Page 62 of The Wrong Heart

I clear my throat. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate you squeezing me into your busy schedule.”

“It’s no problem at all. I’m glad I could help,” Shane responds, reaching for the fresh beer my brother holds out to him. “That’s a nice dress, by the way. Pretty color on you.”

Oh.

Interesting subject change.

Folding my arms tighter, I glance down at said dress. It’s a casual dress, periwinkle blue, and it cuts off at the knees, featuring short sleeves and a v-neckline. I spin the skirt, fidgeting through my reply. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

Is this what the dating world is like?

Or am I just a special brand of awkward?

I lace my fingers through my hair, smiling.

Awkwardly, of course.

Shane continues to stare at me with interest, nodding his head. “I can be,” he quips.

Oh, boy.

“Well, I’m going to head out. I have that pool tournament tonight as long as the weather doesn’t get allWizard of Ozon us,” West cuts in, glancing my way. “You and Leah coming out?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Parker said he was going to try and stop by to fix the ceiling.”

“Douchey contractor guy?”

I groan. “Yes, West, douchey contractor guy.”

The ensuing knock at my front door has my belly flip-flopping, my hands smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in my dress, and my eyes dodging my brother’s questioning gaze.

“I-I’ll be right back,” I mutter, spinning in place and heading to the front of the house with reddening cheeks, my heartrate quickening.

I’m being stupid. It’s just Parker.

Well, it could also be that random betta fish tank that doubles as a plant holder I bought on Amazon at three A.M. during a bout of sleep deprivation… but it’s probably Parker.

And just because we shared some kind of moment twenty-four hours ago, doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t justify these butterflies and clammy palms, because at the end of the day, he’s still a closed-off brute, and I’m still a grieving widow.

With a calming breath, I pull the door open and promptly get blasted by a gust of rain-infused wind, nearly tipping backwards. Parker stands there on my porch with his ladder and tools, drenched from head to toe, his magnetic green eyes enough to pull me upright. Collecting myself and shaking out the water droplets from my hair, I step aside to let him in. “You came.”

“I said I was going to,” he says softly, his tone missing its usual bitter edge. Parker shuffles through the entryway, smelling like a rainy Colorado mountainside, and leans the ladder against my rust-colored wall. “You have company?”

“My brother and the plumber,” I tell him, chewing the inside of my lip and observing the way he tousles his wet hair back from his forehead. Little drops of water trail down his arms as he slips out of his boots, causing my eyes to follow. His skin is bronzed from the sun, his tan lines evident when his sleeves lift, revealing strong biceps. Parker isn’t overly bulky, but he’s lean and fit, perfectly in shape, a testament to how hard he works. “If you can’t finish everything today, it’s no big deal. I know the weather is going to get worse.”

“I heard there could be tornados and shit,” he confirms, rising back up and towering over me by a solid foot. “Hopefully, you have a basement.” His irises flicker like emerald lightning when we lock eyes, a complement to the booming thunder outside, and then he moves around me, towards the kitchen.

My own heartbeats sound thunderous, rattling my chest, as I think about hunkering down in the basement with Parker.

I gulp.

As I follow behind him, my brother straightens from his perch against the island, his focus drifting between us. “Hey, man.”

Parker nods his greeting, resting his toolbox on the counter, remaining silent.

I feel an overwhelming duty to fill that silence, so I chime in, “Parker, this is my brother, West.”

“We’ve met,” Parker deadpans, sifting through his supplies.

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