Page 3 of Garrett

I told myself I’d keep it professional when I showed up this morning. That lasted about thirty seconds, because watching her now, I can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes lit up last night talking about improving the cabins. The polished Manhattan gallery owner disappeared, replaced by someone who understood the satisfaction of creating something with your hands. Someone real.

She’s perched on the hood of my truck, scrolling through something on her phone, completely at home in the mountain air despite looking like she stepped off a New York runway. The morning sun catches the highlights in her hair, and those legs in those jeans should be illegal in at least forty states. She’s wearing a simple white button-down that probably costs more than my truck, but all I can think about is how many buttons it would take to—

“Planning to help, or just supervise?” I call out, forcing my mind away from dangerous territory. Her head snaps up, and those green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my blood run hot.

“Depends. Are you actually going to let me help, or are you going to be one of those contractors who thinks women can’t handle power tools?”

I lean against the truck bed, letting myself get close enough to catch the scent of something citrusy and expensive. Something that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. “That depends. Do you know which end of a nail gun to point at the wood?”

She slides off the hood with a grace that makes my mouth go dry, her movement pure sin in designer denim. “I think I can handle your tools.”

The double entendre hangs in the air between us. I shouldn’t rise to the bait. I’m here to work, not flirt with my employer. But something about Rachel Winston makes me want to push boundaries.

Maybe it’s the challenge in her eyes, or the way she carries herself—like she’s used to running the show but wouldn’t mind letting someone else take control. Just for a little while.

“Careful what you offer, princess. My tools might be more than you can handle.”

Her eyes narrow at the nickname, but there’s heat there too. A flush creeps up her neck that makes me wonder how far down it goes. “Try me.”

Christ. Two sentences and she’s already under my skin. I need to focus on the job, not on how much I want to find out if she tastes as sharp as she talks.

“Let’s start with the main cabin.” I grab my toolbox, purposely brushing against her as I pass. The slight catch in her breath is almost my undoing. “Show me what we’re working with.”

The cabin is... rough. Solid bones, but decades of half-assed repairs have left it a mess of jerry-rigged solutions and potential fire hazards. Rachel follows me through each room, taking notes as I point out issues, asking smart questions that prove she’s done her research. Every time she leans in to look at something I’m pointing out, I catch another whiff of that citrus scent, and my hands itch to pull her closer.

“Previous owner was a piece of work,” I mutter, examining the kitchen’s ancient wiring. “This isn’t up to code. Hasn’t been since Carter was president.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fix anything.” I glance over my shoulder to find her watching my hands as I trace the electrical conduit. The look in her eyes makes me want to show her exactly what these hands can do. “Question is, how much do you want to spend?”

“Whatever it takes to do it right.” No hesitation. “I’m not cutting corners.”

Interesting. “Most clients want the cheapest option.”

“I’m not most clients.” She steps closer, close enough that I can see gold flecks in her green eyes, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “And this isn’t just another flip project. These cabins are going to be something special.”

The intensity in her voice catches me off guard. This isn’t just about business for her. There’s something personal here, something that made a successful Manhattan art dealer buy a run-down property in the middle of nowhere.

“Why here?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “You could build new anywhere. Why save these?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, running her hand along the rough-hewn timber wall. I watch her fingers trail across the wood and try not to imagine them running along my skin instead. “Because some things are worth saving. Even if they’re a little broken.”

The words hit closer to home than I’d like. I know about being broken. About needing to build something real with your hands to drown out the echoes of gunfire and explosions. But there’ssomething in her voice that makes me think she knows about being broken too, in a different way.

“Well.” I clear my throat, suddenly needing space from the understanding in her eyes and the way she makes me want to confess things I’ve never told anyone. “First thing is getting the power stable. Then we can talk about—”

A loud crack from above cuts me off. Rachel looks up just as the ceiling beam starts to give way. I move on pure instinct, grabbing her waist and spinning us both clear as chunks of wood and plaster rain down.

We end up against the wall, my body caging hers, her hands fisted in my shirt. For a heartbeat, we just breathe, adrenaline making everything sharper. She’s soft and warm against me, her pulse racing under my fingers where they rest on her neck. Every curve of her body fits perfectly against mine, like she was made to be here.

“Are you okay?” I manage, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.

She nods, but doesn’t let go of my shirt. “Nice reflexes.”

“Military training comes in handy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Her lips curve up, and I realize I’m still pressed against her, my thigh between hers, one hand cupping her neck while the other grips her hip. The heat of her seeps through her clothes, making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to lift her up, to let her wrap those long legs around my waist.

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