Page 4 of Shock to the Heart

"I think I'd like the company," I say softly.

"Good." He stands up, and takes a few photos of the area. Then, to my horror, he takes a huge knife and cuts a massive square in the top of the drywall. The second I see the dust flying, I move the mics into the control room.

He turns the power back on the control room circuit, then picks up a small portable fan that's sometimes used in the summer. Trey helps himself to a couple of extension cords hanging coiled on the wall of hooks, then stacks up some of the road cases often used as improvised coffee tables.

He sets the fan on top, aiming it so that it blows directly into the hole, then duct tapes the whole thing in place. "Right, that's it for tonight. I'll be back in the morning with supplies."

"I'll have the coffee on." I follow him to the front door.

"Perfect. Would you like to be my lovely assistant this weekend?"

There's a sparkle in his eyes that takes my breath away. Spending two full days together? Amazing. "Yes, of course."

He waves before driving away down the slope, making my heart leap. Is it possible this gorgeous electrician really likes me? Not because of my parents or their connections, or because I've been backstage at every major Nashville venue?

Trey doesn't seem to care about any of that. He sees me for me.

4

TREY

Getting ready for work usually involves me rolling out of bed, showering, grabbing the first clean thing I see from the closet and making coffee while still in a mental fog. This morning I'm actually perky. I shave, use conditioner for the full three minutes and hunt about until I find my nicest navy blue t-shirt.

Then I sit down to google the Jones family, and breathe a sigh of relief. I don't need to read about all of their business, but knowing that Electra is twenty-two is critical.

As I drive to the hardware store, I realize this is the only client I've ever been genuinely excited to see.

I walk into Sandersville Hardware and wave to Louis, the owner, who's sitting behind the counter with his nose in the local paper. I pick up everything I need for the repair, including several cards of white paint chips. This job should be fairly straightforward as long as I stay focused on the work, not my beautiful assistant.

"Since when do you work on Saturdays?"

I turn as Dean Owens claps me on the shoulder. He's another local electrician who apprenticed with his father. These days he does a lot of work for Marty McGee, the busiest contractor in town.

Without telling my dad, I've quietly helped Dean out on several big jobs when he needed an extra pair of hands. Marty agreed to keep it on the down-low, understanding that my father doesn't need to know when or where I pick up extra work.

"It's a special job. I'm going to get the entire thing done by Sunday afternoon." I describe it briefly without mentioning names, as Dean smirks.

"Ah, so it's personal. Okay, keep your secrets. I'll get it out of you at the pub on Thursday."

"Maybe…if you're buying."

I bring my cart to the counter, and Dean leans over to scan his seventy cent pack of screws so that it'll be on my bill. He elbows me in the ribs and takes off, while Louis laughs loudly. "Such a rascal, that one."

As I head to Electra's house, I try not to think about how sexy she looked yesterday with that ice cube on her lower lip. My only focus should be to find evidence of this spark I feel between us before making a total ass of myself.

Oh yeah, and the job itself. That'd help.

Electra flings open the door before I can even knock. "Perfect timing! The coffee just finished. How do you like it?"

It's an effort to keep my eyes from bugging out cartoon-style. She's wearing her hair half up in a wine colored fluffy hair tie, which brings even more focus to those huge, gorgeous eyes. She's wearing a bit of eye makeup today, too. Is that a good sign?

"Black is fine, but a splash of milk is even better."

Dahhmn. How am I supposed to focus on work when she's sashaying down the hall in faded, paint-splattered jeans that stretch across that perfect peach of an ass? Her soft gray oversized t-shirt is also covered in black and blue paint stains, I notice.

We pause in the kitchen, and she pours my coffee into a massive Las Vegas mug. "Thanks. Do you paint often?" I ask.

She grins. "Used to. For a while I wanted to be a full time artist."

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