Page 41 of The Relationship Clause

Lies.

He can help a lot. And he does. He is a demo machine, and soon, we have all the old, rotten kitchen cabinets and counters demolished. It’s fun smashing things around and even more fun because he gives me the big sledgehammer and lets me take the first swing. It’s like an episode of Property Brothers, only without a camera crew around, and I’ve got my own Property Brother right here.

We don’t talk a whole lot, which is fine with me because I’m trying not to focus so much on how every time he’s within three feet of me, my heart pitter patters. By the way, he’s within three feet of me a lot because my house is not that big. If he were talking to me and close to me at the same time? Recipe for disaster.

We work all day, snacking on the last of the croissants he brought and some random, not-too-dry carrots I found in my fridge. We rip out the cupboards, the cabinets, and the countertops, then get to work on the floor, tearing out the old linoleum and carpet to make way for the engineered hardwood I have waiting in my cart online.

By four o’clock, I’m exhausted, and I realize we’ve accidentally skipped lunch, which means I’m starving.

I shiver. One thing about winter in the South is that it’s never predictable. Last week, we were having highs in the sixties, which is super warm for February, and this week, we’re back to barely forty. It’s been cold all day, but I haven’t really noticed it because I’ve been working up a sweat. Now that I’m not moving as much, I’m definitely feeling it. I adjust the thermostat. My heater must be having a hard time keeping up with this particular cold front. I get back to the flooring.

“Ah, dang it,” Mr. Ferguson says, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Who left this paint can over here?”

I don’t turn around, too engrossed in my current goal: peel up the awful laminate. “Oh, that was me. Sorry. Did it spill? There wasn’t much in it, so it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Yeah, but what was inside is now all over my hoodie.”

This catches my attention enough to make me shift and glance behind me. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Because right as I turn around, I catch Mr. Ferguson peeling his paint-covered hoodie over his head. This in and of itself wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’ve seen plenty of men in t-shirts. However, in addition to the hoodie coming off, his shirt starts to come off too.

Static cling should be dubbed the hero of the day, because what it reveals is…wow.

Muscles. Side muscles and front muscles and back muscles and—holy crap—I even get a peek at one of his shoulders before he tugs the shirt enough to keep it from coming off completely. Did I mention I have a thing for shoulders?

Suddenly, my brain is trying to locate another can of paint so I can “accidentally” pour it all over his shirt and he has to take that off too.

No! Bad Junie! Bad Junie!

I squeeze my eyes shut and whip back around as Mr. Ferguson deposits his hoodie in a heap with the rest of the trash and adjusts his shirt. I need to forget I ever saw that.

But even as I think this, I know my brain is ever so carefully folding the memory up and storing it away to be revisited over and over and over…

“Dang, it’s cold in here,” he says. Don’t turn around again. Don’t do it! “What do you have your thermostat set at?”

I can practically hear him shivering, but I try not to envision it, with his arms wrapped around himself, arms all tense, biceps and shoulders on full display. Try being the optimal word. I need to get this man another sweater or I’ll never be able to look at him again.

“Um, if you want another hoodie or jacket or something, you can probably find one that fits you in the coat closet over there.” I wave over my shoulder in the vague direction of said closet.

There’s a long pause. “You’d have something that would fit me?”

“Yep.” Probably more than one something…

Oh, shoot. That was a mistake. Why did I tell him to look in my closet? What the heck was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, obviously. I needed him to cover up his beautiful torso long enough to give my brain the jump-start it needed, but this was the absolute wrong thing to do.

My whole body warms with preconceived embarrassment. Oh, never heard of preconceived embarrassment? It’s when you’re not actually embarrassed yet, but you know you will be, and your body is preparing for it.

I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but he’s already there, opening the closet door, staring inside. It’s too late.

I turn back to my linoleum nightmare, ears burning. There are thirty whole seconds of silence before his disapproving voice sounds again. “Miss Cousins…” Seriously, I think his vocal chords are permanently stuck on grouchy mode sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when he’s dealing with me.

All I can do now is play dumb. Dumb and sarcastic. “Yes, Dark Ruler?”

“What is all this?”

“All what? Be specific when you’re disapproving of my life, please.”

“All this.”

I get up, girding my loins for what I know is coming next.

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