Page 68 of Resting Beach Face
“I started with a gutted kitchen, and now there’s a gutted living room too. I’m not sure this is better.”
Cash slung his arm over my shoulders and tugged me in against his side. “We’ve been over this, grumpy bear.”
I tried not to show how much I liked snuggling in against his side. Cash smelled awfully good for someone about to engage in hours of work. Had he done that for my benefit?
I breathed in the spicy scent of his aftershave and decided I didn’t care.
“It’s like surgery,” Cash continued. “We have to cut open the patient before we can fix them and sew them up again.”
“That’s aterribleanalogy.”
He dropped his arm and stepped away to put his coffee on the windowsill and start gathering the sanding tools. “Is it? I thought it was good.”
I shuddered at the thought of Cash doing surgery. “I just hope you’re better at fixing walls than you would be at operating on actual human beings.”
He snorted. “Well, luckily, my patients can’t die.” He paused. “I don’t think, anyway. Maybe if I took a sledgehammer to them?—”
“Okay,” I cut in quickly. “This is bad enough. Let’s not test the theory and startfixingthings.”
He grinned and gave me a hand sander. “You got it, honey bear. Get your butt on the step stool and start sanding.”
“Why am I suddenly all varieties of bear this morning?”
“Because your snarl is just so cute I can hardly stand it.”
My heart skipped because obviously I was a fool. I couldn’t be developing a crush on the most sexually active man I’d ever known. That would be idiotic. Not to mention, I wasleaving town.
I attacked the wall, working out some frustration, but I didn’t get far before Cash stopped me.
“Whoa there. We’re not trying to bore a hole through the wall. Smooth strokes, Declan. Just like you watched me do last night.”
I huffed in exasperation. “Will you stop flirting?”
“Who says I’m flirting?” Cash gave a shit-stirring grin. “You saw me sanding the wall, right? What else could you possibly think I mean?” His eyes widened comically. “Oh, Dec, you weren’t thinking of”—his voice lowered to a dramatic whisper—“something dirty, were you?”
I brandished the sandpaper in his direction. “Keep it up and I’m gonna sand your grin right off your face.”
He laughed. “I had no idea you were so violent.”
“Me either,” I muttered, “but clearly you inspire me.”
I hadn’t meant that as a compliment, but Cash smiled like I’d said something sweet. Hell, maybe I had. He had me all muddled up lately.
Thankfully, he let the matter drop and got to work beside me, each of us sanding away bits of glue and particles of paneling left behind.
We moved along the walls, inching our way across the room. Soon, my arm was burning from the repetitive motions of sanding, and I tried switching to my left arm for a while. I was less coordinated though, and I was soon back to the right.
Twenty minutes later, the dull ache was more of a throb and I stopped to rub my shoulder.
“Am I going to have to give you a massage this time?” Cash asked, eyes on me.
“You wish,” I mumbled.
“I really do.”
With one last rub, I went back to sanding. The room was silent except for the scritch-scritch-scritch of the sandpaper against sheetrock.
“It wouldn’t have to end the same way,” Cash said.
