Page 3 of Falling for Cocky Cole
"Better," I lie. "Just put more pressure on the handle. You're not going to break it."
I step back, giving him space to work while I scan the rest of the cabin's wraparound deck. We've got six more rails to secure before moving on to the sticky front door. At this rate, we'll be here until midnight.
"So, Tanner," I say casually, "your sister Marianne mentioned you worked for a home construction company in Durango. Said you've done framing, roofing, all that."
He winces, his shoulders hunching slightly. "Yeah, about that... Marianne might have exaggerated a bit."
"You don't say."
"I did work construction," he hurries to add, "but more like... light tasks. Cleanup, material hauling. Some painting."
I curse silently. I knew I shouldn't have believed Marianne's sales pitch about her brother's skills, but I let her talk me into giving him a job. I needed the extra hands with the tourist season winding down and winter prep starting, and she was very... persuasive. Story of my life—making decisions that come back to bite me.
Well, maybe Tanner's not an imbecile, just needs practice. He's clearly trying, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on the screw. And he hasn't complained once about the work, unlike the last guy Grant hired who quit after two days because the cabins were "too far from cell service."
Grant wants to fire Tanner already. "You let your dick make decisions again," he told me this morning over coffee, not bothering to lower his voice even though Caleb was right there at the table, stifling a snicker. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your personal life separate from the business?"
But that's not always true. Marianne and I stopped seeing each other months ago when she started dating some guy who works at the bank in town. We're still friends—the benefits package justexpired. Besides, everyone deserves a chance, even if their sister did lie to get them in the door.
Watching Tanner work on the rails, my mind drifts back to Ivy, and my heart skips a beat. Damn. Ivy Walker lurks in my mind no matter what I'm doing. I hear her soft moans, her breathy requests for me to talk dirty, to make her come, to go deeper, faster...
Shit. I adjust my stance, grateful for the loose work jeans. It's been like this for two days straight, since I took her to my bed. I still can't believe it actually happened. And I enjoyed it way too much—that's the part that's throwing me off. I seldom replay my moments with women afterward, at least not with my heart racing and definitely not with this level of obsession.
What is it about Ivy Walker that's got me so twisted up? I didn't lie to her when I said I'd wanted her since I saw her at her eighteenth birthday party, in that strapless plum dress that showcased her curves in a way that made my mouth go dry. She was breathtaking. A princess you want to both worship and ruin.
I remember crossing the room to speak to her, to wish her luck with Portland, knowing full well she saw me as just another adult in her brother's world. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Caleb, making her infatuation painfully obvious to everyone except apparently Caleb himself.
That idiot never saw what was right in front of him—or he pretended not to because of some misguided loyalty to Ben. "She's Ben's little sister," he'd say whenever I'd point out how she looked at him. "Off-limits, man." As if Ben would have cared. As if being loyal to your friend means ignoring when his sister grows into a woman with her own desires.
Not that I'm complaining now. If Caleb had noticed Ivy back then, I wouldn't have had her in my bed two nights ago, wouldn't know how she tastes or the exact sound she makes when she comes. I wouldn't know that she gets bolder with each kiss, that her hesitation melts into hunger when you show her what her body can feel.
"Cole? Do you want me to move on to the next rail or keep working on this section?" Tanner's question pulls me out of my Ivy-induced trance.
"Finish that section first," I say, tucking my memories away for the moment. "Make sure all the spindles are tight before we move on."
As Tanner nods and returns to work, I gaze at my surroundings, trying to find something interesting enough to hold my attention. The September air has that perfect crispness, not yet winter's bite but with summer's heat fading fast. The aspens are starting to turn, dabs of gold among the green.
Normally this is my favorite time of year at Carter Ridge, but right now I can barely appreciate it. All I can think about is whether Ivy is just as distracted, whether she's replaying our night together or if she's already filed it away as a momentary lapse in judgment.
Knowing it’s useless to where my heart is pulling me, I pull my phone from my back pocket. I've been wanting to text Ivy all day, but every message I draft feels wrong—too eager, too casual, too much like the player she probably thinks I am.
"Taking a quick break," I announce, stepping away to lean against the railing at the far end of the deck. Tanner doesn't look up, too focused on not screwing up again.
I type out a message to Ivy: "When can I see you again?" and immediately delete it. Too desperate, too direct. I try again: "Last time was amazing. Round two tonight?" Delete. That's exactly the kind of text that reinforces every rumor about me in this town.
"I can't stop thinking about you." Delete. True, but too much too soon.
"Want to grab coffee sometime?" Delete. Too casual, like what happened between us was as insignificant as a handshake.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. I've never agonized over texting a woman before. Usually, I know exactly what to say, exactly how to keep things light and fun. But with Ivy, I want more than light and fun, and I don't know how to say that without sounding like I'm feeding her a line.
Finally, I settle on something playful but honest: "Still thinking about it?" I hit send before I can second-guess myself again, hoping she understands what "it" means. She will—Ivy's always been sharp.
She was a straight-A student in high school, determined to escape our small mountain town. College was her ticket out, and she grabbed it with both hands, heading all the way to Portland. As far as she could get without hitting the ocean.
Caleb would occasionally update us on her progress—graduated with honors, landed a good job at some design firm. I'd listen and feel a mix of pride and envy. She did what I couldn't—she got out.
I was surprised when I heard she'd come back. When I saw her at Grant's house that first day, something about her had changed. She still had that fire, that sharpness, but there was somethingnew in her face too—something resigned, disappointed. The look of someone who's learned that the world outside isn't always what you hoped it would be.
