Page 40 of The Relationship Clause

“Miss Cousins, is there anything I can do for you?”

She looks thoughtful for a moment, then she meets my eyes. “Actually, there is something I need help with, but it’s kind of a big ask…”

“Anything. Name it.” And I mean it. Like, I’d come to work wearing a purple polka-dotted suit tomorrow if she asked me to.

“Are you handy with a hammer?”

CHAPTER 13

JUNIE

Saturday morning, a knock comes at my door, and my heart jumps into my throat. I run to the mirror on the wall to check my reflection before realizing what I’m doing. I scowl at myself and pull my hair up into a basic, tight, no-nonsense ponytail.

There.

Things are getting a little too comfortable with Mr. Ferguson. I’m getting too comfortable with him. That’s what got us into this mess with his dad to begin with. I can’t believe I sat on his desk like that. Even if his dad hadn’t interrupted us, it was totally unprofessional and wrong of me. And then, my brain had an even bigger malfunction, and I invited him over to my house.

I should have canceled. In fact, I almost did at least a dozen times, but then I looked around at my sad, sorry house. It would be really nice to get some help. So I didn’t cancel.

Instead, I made a deal with myself as a trade off: today I can’t be flirty with him. At all. Zero flirtatiousness from my end. It’s going to be all business.

But then I open the door and realize I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

I’ve only ever seen Mr. Ferguson looking like Mr. Ferguson. Polished and professional in his suits and ties, hair perfectly combed, and not a whisker out of place.

Standing before me is not that man. This is Owen. His hair is a little messy and, oh, it even has a bit of a curl to it. I never noticed that before. He’s wearing a sweater, and I think I may have a heart attack if he ever takes it off and reveals what’s underneath. And, oh…my…gosh. He’s wearing jeans. Jeans are a good look on him.

I get an eyeful of just how good as he steps inside and turns around slowly, looking at my place. I’m officially ogling him now. Him and those jeans slung low on his hips and hugging his very nice, very round—

“...but it could use some paint.”

I blink up at him. He was speaking to me, but I have no idea what he actually said because I was hard-core objectifying him. What’s worse, I’m about ninety-percent sure he was making a joke because he’s looking at me like he’s waiting for a reaction, and now I’m so upset I wasn’t listening because Mr. Ferguson might actually have a sense of humor!

“Uh, I’m sorry, what? I wasn’t listening.”

“Not listening, huh? What exactly were you thinking of?” He looks me up and down like he knows exactly what sorts of dirty thoughts were playing in my head.

“No-thing. Nothing. I meant nothing.” Oh my gosh, I have to get control of myself. “Um, so, you ready to work?”

“Sure thing, but first…” He reveals a bag I didn’t realize he’d been holding—again, the whole ogling thing was solely focused on his bod. He reaches into the simple, white paper bag and pulls out a big, fluffy raspberry croissant.

I gasp and snatch it out of his hand like a raccoon who spotted something shiny. “You went to Pete’s for me?!”

“Well, for myself too.” Then he pulls out a croissant for himself.

“Right. Of course. I wasn’t assuming you went to Pete’s just for me. When I said ‘me’ I meant it like the uh, royal, um, me.”

He lifts an eyebrow, and I swear my ovaries sigh a little. “The royal me?”

“Yep.” Then I stuff about half the croissant in my mouth to keep from saying any more dumb things. It’s a serious problem for me.

Mr. Ferguson takes a bite of his own then walks further into my little house, looking around. Suddenly, I realize having him come over to help tear out cabinets was the worst idea I’ve ever had. I mean, yeah, he kind of owes me for going along with the secretary thing and helping him save face in front of his dad with the whole girlfriend thing, but having him here? In my house? Walking around my things and touching stuff and wearing jeans? I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.

“I like your place,” he says.

“Oh, um, thanks,” I say through another mouthful of croissant. After chewing and swallowing, I add, “I bought it with the intent to fix it up. Sort of an investment thing. But I guess when I bought it, I didn’t realize that fixing it up would require actual money and skills that I don’t possess.”

He chuckles. “Well, I’m here to help. I don’t have a ton of experience, but I did help Shane with a few things in a condo he owned a couple of years ago, so I can help a little.”

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