Page 20 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“So, you’re into construction?” I ask.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Just making conversation,” I state as he steps up to where I am, so close I can feel his body heat and catch his scent. Which is light but heavenly. Thankful when he bends, missing my shiver, I watch his blond lashes flit along his cheekbones as he examines the wood.

“What are you making?”

“Just tinkering around,” he states.

“Now you really sound like my dad.”

“I can think of worse men to bear a resemblance to.”

“Such as?”

He stands to his full height, which I guess is about six ... two? Tall enough to have me looking up at him as he zeroes in on me. The connection of eyes doing what it did to me when I caught sight of him in our living room the first time. My nerves fire as heat settles low in my belly.

“Worse men,” I watch his lips as he speaks.

“Okay, so,” I mumble, “you’re not much of a conversationalist.”

“You getting that?” He inches a little closer before making his request. “Excuse me.”

My neck heats as he brushes just past me to continue his ... tinkering.

“So, classic rock, huh?” I wrinkle my nose.

His chuckle sends another shiver through me and it takes him agonizing seconds to answer.

“Allen’s radio, so Allen’s station. Love this song, though.” He smirks. “What do you have loaded on your MP3 player—Pink?”

“Yes. Amongst other things,” I lean down and gaze along the opposite side of the wood. “If you’re looking for a pristine piece, hate to break it to you, but this one is warped.”

He frowns. “The hell it is.”

“No, look,” I say as he walks over, practically encasing me as I run my finger along the slight bend. “See?”

“Fuck ... look at that,” he whispers, and I turn to see him staring directly at me. My scalp prickles as I drink him in up close. So close, we’re practically sharing breath.

“Looks like I have to start over,” he says, dropping his eyes as mine drop to his lips.

“Then you know what you’re making,” I conclude. He glances back at me before we both slowly rise to stand as I start to rattle due to the insane energy bouncing between us. Damn, this guy is hot. No ... hot is not a good enough description for what he is. Thatch is ... beautiful. The connection continues to thrum as he bends slightly, eyes lit as his lips twitch with amusement. Which is all I seem to be a source of for him.

“Ask me,” he states.

“How old are you?”

“Old enough,” he quips.

“Lame,” I utter as he rakes his lower lip.

“To you, I probably am,” he states, brushing past me. “And I’ve overstayed my welcome. Take care, Serena.”

“It’s only nine-thirty,” I call after him, glancing at the ancient hammer clock hanging over the workbench. A present Mom got Daddy years ago.

“Yeah, it’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?” he states.

“You do know I’m in my first year of college, right?”

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