Page 17 of Unhurried Hearts

My keys dig into my palm. “Oh? Do you…have somewhere to be?”

“No. Ah, shit.” He starts to run his hand through his hair then stops, not wanting to mess up my work which is cute as hell and only makes me want him to come in with me more.

“I’ve got to go, okay? Thanks for the haircut.”

I wince at his abrupt tone. Then he walks back the way we came and I’m standing there like an idiot.

“I thought you wanted my number?” I call, just to embarrass myself a little more.

But he’s already disappeared through the stairwell door. Instead of dancing around when I get inside, I flop onto my unmade bed and let out a piercing scream of sheer frustration into my pillow.

Chapter eight

Chris

Berg takes one look at me as I arrive at the job site on Monday morning, opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he sinks his teeth into a massive submarine sandwich despite it barely being 9 a.m. I stomp through the muddy gravel to his tailgate, my personal dark cloud following, and work on finishing my coffee.

“Why are you eating lunch?” I ask.

“No time for breakfast,” he mumbles, a few breadcrumbs falling into his beard. “Still settling into the back-to-school routine with the girls.”

I do recall hearing a hell of a lot of ‘let’s go’ and ‘what do you mean you don’t know where your shoes are’ from the driveway. That was around the time I had my head under a pillow trying to forget that I walked away from Anna mid-conversation. Left her at her front door after a heart-stopping, pant-tightening kiss. Dean shows up a few minutes later, truck tires grinding over the gravel.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” he asks, having less sense than Berg does when it comes to staying off my nerves.

I spread my arms out wide. “Can’t a guy just get through Monday without being harassed?”

Berg and Dean exchange glances. “No,” they say together.

I’m not about to volunteer the information that I’ve been celibate all summer. Okay, most of spring, too. I’m 100% to blame for my own pain and suffering and I’ll be as grumpy as I want to be. Seeing this thing to the end is important to me.

Isaac emerges from a portable toilet, rubbing sanitizer into his hands.

“Chris.” Isaac’s jaw is tight.

Maybe I’m not the only one who had a bad sleep, but I’m having a hard time being sympathetic for the guy living in his dream house with his dream girl.

“Did you have a goodhaircut?” He spits the last word and reaches over to swat the back of my head.

“Hey!” I duck out of his reach, smoothing it back into place even though I have to throw my hard hat on soon. I purposely kept my hair dry when I showered this morning so the scent of the salon would stay with me for another day. I’m dreading washing it down the drain this afternoon.

“What is going on with you?”

He pauses, a piece of sandpaper in his hand. “Me?”

“Yes. You hit me in the head.”

“You’re on Ashlyn’s shit list. And, apparently, that means I’m on it too. It’s a guilty-by-association kind of thing. She’s scary when she glares.”

I raise my eyebrows at the information.

“What did I do to Ashlyn?”

“Hurt her cousin’s feelings, you dumbass.”

Ah, shit. I replay the moments after our kiss. Confusion filled her eyes, me acting like an asshole and leaving before I could make it worse. Damage done anyway. I hope she didn’t cry. I can’t do crying.

I blow out a long breath. “It was your idea to go see her.”

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