Page 52 of Chasing Home

“Right,” she says coolly, unbothered. “It is late.”

“You’ll keep the beer, yeah? If I take it home, Tommy will end up finding it the next time he’s over, and I’ll have to house the drunk while he sleeps it off.”

“You won’t just drink it yourself?”

Dropping to a crouch in front of the bottom porch step, I use my gloved hands to rip the final piece of wood off. It’s soft, rotted, and full of water from the last rain. The nails are rusted and dull as they stick up out of the plank like the majority of them have been.

Just like I’ve done with all the rusted-nail-infected planks, I toss it directly into the bed of my truck. I’d never forgive myself if she stepped on one because I left it lying on her front lawn.

Facing her again, I answer, “I’m not much of a drinker outside of Saturday nights. Alcohol doesn’t mix well with bein’ up at five every morning.”

“Five? That sounds terrible.”

I chuckle and move closer to her. “You get used to it.”

“I doubt it.”

“When do you get up in the morning?”

“Seven at the earliest.”

I blow out a breath. “That’s my Sunday sleep-in time. Even that’s pushin’ it. My internal clock is a sensitive little shit.”

“When’s the last time you slept in properly?”

“I don’t actually remember. Gotta be at least before I turned sixteen and started at the ranch.”

“Why did you want to work there so young?” she asks, throwing herself back into work as if that will make her question that much more casual.

I see past every attempt she makes to pretend she isn’t interested.

She bends to fill her arms with the rotten wood on the lawn and then crinkles her nose in disgust when it rubs against the skin of her forearms. The sleeves of her deep blue shirt are shoved up to her elbows, but she hasn’t been scratched too badly from the wood.

Her jeans are the high-waisted type. I only know because I watched her fiddle with the waistband through her shirt when she joined me in ripping apart the porch, and it was far too high to be normal. The flicker of discomfort I saw when she gave it a tug had me wanting to urge her to change into a pair of sweatpants instead, but I figured that wasn’t the smartest move. Plus, I like thinking that she wore the painted-on denim just for me. That in itself was enough to have me keeping my mouth shut.

Her steps are confident as she carries the armful to the truck and dumps it all onto the open tailgate before beginning to toss each piece into the bed. Unable to help myself, I join her.

“I always wanted to work on Steele Ranch,” I say, keeping an eye on her bare fingers as she grips each piece of wood. Every haphazard toss has my muscles tensing. “You should wear gloves. You’re going to get a sliver?—”

“Fuck!” she shouts while yanking her hand to her chest and then holding it up to her face. Her eyes slide toward me as she adds, “Don’t say a damn word.”

I make the zipping my lips motion before gently taking hold of her wrist and guiding it toward me. She watches as I bring it up in front of my nose.

“Which finger?”

“Pointer.”

I hum and pull the finger up, taking in the inflamed tip. The thick sliver is easy to spot, and I fight the urge to press my lips over it.

“Do you have tweezers?”

“Yes. And I know how to use them myself.”

“I don’t doubt you can. It’ll be easier if I help, though. I’ve got incredible eyesight.” My grin is wide as I wink at her and reluctantly release her hand.

She rolls her lips together, thinking. Probably contemplating whether or not I have a sliver fetish, which I do not, for the record. More like just an undying obsession with helping her with anything and everything.

“The guys get slivers all the time. I’m a pro at removing them at this point,” I add, trying to sweeten up my offer.

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