Page 6 of Service Included

“Did you ever hear how my mother made me work off the broken table?”

“Wasn’t it something from a book?”

“Our family tradition is literary punishment.” He ducked his head. A loose section of hair escaped the tie at his nape and flopped across his cheekbone.

To call his hair dark silk was a horrible cliché, but it looked smooth enough to deserve the description. Without a thesaurus to recommend better words, nothing but versions of silk, silky, silken bounced inside her skull. She had sufficient self-control to keep her hands at her sides rather than reaching out, as she might have to her daughter, but to be extra safe, she wrapped her fingers around her thumbs, making fists. She would not touch.

“I had the choice of painting our fence or coming to her office and writing ‘I will not belch, regurgitate, or curse in front of my mother’s friends’ on the whiteboard.” From the way he squished half his face with an exaggerated wince, she couldn’t decide whether he was pretending to be clueless, or if he truly had noidea that explaining his mother’s punishment would warm the insides of another librarian’s offspring. “One hundred times.”

“Basically, you had to choose between playing Tom Sawyer or Bart Simpson?”

His eyebrows, darker than his hair, smoothed out as his wince turned slightly up into a smile. “Pretty sure she was channeling Anne Shirley, not Bart.”

Her doubts vanished. A twenty-seven-year-old guy who dropped anAnne of Green Gablesreference had to be fully aware that those two ladies had hatched this staged introduction. His lack of objection created an odd flutter in her stomach while his deep brown gaze looked directly into her eyes. Her feet seemed to shuffle, or perhaps she swayed, and he moved, but she was suddenly close enough to smell him. He was soap-fresh and summer-warm at the same time, and so inviting, she wanted to bury her nose in his neck.Holy crap.

It was her turn to be flirtatious and witty. She parted her lips and inhaled, the air nearly whistling across her teeth. And—

Her mind blanked. Her mother might expect Megan to be able to sort rooms while also flirting, or treatLiplock with Loading Guyas an item to be checked off a list, but Megan’s multitasking skills didn’t encompass that broad of a spectrum.

“So, ah, back to the list.” A woman with a master’s degree in classics and the ability to read—at least sort of—two dead languages ought to be able to avoid beginning sentences withso, even if Seamus Heaney used it as the first word of his Beowulf translation, butno.

At least she could stand straight, which maybe, might, or at least ought to, double for confidence.

“The boxes with my name on them—‘Megan’”—right, because he might have forgotten—“are going to Seattle with me. That’s where I live.” Not that he needed to know. Shit, he probably did know.

“Got it.”

She wanted to think he looked disappointed by her return to talking about packing as he glanced at the clipboard.

“Tyler can start in the kitchen.” When he met her eyes again, whatever emotion had flickered across his face a moment ago had been replaced with what was becoming a familiar joking smile. “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere.” Her voice cracked on the double meaning, forcing her to swallow before she could continue. “I’ll be sorting things in the garage—it’s the door to the left at the end of the hall.” Despite the parental plot, she did have responsibilities. She wiped her palms on her denim shorts with what she hoped was casual grace but suspected was too much friction. “Call if you need me.”

“Likewise, if you need me.”

She wanted to hear him sayfuck.

She should not have thought that.

“Okay, sure.” She turned and walked away. The back of her neck tingled as she sensed his continued attention. The twenty feet to where she could disappear into the garage might as well be the Pacific Crest Trail, because she couldn’t lift a foot without being aware of how one buttock, then the other, flexed with each step, how her thighs rubbed against the seam of her shorts. Don’t run, she told herself.

Tonight, at the end of the day, she could ask him for a beer. That would befun.

Don’t run. She kept placing her feet in front of each other, even though it felt like they belonged to someone else. Walk. Don’t scamper, don’t trot—or worse, trip. Walk. To the garage.

End of the day, she repeated to herself. Do the work first.

Chapter 3

Those long hoses

In the garage, Megan’sfingers located the light switch as the connecting door clicked behind her. Limiting her selections to sentimental Christmas decorations and one or two necessary tools shouldn’t be difficult, as long as she kept telling herself that her home had no extra space. She flipped one set of overheads back off, which hopefully would keep the temperature down for long enough that her burning cheeks could return to a standard ninety-eight degrees. She had no time to entertain thoughts about the man who was probably in the kitchen, bending to open cupboards. Wrapping his hands around the curved sides of mixing bowls. Stretching to the top shelf. Nope, no thoughts. None at all.

She let out a deep breath and focused on the rows of shelves and the work in front of her. Her mother’s label system guided Megan quickly through ten lidded plastic tubs, although unfortunately, it left enough of her brain unoccupied that she could, if she strained, hear Nico and Tyler’s muffled banter. Thudding footsteps on the stairs made her wonder about large,tanned hands cradling box corners, biceps popped into distinct relief.

She used the back of her wrist to scrape sweat-stuck tendrils of hair from her forehead. She could try online dating again.

Even the stray thought triggered warnings in her chest. Nope, nope-ity nope, absolutely not.

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