Page 2 of Ten Hammers

Before Goldie can answer, Jack picks me up. The first few times one of the guys picked me up, I about died, thinking they’d drop me or groan at my weight or worse yet, pull a muscle in their back. Now it’s a semi-regular thing and I’m well aware of their strength, so I just enjoy the ride. I’m over his shoulder, my face pressed upside down against his bare chest. Am I tempted to lick it? Yes. Am I ashamed of myself for even thinking such a thing? Not really.

The guys are always shirtless when we’re filming. No joke, it’s in their contracts. The whole thing is designed to make every straight woman in America want to lick them.

“You’re sweaty,” I complain as if there’s anything gross about this scenario. From this angle, I can see his six-pack and his happy trail, disappearing into the waist of his jeans.

I have regular fantasies about Jack sweeping me off my feet and carrying me into another room. Hell, I have that fantasy about all of the guys. But in my fantasies, the room always has a bed. In real life, he deposits me in a chair in the almost-finished kitchen. On the table are a variety of tile samples.

“We need you to decide on the backsplash,” Jack says, raking a hand through his neatly combed hair, leaving it slightly tousled. “Today.”

“But–”

“Why are you putting this off?” He pierces me with his blue eyes, which radiate with both confidence and warmth.

I glance at the samples. Gorgeous Calacatta blue marble, retro subway tile, genuine Italian terrazzo, rustic slate, Moroccan glass, and more… of course there are ten samples, as if choosing between ten of anything is easy for me. But I can’t tell Jack the real reason I have been putting off the final touches. I’m not ready for everything we have built together to end. For us to all go our separate ways.

“Winnie,” Jack says, tweaking my wild red hair–which refuses to be contained by a messy bun or ponytail–like he did when we were kids. “Come on. The faster we wrap this up, the faster we can all celebrate.”

I force a smile. I won’t be in the mood to celebrate. It makes me a little sad that he will be. That any of them will be.

“Did you decide whether or not you’re going to Italy with Cynthia?” I blurt, running a finger along a vein in the marble, suddenly unable to look at him.

Lately, Jack is on-again off-again with the Cynthia Sinclair. Yes, that one. The supermodel socialite makeup mogul. I try not to torture myself thinking about the gorgeous babies they would make because let’s be real. Jack never dates anyone for long.

But jealousy twists my stomach when I think about him dating anyone at all. I make myself sick. I should want him to find love. I should want that for them all. It might be a little easier, though, if there was a snowball’s chance in hell one of them might find that love with me.

“I haven’t,” Jack says but I can tell he’s lying. His left eye twitches. He’s one hundred percent going. I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell me.

An even more unsettling thought hits–what if he’s being evasive because they are getting serious? I don’t know how I’d handle one of my guys getting married, settling down, starting a family with someone else.

“But if you go, it’s for a few weeks, right?” I ask. Is there a chance he could be considering moving to Italy with Cynthia Sinclair? There’s an edge of panic in my voice and I find myself covering the Italian tile with the subway tile, as if that might subconsciously affect his decision.

“Relax, Winnie,” he says, taking my hands in his large, callused ones. Butterflies burst from my heart for a moment before he places my hands back on the tile samples. “One thing at a time. And right now, we have a kitchen to finish. Make a choice.”

“That one,” I gesture vaguely and get up.

“I didn’t even see which one you pointed at,” Jack protests, but I brush past him.

Without a plan, I end up back in the yard, surrounded by too many cameras, crew members, and shirtless Hammers to think straight. One set of the twins, Theo and Leo, sun-kissed blondes, are carrying a sleek dishwasher between them, their identical muscles bulging though they don’t look like they’re struggling in the slightest. The only way to tell them apart is their tats. So many tats, probably even ones I haven’t seen. All of which I want to trace with my fingertips, my tongue.

Knowing we’ll be parting ways in mere days is messing with my head too much. I have to find Goldie.

I spot her by the coffee station getting her third or forth fix of the day, and grab her arm, pulling her behind one of the film crew vans.

“Winnie! What’s wrong? I need my caffeine!”

“I’m going to be a real-life 40 year old virgin!”

“Hon, you won’t even be 30 for two more years–”

“I’m going to die a virgin!” I sound so cringey as I wail, but I’m unable to stop myself. “I’ve waited too long to lose my virginity. And why? Because I cannot lose it to someone whose last name is not Hammer. But do they see me as anything other than a friend? No! And who can blame them?”

“Winnie, wait–”

“I know what you’re going to say. Do I actually want my first time to be with one of the Hammers? Yes!” I cover my face with my hands. “No, I NEED it. But do I want any of them, in all their physical perfection, to see me and my every flaw NAKED?” I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a cry.

“Winnie, seriously, you need to shut up right now–”

“I know, I know, I’m sweet, I have a cute face, and guys really do like curves, blah blah, but honestly, Goldie, why would any of the Hammer brothers want to have sex with this–” I gesture down at my body, “when they’re banging supermodels like Cynthia Sinclair? And yes, I realize I’m acting like a sixteen-year-old.”

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