fall. I’m not sure I like it. But part of me… might want to.

“My boots aren't pretty; they're functional,” I say, knowing I sound defensive. But we're standing too close now, his chest nearly brushing my back. Every nerve ending in my body ignites, aware of exactly how much space is between us, how easy it would be to lean back and let myself feel the solid wall of his chest. “And I wasn't going to drop it.”

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