Page 79 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Oh.” Audra shifts her glance up to Franco, her gaze slowly traveling the length of his body. “You’re jaw-dropping. I mean, Franco. You’re Franco.”
He just smolders at her even harder. “Yep. That’s me.”
I hand Audra the bag she’d given to me. “Well, umm…I need to talk to Jesse.”
Franco’s gaze, when he shoots a look at me, tells me he’s not thrilled with me. “Upstairs. Master bathroom.”
“Franco, I—”
He shakes his head. “Save it for him, Imogen.”
“Thanks.” I gesture at Audra. “I’ll just leave you two to your awkwardness competition.”
She’s just staring at him, very much like a cartoon character. I snap my fingers in front of her eyes. “What?” She jerks her eyes to me. “What’s up?”
I laugh. “I’m going to go find Jesse. You’ve got this, yes?”
Audra nods, slowly, not taking her eyes off Franco. “Yes. I’m good. Oh, I’m so good.”
I carry my bag of food and case of beer in search of the stairs; on my way, I pass an entry to the kitchen, where I see James and Ryder engaged in conversation—judging by the quick way they clam up, they were talking about me. I pause, and James just jerks his thumb in the direction of the stairs. Yeah, I’ve not made any friends.
I wander upstairs, following the music. As Franco said, I find Jesse in the master bathroom, on his knees caulking around the base of a huge clawfoot tub big enough for three people.
He doesn’t hear me.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and tease my hair a little, and plump my cleavage. I’m dressed casually, in my most flattering pair of skinny jeans and a cream shirt with a daring V-neck, just translucent enough to give hints of my black bra underneath. I suck in a deep breath, and say a word of thanks that he’s in here, alone, and that I don’t have to try and lure him anywhere. This way, I can just…
Lock the door.
He hears that, turns, and sees me. His brows lower, and he takes in the sight and smell of the food, the case of beer, and then my outfit. “Hi, Imogen.”
I don’t smile; I can’t, not yet. “Hi.”
“You’re alive. I was wondering.”
Apologize, and then make my move; I take a deep breath, preparing myself. My nerves jangle, adrenaline races. I’m nervous, but excited.
“Did you just lock the door?” he asks, looking past me at the door.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Why?” He’s suspicious. Wary. Confused, maybe.
I set the food and beer on the counter nearby, and then turn back to him. As I approach, he stands up, setting the caulking gun on the floor.
“I just…I—” I owe him the truth. “I panicked. I ran off, and I didn’t give you a chance to—I don’t know…say anything.”
He frowns harder. “I was trying to figure out what to say. And then you just shut down and I was—” He shrugs, as inarticulate as I am.
“I thought you were trying to figure out how to get rid of me,” I admit. “And I was scared. Because I was feeling things, but I assumed you didn’t and couldn’t possibly feel the same. So I just—yeah, I shut down.”
“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, Imogen,” he murmurs. “The opposite, if anything.”
I step closer to him. “I came to say I’m sorry.”
He nods. “I get it. After what you’ve been through, and with how I said I usually am about relationships—”
I touch his mouth. “I came to say I’m sorry,” I say again. “And to bring you something to show you that I’m still interested in…whatever this is, or…or whatever it could be.”
He eyes the items on the counter. “Burgers and beer certainly helps.”
I sink to my knees in front of him. “That’s just because it’s lunchtime and I thought you might like lunch. That’s not what I brought.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh no?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
His eyes roam over me. “What’d you bring, then?”
God, I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I’m tempted to go double-check that I locked the door, but I don’t. I shift closer to him, sitting on my heels in front of him, and reach up to unbuckle his tool belt. I set it carefully on the floor nearby; it’s a lot heavier than it looks. He’s breathing very slowly, very carefully, his eyes following my every move as if not quite willing to believe I’m about to do what he thinks (hopes?) I’m about to do.
I unbuckle his thick black leather belt, and then undo the button of his jeans, and then lower the zipper.
“Imogen, you don’t have to—” he breaks off as I tug his jeans down, and he grabs my wrists before I can go further. “Imogen, wait. You don’t have to prove anything, or whatever it is you’re doing. I should have communicated better, not let you think—”
