Page 13 of The Matchmaker
He nods, but his expression remains infuriatingly blank. “I guess.”
“No, there’s no guessing. There’s just fact. And it’s up to us to— you’re messing with me.”
That little lip twitch, the one I’m beginning to realize is his tell, stops me mid-rant, and he smiles at my obvious, if not furious, relief.
“Sorry.”
I am this close to hitting him in the nose again. My pulse is skyrocketing with the usual sickly adrenaline I get whenever I think I’m going to have to argue with someone.
“You’re mean.”
“And you’re cute when you panic.”
“Uh-uh. No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m too tired to flirt,” I tell him, and his smile widens. “I mean it. I can’t. I’ll say something stupid. I’m already saying something stupid. No flirting.”
“Fine,” he promises. “No flirting.” He grabs the box before I can stop him, but otherwise doesn’t move, and the shed suddenly feels very small, and he feels very close, and I’m not even thinking about all the spiders in here because—
“You’re still doing it!” I accuse, and he laughs. “You’re looking at me.”
“I’m not allowed to look at you now?”
“Not like that,” I tell him, gesturing him through the door. “Eyes straight. Two paces between us.”
“You’re a very demanding person,” he says, but does as he’s told.
“And you’re not a climate change denier,” I confirm, following him out and bolting the door behind me.
“Cross my heart.”
“What are you then?”
“A Libra. And an on-site project coordinator.”
“Sounds official.”
“It is.” He puts the box next to the fence and cups his hands together. “After you.”
I come to a stop beside him, hesitating. This felt a lot easier when he just grabbed me. In fact, I kind of wish he would do that again so I wouldn’t have to think too much, but he just stands there patiently, waiting for me to move.
“Don’t drop me,” I finally warn, and he nods as I place one probably very dirty sneaker into his hands and hold on to his shoulders.
Up I go.
I catch my breath at the fluid movement, one that for a brief second makes me feel like I’m flying, and then I’m grabbing hold of the slats and hauling myself up. He passes me the box before pulling himself over to the other side and taking it from me again, and I’m just swinging my leg around when he reaches up to help me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, as his hands drag briefly up my thighs before grasping my hips. Heat blooms under his touch, and I try not to react as he lowers me down, even though a ridiculous part of me wants to collapse backward and have him catch me, like some sort of Austen heroine.
Like I said, tired.
He lets go as soon as I’m back on terra firma but doesn’t step away, and his undivided attention suddenly makes me a little shy.
“So you work at the pub?” he asks, when I don’t say anything.
“I’m a bartender.”
