Page 45 of Blue Collar Hotties

Doesn’t matter that her face floats across my brain whenever I close my eyes. That I hear her husky voice in my sleep. That every molecule of my body, every instinct in my skull is screaming togoto her, to find her and corner her in that cramped little apartment and flatten her body with my own, to press her against the nearest flat surface and lick her neck.

“Asshole,” I mutter, fingers numb from the cold as I take a series of photos, shutter clicking. “She doesn’t want you.”

In fact, Jenny is scared shitless of me.

It’s humbling. You can spend your whole adult life thinking of yourself as a decent man, a bit rough around the edges, maybe, but basically fine. Certainly not someone any girl should worry about. And then your shy, sweet roommate flinches every time you enter the room, and it all comes crumbling down, and you feel like the worst piece of shit after all.

Did I do something, since I moved in?

Did I give the impression that I’d ever,everhurt her?

Fuck. My temples ache as I lower my camera, my muscles taut as I flick through what I’ve got so far. They’re good. Great, actually.

This is where I should feel that rush, thattriumph, that fierce satisfaction of a shoot coming together…

Nothing. I feel nothing.

I just want Jenny.

* * *

She’s hunched over her sewing machine when I come home, reels of thread and scraps of fabric and a pincushion in the shape of a tomato scattered over the kitchen table.

“Oh!” Jenny jolts upright the second she spots me leaning in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in. How do you do that? You’re so freakingquiet, Lincoln.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” Didn’t want to scare her, more like, but in hindsight I can see how creeping around the apartment won’t achieve that. “Work stuff?”

“Yeah.” Jenny bites her bottom lip, glancing at the havoc all around her. Her blonde hair is piled in a messy topknot, a tight white t-shirt hugging her curves. Talk about torture. “I can clean it up if you need to use the kitchen.”

“I’m good.” As if I’d make her move all that stuff once she’s painstakingly set it up. As far as I’m concerned, she can leave it out permanently, and I tell her so.

A faint blush spreads over her cheeks, and Jenny shakes her head, staring at her pincushion. “You’re paying for half the apartment; you should be able to use it. Besides, where would you eat?”

I shrug, heart thumping. This is the longest conversation we’ve had in days. She didn’t flinch when she saw me, either, and you’d better believe I’ve made a note of that. “Standing up by the counter, I guess? Who cares?”

There.

That’s why I keep trying again with Jenny, why I keep making conversation despite her ‘no small talk’ rule. Because once in a while, I coax this soft, secret smile from her lips, and then I want to sprint a lap around the block and yell my triumph at the sky.

“You’d drop food down your fancy black t-shirts.”

I tilt my head, my insides rioting. Can’t believe my fucking luck. “Are you teasing me, sweetheart? You making fun of my clothes?”

That blush deepens, and she ducks her head. Adjusts the fabric under her sewing machine needle, then presses the pedal like I never even spoke.

Loud thumping fills the kitchen. Jenny feeds the fabric under the needle, lips pursed.

Fuck, I love her little-miss-prim act. Makes me want to ruffle up her hair and get areallaugh out of her. A belly laugh. Makes me want to drag out a chair and yank her onto my knee and run my big hands all over her.

“What are you sewing?” I ask instead.

Jenny huffs. “I’m raising the hems on a client’s skirts. Do you mind?”

I grin, suddenly light as a feather, because that’s not how you speak to a man you’re afraid of. Pushing off the door frame, I stroll across the tiny kitchen, and come to a stop behind her chair.

When I lean over her shoulder, my breath mists against her neck. Goosebumps ripple over her bare skin, the tiny translucent hairs standing on end, and heat coils through my gut. “Am I bothering you, Jenny?”

A puff of air.“Yes.”

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