Page 44 of That Moment
“Was just?—”
“Floor drains, Pete.”
He snickers, and somebody else coughs to hide a laugh. I glare them down and jerk my chin at the header. “Move.”
We circle the Deere again. I pick up where I left off, turning my attention back to priming, return lines, and reminding the guys to not skip the goddamn bleed procedure. I get three sentences in before my attention drifts like it’s got a mind of its own. Back to the glass. Back to her.
She’s animated, hands talking, eyes bright. Dolly’s grinning because Dolly loves good gossip, and Adrienne’s the kind of gossip that knows just how to deliver a story so that you’re hanging on her every word. She takes a sip from the bottle of water Dolly passes her, and I think about her mouth for exactly one second too long.
“Hey.” Caleb’s smirking at me. “You hearing yourself, boss, or are we free-styling this install?”
I flick the back of his hat. “I’m focused.” I lie.
He grins wider. “Sure thing, boss.”
The men snort. I don’t blame them. I look like a man trying to pretend a lightning storm isn’t about to roll straight over him while he stands in a field with a golf club. I pull my eyes away from the window..
I get five minutes of peace before laughter spills from the office again. She leans closer to Dolly, says something I can’t hear, her ankle bouncing once as she crosses her legs tighter. The bounce makes the dress ride a fraction higher. My grip slips on the ratchet.
“Mother—”
“Need a smaller extension?” Pete offers.
“I need you to remember how to count to ten without your lips moving.”
“All due respect, boss, your counting’s off.” He taps his temple. “You’re on, like, four and a half right now. Maybe three. It’s rough.”
I shove the ratchet into his chest. “Tighten those and shut up.”
He does what he’s told, but they keep up the ribbing. I try again. Checklist. Bleed valve. V-band. Dillon asks something about a grain monitor, and I answer on autopilot, but my attention keeps boomeranging back to that glass. I expect her to glance up eventually. A look. A flicker. The usual game we play that no one admits to watching. But she gives me nothing.
She doesn’t look at me once.
Dolly points toward the lot, probably telling some story about Ranger or Amethyst, and Adrienne laughs hard enough she has to press a hand to her stomach. It’s a good laugh. Real. She pushes off the desk, murmurs something, checks her phone, and I feel myself straighten without meaning to. This is the part where she crooks a finger, makes me come in there under the innocent cover of work. Or just tilts her head and looks at me through the glass like we’re the only two people in the building.
Instead, she slides her bag up her shoulder, tosses her hair, and walks right out. Past the coffee machine. Past the bays. Past… me.
No hesitation. No pause. No look. The door rattles on its hinges as it swings shut behind her, and you could hear a spark plug drop.
“Damn,” Caleb whispers.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there with a greasy rag clenched in my fist, feeling stupid and hot.
“She didn’t even—” Pete starts, then thinks better of it.
“Back to work,” I say, and it comes out flatter than I want. I clear my throat. “Now.”
They scatter. I bend into the Deere again, plant both hands, and order my brain to behave. It doesn’t.
Because of course she’d do that. Of course, she’d walk in here looking like the fucking temptation she is, knowing damn well what it would do to me. Knowing she’s been dominating my thoughts. I drag a hand down my face, laughing once under my breath.
She’s good. Too damn good. Walks in, lights the place on fire, and strolls out like she didn’t just send every man in here straight to hell. Doesn’t look at me once. Doesn’t have to. She knows I’m watching.
And that’s the thing about Adrienne Slade, she doesn’t play fair. Never has. She knows exactly how to wind me up and leave me standing here like an idiot, jaw tight, heart hammering, pretending I don’t give a shit.
But I’m not mad about it. Hell no. I’m impressed. Two can play this game.
Next time I see her, I won’t give her a damn thing to feed off. No looks. No smirks. No reaction. Let her wonder. Let her feel what it’s like when I stop chasing.
