Page 13 of If the Suit Fits
He showered. Walked through my hall in a towel and smiled pleasantly when our eyes met because, obviously, he’s completely and ridiculously fine with being naked in a stranger’s home. And then he went to bed.
That’s it.
That easy.
He slept comfortably and with seemingly no issue being in someone else’s house. And yet, I paced the hall and peeked into his room because my life felt—feels—upside down and not at all nice.
I have a man in my home!
I have a strange, strong, muscular, witty, smartass man whocan go to sleep in less time than I take to brush my teeth, in my house. His room smells less like Pine-O-Clean and more like his cologne after just one night. His taunting scent, like a cloud that lingers in a room he’s no longer in, purely to haunt my movements and destroy any sense of concentration I might’ve kidded myself into achieving this week.
But it’s a new day, and the sound of his hammer banging outside is like The Tell-Tale heart, and I, the narrator, convince myself I’m sane.
I’m not sure I am.
I should go outside and tell him to knock whatever he’s doing off. I didn’t ask him to mow my lawn. I certainly gave no instructions that would lead to using tools. God knows I have no clue what he’s even doing beyond being loud and destroying my mental peace. But I have work to do, a deadline making me sick to my stomach, and a boss vehemently displeased that I took time off this week.
So I blast the Backstreet Boys from the tinny speaker of a stereo straight out of my childhood. Well, notmychildhood, since my mother would never allow such an ugly monstrosity inside her home. But Anna’s childhood, for sure. Which just so happens to be the one I wanted more than my own. And though the boy band I choose to work alongside should bring me pause, humiliation, even, considering they’re, well…The Backstreet Boys. It doesn’t. I’m not ashamed. They’re a comfort sound, just like my silky pillowcases are a comfort texture, and my bland foods are my comfort meals. And while Nick’s distraction is a constantbang-bang-bangin the back of my mind, I focus on the music instead. On a group of teen boys who thought to sing about sex and love and heartache. I chew the inside of my cheek and sketch apedestrian overhang for what will eventually become the office headquarters for some insanely rich developer in the center of the city, a project I brought to our firmpersonally—no need to mention I met the client inside a nightclub bathroom.
My boss’ misogynistic tendencies were momentarily silenced after I landed a multi-million-dollar deal for his firm. And though he’s still a dick most of the time, his attentions are far less antagonistic on this side of my bathroom-deal than they were on the other.
I landed my job at Manson, Mason, and Samson purely because of who my father is and how prolific the ol’ boy’s club truly is. Hell, I’m not even hired as an architect on paper—my title and salary packages are, officially,administrative assistant. But my heart is in design, and lucky for me, Mr. Manson acknowledges my skill—not out loud. But still.
If I do an especially good job on this project, maybe I’ll get to be someone else’s boss someday.
Nick Carter sings about some girl, and the rest of the band backs him up with a harmony challenged only by other boy bands of their time, but it’s the slow scrape of my pencil on paper that I focus on most of all. The textured slide that reverberates through my wrist and into my chest, and the unadulterated pleasure I feel when I set my pencil aside and pull back to see my drawing on a larger scale.
“I replaced the lock on your?—”
I scream and spin, slamming my sore hip against my drafting table and lifting my hands like I think I could fight off a six-foot-two construction worker.
A shirtless, sweaty, grinning, six-foot-two construction worker who just so happens to own a well-defined eight-packof abdominal muscles—eight.Not six—and broad muscles by his ribs—I don’t know what those are called. He has swollen muscles above his shoulders, the kind you get from lifting things, and a smirky-smirk, coupled with smudges of dirt like he put them there to convince me he was, in fact, the stereotype one would expect of a devilishly sexy laborer working in the yard.
I press my fighting hand to my pounding heart and try not to die from fright.
“Uhh…” His eyes flicker to the stereo, then back to me again. “You okay?”
“You scared me!” I bend and slap the volume button until the boys become nothing but background noise, then straightening again, I try, so very,veryhard, not to count abs. Ya know, in case I missed any. “I thought you were outside?”
“I mean…”Naked. Torso. He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms, which, blessed be the god who created pecs, makes his chest swell larger and a tattoo I didn’t get a look at last night shimmer under sweat and roll above muscle. “Iwasoutside. And now I’m inside. There’s this strange portal called a doorway. If you move through it, you can be in or out.” He drops one arm and gestures like I need help to understand. “As an architect, I gotta say, I’m kinda disappointed you missed that day in class. Doors are pretty important.”
“Yeah, hilarious.” I roll my eyes. “What are you doing? I’m working.”
“You said I could interrupt at any time and you wouldn’t get mad.” His lips twitch mischievously. “I didn’t realizeany timemeantvery specific times not communicated prior to the music going on. But hey,” he shrugs, “I can work with whatever you prefer. Your home, Princess. I’m just the hired help.”
“Hired to be mydate. Not my yard boy.” Damn him, I look him up and down again, past long, thick legs hugged in dirty denim and hips that sinfully dip into his jeans that way you only read about in the Harlequin bodice rippers.Good lord, someone save us both. “You’ve been hammering and mowing and being noisy all day. That’s not your job.”
“My job entails two hours a day, face-to-face, so we can get to know one another and cohabitating with you for a week. That still leaves me with a fuck ton of downtime, and if I stare at my bedroom wall that whole time, I might literally go insane. Your lawn needed tidying, your front gate needed rehanging, and your front door needed a new tumbler lock.” He flashes a pearly white smile that dissolves me and my anger.Metaphorically, of course.“I’ve left all the new keys in your kitchen since the old ones won’t work anymore. Your gate is no longer a squeaking mess, though you probably should consider a new fence if you wish to keep outsidersout. And I found baby bunnies in your lawn.”
My heart gives a heavy thump. “What?”
“Bunnies.” He pushes off the wall and strides away, knowing I’ll follow. Which, of course, I do. I take off at a run, sliding on my hardwood floors because I’m wearing socks but no shoes. Then he moves out the back door and holds it wide for me to skitter through for fear of missing out on something utterly adorable. “I was gonna box ‘em up and ask if you wanted to bring them to the vet with me, but the momma bunny is around so…” He only shrugs and wipes his face with a rag he pulls from his back pocket.
Moving down the porch steps and glancing up when I skip and jump my way out of my socks, he reaches out and wraps his palm around my wrist when I catch up, tugging me to a stop at the one patch of long grass in my whole back lawn.
He presses a silencing finger to his lips, though they curl into a melting grin while his eyes dance with amusement. Then he crouches—those muscles by his ribs do that rippling thing—and gently brushes the long grass aside until I’m gifted with the cutest little burrow of brown fluff and long ears.
“Oh my gosh!”
