Page 29 of Faker
I take a panorama shot, shrugging through the dull ache in my side that’s been plaguing me since yesterday. I blame the heat wave, which seems to be cooking me from the inside out. Or maybe it’s stress induced from the silent standoff between Tate and me. A weekend of resting is the cure, I suspect. I just have to stay preoccupied for the rest of day, avoid Tate, and I’m golden.
“Can you believe how the frame is coming along?” Lynn claps her hands in delight. She’s exchanged her trademark costume jewelry for jersey walking shorts and a pink hard hat. She looks downright adorable, like a mom in a Hallmark movie helping with a home renovation.
I gaze around, my professional mask in place. “It’s definitely something.”
In a few weeks, the family we’re building the house for isscheduled to stop by and view the worksite. Lynn mentions plans for a swing set in the backyard for the kids. What a thoughtful surprise that will be. I hope the family loves everything we put together for them.
“It was Tate’s idea,” Lynn says, waving at someone behind me.
When I turn around, I’m rewarded with the sight of Tate. Beautiful, exquisite, toned Tate. I try not to stare, but I fail miserably. He’s wearing this long-sleeve, skintight silver workout shirt that clings for dear life to his muscled arms and torso. I can’t say I blame the shirt. I’d cling to that body too.
If only the designer of this shirt could see Tate wearing it, doing it incredible justice. The way his torso cuts through the fabric is how that shirt is supposed to look on a body. He sets the hammer clutched in his fist on a nearby sawhorse. The visual reminds me of Thor decked out in all his superhero costume glory: hard, chiseled mass bulging through every inch of fabric. The shiny gray color is the perfect counter to his glowing white skin. He is the god of thunder dipped in a milk bath.
I’m not the only one who notices. No fewer than a dozen women and a couple guys at the surrounding worksites whip their heads around to gawk at him as he walks up to me.
Lynn is called away to answer a question, leaving us alone.
“What?”
Crap. I’m staring, and it’s obvious.
“Long sleeves,” I say quickly, shaking my head. I focus on the grass. “Interesting choice. A little warm for that, don’t you think?” I manage to sound seminormal after four days of not speaking to him.
“It’s moisture-wicking fabric. I’ll be fine. Besides, I need the sun protection.”
My memory bank pulls up an image from the beach next tothe neighborhood I grew up in, of tourists encasing their children in sunscreen and thin long-sleeve T-shirts. Tate would fit right in.
He squints at me, and for a moment, I wonder if he can tell just how much I’m drooling over him. “Any reason why you’re standing around taking photos instead of helping with the frame?”
I roll my eyes before directing my gaze back down to my phone. “I’m taking progress photos of the worksite for our special project.” I swipe through the pictures I’ve already taken.
When I rub my forehead, my fingers pull away coated in sweat. Damn, this heat. Already I’m drenched, and I’ve only been here an hour. I can’t wait for the roof to go up so we’ll have a reprieve from the unrelenting sunshine.
Tate crosses his arms, his brutal stare still aimed at me. “Get any good shots, Annie Leibovitz?” And there’s the winning sarcasm I know so well.
Mimicking his stance, I lean closer to him. “This extra project was your idea, but you seem to have lost all interest. Someone has to stay on top of it. I guess it falls on me.”
Brushing past him, I make my way across the wide space to the area that will eventually be the kitchen and dining room. I drag a nearby ladder outside so I can get some exterior photos and hopefully a cool aerial shot.
Tate grabs the other end of the ladder, despite me trying to tug it away from him. It’s no use. The ladder is too heavy, and Tate is too strong for me to do anything other than drop my end at a random spot. I set it up at the back corner of the house and walk around. Tate looms like an overprotective bodyguard. I climb up the ladder for the aerial shot, ignoring the ache in my side. All this physical labor from the last few days is leaving me with soreness in muscles I didn’t even know I had.
“Jesus, Emmie.” Tate curses from several feet below. “Don’t lean over like that.”
When I glance down, he’s gripping the ladder to steady it. “You can let go. I know what I’m doing.”
He remains planted below me. “Oh really? You’re afraid of heights. Don’t be so careless.”
A tiny punch lands in the middle of my chest. He’s right. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it still hurts to be scolded by the jerk I spent an entire postkiss weekend fawning over. A very handsome jerk who looks like a calendar model in his work clothes, while I look like a frazzled mess in yoga pants and the only clean tank top I could find in my laundry pile. Invisible steam pumps out of my ears.
“No worries, man. I’ve got it.” My jaw drops when I look down and see Jamie standing below. Tate’s left arm remains on a middle rung, but he pulls away when I make my way down.
The moment my feet touch the ground, Jamie pulls me into a hug. I grip onto his massive arms, which are nicely on display in a sleeveless shirt. A glowy tan covers his skin. He must have gotten a ton of sun on his trip.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t help the cheesy grin on my face.
“A storm was moving into the Rockies, so we left a day early. Thought I’d come over and say hi.”
“What a great surprise.”
