Page 82 of Damaged Protector

A frisson of unease snaked from my nape to the base of my spine before I heard a grunt from around the side of the house, and I sighed in relief. He was outside, probably working in the flower beds like he did most weekend mornings.

It had surprised me that a man as masculine as Tate “Hawk” Gentry enjoyed puttering around with flowers and plants, but he said it relaxed him.

Walking barefoot across the grass, which was cool from the morning dew, I stalled when I got to the edge of the house. Hawk was on his knees with his back to me, shirtless, a triangle of sweat soaking the waistband of his shorts and arrowing down to that muscular ass of his.

A couple women walked by on the sidewalk in workout clothes and with full faces of makeup. They didn’t seem to notice the woman in the bathrobe lurking near the house, too fixated on the man beyond me. They slowed, the one in the turquoise crop top biting her bottom lip while the one who looked completely nude in a beige sports bra and skin-tight shorts dragged her made-up eyes up and down Hawk’s manly form.

Seriously, who does smokey-eye and glitter lip gloss to take a walk around the neighborhood?

He didn’t seem to notice them and continued working, so they resumed their pace, heads leaning together as they giggled. I returned to my regularly scheduled ogling, watching as the large hawk tattoo on his back came to life with every bunch and flex of his muscles.

“You just gonna stand there looking at my ass like those two who just walked by?” he asked, not even turning around.

Cocky bastard.

Though my cheeks warmed in embarrassment, I lifted my chin and strolled across the side yard. “For your information, I was looking at your back.”

Hawk cricked his neck around, eyes sparkling like obsidian glass when he looked me up and down. A scowl formed on his face. “What are you wearing?”

“My bathrobe,” I said, though I was pretty sure the question was rhetorical. “Don’t give me that look while you’re out here half naked, giving the ladies of the neighborhood a show.”

He merely grunted and then angled his head down, wiping the sweat from his face with one broad shoulder while I inspected what he was doing. Square paving stones led from where he was kneeling to a door on the side of the house. A stack of about ten more lay nearby.

Seeing where my attention was directed, he pointed. “That’s the door to the workout room. Thought I’d lay a path so your dance students can go directly back there from the sidewalk.”

I was stunned and more than a little touched. “Hawk, that’s really thoughtful. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged. “No biggie. Gives me something to do, and I thought it would look more professional.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Can I help?” He looked at my bare legs beneath my short robe, and I added, “I’ll go put on some work clothes.”

“If you want.”

As soon as I stepped back inside the house, my nose was deliciously assaulted by the scent of sweet blueberries. Hell, I’d been so busy checking out my roomie, I almost forgot about the muffins. Jogging to the kitchen, I pulled the pan out of the oven, glad to see they hadn’t burned.

After changing into a melon-colored tank top, denim shorts with a frayed hem, and beat up white sneakers, I placed a few muffins on a paper plate, poured two glasses of cold milk, and carried it all outside.

“I brought breakfast,” I chirped, sitting cross-legged on the grass and placing the food and drinks between us.

While I nibbled and sipped, Hawk devoured three muffins like he hadn’t eaten in a week and drained his glass in one gulp. “Thanks, Bee. I needed that.”

For the next hour, we worked together, Hawk shoveling while I placed the stones where he directed. The smell of male sweat and hard work was hotter than I could have ever imagined.

Lord, I need help. Now I’m getting turned on by sweat.

“You’re very meticulous,” I informed him as he placed the measuring tape he’d been using back in the old red tool box beside me. “You measured everything like there would be a trophy awarded for most precise placement.”

That made him laugh, and I was happy he seemed back to his normal self today. “Looks good though, right?”

“It looks great,” I told him, placing my hand on his sweaty arm. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine,” he said shortly, seeming a little embarrassed by my appreciation. After pulling a tight, royal-blue T-shirt over his head, he wiped his hands on his shorts. “I think we need a pop of color on each side of the door. Let’s go pick out some flowers.”

“Now? But we’re all dirty.”

“We’re just going to the plant nursery. Trust me, there will be lots of folks there who’ve just come from working in their yards.”

He wasn’t wrong. Most of the people milling around the greenhouses had dirt or stains on at least one article of clothing, and everyone’s shoes seemed as ratty as mine.

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