Page 19 of Fixing to Be Mine

“You’re a natural,” I offer.

She straightens, holding my gaze a beat too long before passing the knife back. I score the opposite side and snap the panel. It breaks clean.

“Wow, that’s a good cut,” she says, sounding impressed.

I dust off my hands and nod toward the stack. “We’ll carry four of those to the hallway. Then this one.”

I hand her the two-foot strip, letting our hands meet in the middle. She takes it without hesitation.

“This is fun,” she says.

“Ah, you say that now.”

Working beside her like this is dangerous. I came into this, thinking I’d teach her a few things. Turns out, I’m the one getting schooled.

We knock out hanging the wall in the hallway in an hour. Her focus is steady, her pace sharp. We move in sync without needing to talk much and roll straight through to finish in the living room. Three hours in, I set the drill down and roll my shoulders. We’re making great time. We continue into the dining room and the library.

“Let’s take a water break,” I tell her, leading us into the kitchen. I add ice to two glasses and get filtered water from the door of the fridge. We drink it down. “I can’t believe how much we got done.”

“I know. I’m having fun though. Thank you for allowing me to help.”

“Happy you’re here. Truly. Now, you ready to get your hands dirty?” I ask.

Sunny finishes her water and sets the glass in the sink, then follows behind me. “I thought I already did.”

“Not even close,” I say, grabbing the joint compound and popping the lid off with the end of a putty knife. “You haven’t even seen dirty yet.”

“Yeah?” She raises a brow like that’s a challenge. “Will you show me?”

“Oh, darlin’,” I say, scooping out a thick glob and slapping it on the seam. “Promise me you’ll try to keep it on the wall.”

“I think I can manage.”

She grins and takes the second putty knife I offer her.

“Okay,” I say, motioning toward the seam. “Feather it out. Press hard in the middle, ease up at the sides. Don’t overthink it.”

“I never overthink anything,” she says, straight-faced.

I snort. “Right. And I’m a ballerina.”

“A cowboy ballerina,” she mutters, scooping a bit too much compound and slapping it onto the wall. It plops thick, but she smooths it out, biting her lip as she works.

Damn, if that doesn’t make me forget what I was doing, I don’t know what else will.

“Pretty good,” I say.

She glances over at me. “You sound surprised.”

“Nah. I’m impressed.” I narrow my eyes. “You sure you’re not a secret house flipper?”

Right as I reach to guide her hand, her knife jerks sideways and sends a blob of mud flying, landing square on my cock.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, glancing down at my putty-covered crotch.

“You did that on purpose,” I say, looking down at the splatter.

She lifts her hand. “No! I swear!”

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