Page 41 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

I don’t bother knocking this time as I go to Jack’s front door, knowing he won’t hear me even if I do. Instead, I walk inside and find him with his back to me, hammering a nail into a very off-center two-by-four. He’s wearing faded blue Levi’s, a light gray T-shirt, brown work boots, and a bright-blue-and-white trucker hat—blondish-brownish hair flipping out at his nape in a way that absolutely has me drooling. The best part is, he has a tool belt around his waist. Jack looks like a ’70s dad that some lucky woman would have absolutely railed after a cookout. He’d get her so pregnant.

I know better than to sneak up on a person with a hammer, so instead, I find a discarded rag, ball it up, and throw it at his head. He jolts a little and spins around. I’m not sure if he was more surprised by the rag or the sight of me. I smile, finally seeing that his hat saysCountry Roads Take Me Home—John Denver.Together we look like an ode to the decades. Seventies dad, meet fifties mom.

His gaze travels from my eyes down to the red heels and back up to my eyes before he says a word. “What…are you wearing?”

“My nightgown,” I say deadpan.

His eyes glitter. “You’re forgetting that I’ve seen what you wear to bed.”

I think embarrassment should be creeping over my skin right about now. Instead, something entirely different is. Because he’s not looking at me like I should be at all embarrassed for how I showed up at his house last night. Or that I asked him if I had good nipples. Or that he said they were the best he’d ever seen.

I clear my throat. “Hi. So. Since we’re friends now, can you refrain from hammering tonight?”

Look how polite I’m being. I even phrased it like a question even though it’s absolutely a statement.

“Are we friends?” Jack asks with an amused lilt.

“Aren’t we?” Last night certainly felt friendly.

Jack looks me up and down one more time, lightly shakes his head like he’s having his own private thought I’ll never be privy to, and then grins. “No. Have a good night, Emily.” He turns and continues hammering.

The clop of my heels competes with his construction as I close the distance between us, coming up beside him to look over his arm. His muscular, veiny arm. “We’re not friends?”

He was doing yard work earlier. I know because I watched him a little too long out the window while sipping my iced tea. And also because his skin is so golden tan now. It looks warm like freshly buttered biscuits.

“We’re friends. The no was to your request for me to stop hammering.”

I cross my arms. “Friends stop doing construction when another friend asks.”

“Not this friend.” He reaches behind him with his free hand and pulls out another nail from his tool belt.

“Nice fanny pack.”

“Thank you. Nice June Cleaver impression.”

“Tell me,” I say, tilting my head closer to the wall, more into his line of sight. “How hard was it not to accidentally say JuneCleavagejust then?” I know my breasts look amazing in this dress. I clocked the exact moment his gaze snagged on them after he turned around. After last night, the jig is up that we truly only hate each other. There’s more here between us—even if neither of us knows what it is or if we should do anything about it. I tend to lean toward not doing anything about it, since we tried friendship once before and it didn’t end well. In fact, it didn’t last long at all. No telling how long we’ll be able to keep things civil this time.

But the lingering buzz of our encounter last night has me itching to see what it takes to throw this man off his game. To get him to intentionally flirt with me. Without the helmet on.

Call it a scientific experiment.

He centers the nail, his lazy smile tilting. “Go home to your supper club, Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Only if you stop hammering for tonight,” I say, a little annoyed that he wouldn’t take my bait.

“No.”

“Why are you being obstreperous?”

“Because I live to hear what colorful vocabulary you’ll use when I piss you off.”

I turn away with a huff, my skirts dragging against the side of his legs as I do. My eyes wander over his space, taking in the truly terrible construction he’s done so far. There’s so much drywall dust everywhere. I called Darrell earlier this morning about taking on this project after all, but I haven’t heard back yet. I take five high-heeled steps away from Jack, noting the half-empty jar of peanut butter on the counter next to a loaf of bread.

I pivot again and can see straight through the open door of his bedroom. Last I looked in there I saw a corkboard filled withPost-it notes before Jack pulled me away from it. There’s no corkboard today, but there is a book open on the bed. The last book in the series by AJ Ranger that we were discussing last night actually. He has several highlighters and a sheet of little tabs lying on the bed next to the book. Like he’s been studying it. Next to it, there’s an open notebook filled to the brim with handwritten notes.Notes about the book?

I am nothing if not blunt, which is why I look back at Jackson and ask, “Why are you studyingThe Hallway?”

He’s in the middle of hammering a nail when I ask the question that apparently startles him so much he accidentally pounds his hammer onto his thumb instead of the nail. “Dammit!” he yells, hammer clanging to the ground as he clutches his hand.

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