Page 12 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
My throat tightens. Just by her saying those words, I know what kind of day it’ll be.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” I assure her.
Outside, the air has that sharp edge of late winter. The sky is pale, the kind that makes the ocean look like steel if we were close enough to see it.
Halfway down my front steps, I notice Mrs. Carver from next door fussing with her planters. She’s in a heavy coat, hands buried in the soil like she’s digging for buried treasure. She glances up just long enough to say, “Morning, Lyla.”
“Morning,” I answer, pretending I don’t know she’s clocking every step I take toward the Lawson house.
The porch light over there is on since it’s still dark at this hour. Damien’s standing in the open doorway, coffee in one hand, the other braced on the frame. He’s wearing a dark thermal shirt and jeans, both dusted with sawdust, like he’s already put in a full day before I even crossed the street.
“You ready to work?” he asks, no smile, just that low voice that somehow carries.
I lift my chin. “Born ready.”
His gaze flicks over me once, slow enough to make my skin warm under the hoodie. He steps back, letting me pass inside, and I can’t shake the feeling that every neighbor on this block just saw me walk into the Lawson house.
Which, I guess, is exactly the point.
Ronnie’s voice carries before I even see him. “Well, look who showed up for orientation.”
He’s in the front room, crouched over an open toolbox, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment since last night.
I arch a brow. “Is there a hazing process, or do I just get thrown to the wolves?”
He stands, dusting his hands on his jeans. “Depends on how you handle a sanding block.”
“I can handle anything,” I say, sliding my hoodie zipper down an inch. The thermal shirt underneath clings a little too well, and I’m suddenly aware of Damien standing in the doorway behind me.
His eyes drop for a fraction of a second before he moves past me to the workbench. “Don’t start with anything big,” he says, pulling out a block and a sheet of sandpaper. “You’ll do the upstairs bedroom trim first. It’s simple, but it needs to be done right.”
He hands me the block. Our fingers brush. It’s just a quick contact, but his skin is warm and rough.
“Wrap it tight,” he says, holding up the paper.
I start to fold it over the block, but he’s frowning already. “Like this.”
He steps in close, his chest almost brushing my shoulder, one hand curling over mine to guide the fold. His other hand smooths the paper along the edge, his thumb grazing my knuckle in the process.
It’s not deliberate. Or maybe it is. I can’t tell.
When he looks down at me, his eyes are darker than they were a moment ago.
“Now you try,” he says, his voice lower.
For one dizzy second, I’m not thinking about the trim upstairs. I’m thinking about the way his hand covered mine, firm and sure, and the sudden, ridiculous thought of what else those hands could ruin if he wanted to.
I force a smile. “Got it.”
Ronnie claps once, breaking whatever was humming in the air. “Look at you two, already working in sync. This is gonna be great.”
Damien steps back, his expression shuttered again. “We’ll see.”
The upstairs bedroom smells like sawdust and old paint. Sunlight cuts in through the single window, dust motes swirling in the beams like they’ve been waiting years to move again.
Damien drops a drop cloth over the hardwood, the motion efficient and precise, like he’s done this a thousand times. Which, I guess, he has.
“Start with this side,” he says, nodding toward the trim by the closet. “Long, steady strokes. Don’t rush it.”
