Page 15 of The Wrong Guy

He lifts his hand, pressing my nail into his chest a little harder. I watch goosebumps break out over his bare chest as he takes a shuddering breath. Pinning me in place with his dark eyes, he says lowly, “Fuck, I’ve missed you marking me up with these nails of yours.”

I wasn’t expecting that response, and it takes me a moment to process what he said. But when I do, I jerk my hand out of his grip. “I’m not here for an angry fuck, Jesse. I’m actually mad.”

A blankness washes over him, turning his face to stone and his voice to a flat monotone. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were working an angle with that guy.” He shrugs and with zero remorse adds, “Even if I had, I probably would’ve interfered because of the way he was looking at you ... like he wanted a whole lot more than a business chat.” His gaze dips down over my body, looking like he wants more too.

“He wasn’t looking at me any sort of way,” I argue. Jesse raises a brow, silently disagreeing. “Look, we’re gonna pretend tonight never happened. You can go back to ignoring me and I’ll go back to focusing on my work.” I clod across the floor in my boots toward the door before he can distract me any further. “I need to focus on my work.”

“Heard,” Jesse clips out.

I turn back one last time, knowing that I’ll be tormented by the image of Jesse tonight the same way I was all those months ago. The way his face changes as every emotion flicks across it, his muscled chest that I left marred with nail marks more than a few times, his arms that are strong enough to entirely lift me, and his rock-hard cock that’s not remotely disguised by his shorts.

But also, I’ll be thinking of Jesse trying to protect me from Oliver, even if I didn’t need it. And I’ll remember the months of Naked Mighty Mango juice he’s bought on the off chance that I came over.

I walk out the door into the cool night, telling myself that this is what I want. What I need. What I deserve.

Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and get to work early so you’re ready for the next round with Oliver.

Even as I tell myself that, I have to force my feet to keep moving toward my car and not walk me right back into Jesse’s house and into his arms. Even if only for tonight.

Chapter 6

JESSE

“Move your ass, Roscoe. We’re getting this shit done today or you can fuck off tomorrow.”

I mean it to be a threat, but he pauses, leaning on a stack of lumber propped in what will be the second-story bedroom of this house. “So what I’m hearing is that if I take it easy this afternoon, I’ll get tomorrow off?” He scratches his belly lazily. “I’m not seeing a downside here.”

“How about when your gut is grumbling and you ain’t got a dollar to get a gas station burrito that gives you the runs for a solid twenty-four hours?” I suggest before slamming my hammer toward a nail, finding my target expertly. It drives flush with the wood on a single strike, like it’d been fired out of a nail gun.

“Well shiiiit, no need to get that serious about it. I don’t want that out there in the universe. Take it back.” Roscoe points a thick, dirty finger at me, and I roll my eyes, keeping my pace.

When I don’t hear an answering hammer behind me, I look over my shoulder. Roscoe’s not budging, so with a sigh, I say to the lumber above me, “Dear Universe, I take it back. Don’t give Roscoe the runs, ’kay?” I look at him, asking if that’s enough with a glare, and after he dips his chin, he gets to it, though he mumbles something about my piss-poor attitude today.

If only he knew that I’m Mary Fucking Sunshine on the outside compared to the rager I’ve got slamming around on my insides.

Why did I tell her about those juices? It’s stupid to still be buying them because she’s right, they’re expensive shit and taste nasty. What did she mean about me ignoring her? I’m basically stalking her at this point.

We work for hours, doing the same shit as yesterday and the same as it’ll be tomorrow. That’s how it is when you’re building cookie-cutter homes all in a row. New house, same as the last house. But rather than feeling bored, I love my job.

I get to be outside, work with my hands, never tied to a desk or wearing a necktie noose. For all the shit we give each other, I like the guys on the job site, and as cliché as it may be, I like the idea of something I made becoming someone’s home.

Except today, it’s giving me too much time to think, and that’s dangerous.

From my current perch atop a ceiling joist, I nail in the next rafter tie before walking along the thin length of wood without a wobble to do the same thing again. We’re getting the framing done on this roof today so we can start framing next door tomorrow morning.

I scan down the row of homes, all in various stages of completion. The ones closest to the front are nearly finished, only missing some internal touches. The ones farther back are still dirt lots with brightly colored flags marking lot borders and the underground mains for water and power. But the houses aren’t all I see.

There’s a shiny black car that I don’t recognize driving in from the front of the subdivision.

Knowing he’s here for an electrical install precheck, I call down into the depths of the house I’m working on. “Hey, Mike, your girlfriend got a new car?” I laughingly tease because a Lexus like that has got to be an old-lady car. But I’m watching the car as it draws closer. When it gets to the area we’re working on, it stops in the middle of the road, blocked by various work trucks, concrete deliveries, and a grouping of trailers.

The doors open, and out step Oliver and Wren. They look around, perplexed at the blockade.

Wren is wearing a black pencil skirt, a short-sleeve pale-blue blouse, and heels. Her blonde hair hangs in perfect curls down her back, and she looks good enough to spread butter on and gobble up like a biscuit.

The Asshole is wearing a suit-and-tie combo that I don’t give a shit about.

What the hell are they doing here?

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