Page 52 of Wishing Hearts

“Exclusive dating partner?” I suggest.

Sam huffs a laugh. “Spendin’ time with my exclusive datin’ partner is not a goddamn obligation. I like spendin’ time with you. I want more of it. And, if you haven’t noticed, I like gettin’ my hands dirty. This is gonna be fun for me, all right? Stop treatin’ yourself like a burden.”

His words stop me still. Is that what I’m doing? Assuming I’m a burden?

“Besides,” Sam says, eyes tracing over my body, lingering. “Watchin’ you is gonna be a treat. I just know it.”

I huff a laugh. “I think you’ve got that backwards,” I tell him, heading toward the front yard. Sam stays in step beside me, and I glance at his hat and then his boots. “You’re a sight.”

Sam practically preens. “Well, somebody told me he’s got a—” He looks left and right before whispering, hand at his mouth, “Cowboy kink.”

I bite my lip. “Somebody, huh? Well, then somebody is really lucky you’re here today.”

Sam rumbles at that, looking mighty pleased. He grabs a few more boards from the back of his truck, sliding them across the bed before hoisting them onto his shoulder.

“Although,” I muse, “somebody would be even luckier if you were in chaps.”

I watch in amusement as Sam goes stock still. He pans to me slowly, the boards on his shoulder turning with him and a rakish grin taking over his face.

“You want me in chaps, stud?” he asks, voice carefully quiet.

“I want you every which way,” I admit, chest feeling light when I get another of Sam’s beaming smiles. “But add in chaps? Shit, Sam. Show up for me like that, and you can have me any which way.”

Sam’s eyes widen in clear glee. “You’re a flirt,” he states.

I bark a laugh. “I think that’s you,” I reply, grabbing some boards myself.

“No, no,” Sam says as we head toward the backyard again. “Well, yeah. I am. But so are you.”

“You must bring it out in me.”

It’s a partial truth. Sam does make me feel light. It’s easy to flirt with him. But the truth is yes, I did used to be a little more bold, like Sam. That version of Harrison got pushed to the back over the past decade. But with Sam? I feel a little more like my old self again.

“Well, I like it,” Sam says, setting his boards down beside the oak. “Flirt with me anytime, stud.”

“Oh, really?” I say, stepping close. “So if I told you all I can think about is ripping off every single piece of your clothing, apart from that hat and those boots, you’d be okay with it?”

“Mm,” he responds, hands back on his hips. He damn near looks like he’s posing. “Sure would. It’d let you, too. If we were alone, I’d let you cover me with your hands and your mouth and your teeth until I was bare for you.”

Jesus Christ.

I have a moment to register the sound of the sliding door before my dad’s voice rings across the backyard. “You boys planning on doing any building? Or are you going to talk the treehouse into existence?”

Sam shoots me an amused look. “Your dad is sassy,” he says quietly.

I huff a laugh, giving my dad a wave. He heads back inside. “He sure is,” I say, doing a quick sweep of the windows at the back of the house before I walk past Sam, giving his ass a slap as I go. “C’mon. That wood isn’t going to grab itself.”

Sam snorts, following me back to his truck. It’s nearly noon by the time Sam and I get started on the actual construction of the treehouse. I already printed up a design months ago, based loosely on one I found online. I modified the instructions and template a bit for the shape of our tree, but it’s mostly the same. The treehouse will anchor to the thick trunk of the oak and be built on a platform about five feet off the ground, surrounding the tree itself. But we’re also adding in supporting beams at ground level. Sam and I start there, digging the holes and pouring cement around the thick four-by-four posts. By the time that task is done, my mom is calling out the kitchen window, letting us know sandwiches are ready when we are.

“Break?” I ask Sam.

He gives me a nod, lifting his hat and using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The V of his abdomen is revealed with the move, as well as the expanse of his toned abs, and I ogle him shamelessly, imagining myself tracing the grooves of those muscles with my fingers and my tongue. I have no doubt, by the grin on Sam’s face, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

When we get inside, Sam hangs his hat on the hook inside the door, and I do the same. I’d grabbed my own once we got started, not wanting my neck to burn. We kick off our boots, and as we round the corner into the kitchen, Winnie pounces.

“It doesn’t look like a treehouse,” my daughter states, pouting.

“No,” I answer with a huff. “Not yet. But it will.”

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