Page 59 of The Handler
I grab my tools from the bed of Gabe’s truck and give him a wave, letting him know he can head home. I like working with Amy’s friend. He knows construction, knows how to lead a crew, and he ain’t a slacker. Even had his brother come out to help on the project during some of the earlier trickier parts. After a long day of framing, I’m due for a shower.
There’s a little red car in the front drive. Shiny except for the road dust on the lower panels. Rental. That means our guest has arrived. I wipe my feet on the mat before I go inside the Sunflower.
Standing at the high table Amy uses to hold her guest book, its drawer filled with keys, is a woman who is straight out of my spank bank. Mile-long legs wrapped in jeans and boots with a perfect peach of an ass. Auburn hair down to the middle of her lean back. I swallow the urge to whistle and slap my cap on my thigh before I wrangle her into my bed. Whoa. Nope. I take a step back.
“Hey, Alex.” Amy calls out to me before I can disappear up the stairs.
“Amy. Ma’am.” I nod at the fantasy woman. My mama raised me right. “How’re y’all doin’?”
“This is Sonja Redding. She’s staying with us for a few weeks.”
Weeks?
The woman turns and punches me in the chest with her blue eyes, freckled nose, and full lips. She smiles. “Hi, Alex.”
Aw, hell no. Danger flashes all around this woman. I should run while I can.
“Since you’re going up, could you show her to the Columbine room?” I know exactly which room she means, but she doesn’t understand what she’s asking. I should be staying as far away from this woman as possible, not escorting her to her bedroom.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, despite my red flags. “That your bag?” I point at the carry-on roller.
“I can get it.” Sonja’s voice is like a soft breeze on a hot summer day. Damn. It’s like someone custom-designed a woman just for me.
“No, ma’am.” I pick it up by the side handle and proceed up the stairs, tools in one hand, bag in the other, dick leading the way to her room. No. No. No.
“You work construction?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” And because my mama raised me right, I ask, “And you?”
“I’m a writer. My agent booked this place for me so I can finish a novel. I should have had it done months ago. He says it’s to remove distractions.”
I’ve never met a writer. I glance back. She’s staring at my ass. It appears we’re both distracted. I can’t let that happen. Ever. I stop at her room and set her bag down. She unlocks the door, letting it swing open wide. The slightly purple-blue paint Amy had us put on the walls last fall contrasts perfectly with Sonja’s hair. “Anything else?”
A light blush hits her cheeks. Sweet baby Jesus, help me.
“I, uh, have a bigger bag in the car…” She blinks up at me with those baby blues.
“Sure.” I hold out my hand. “Keys?”
She digs in the pocket of her jeans, drawing my eyes to the apex of her legs. Nope. I drag my gaze to her face like I didn’t just see an image of us fucking with her in a rope swing.
She drops the keys on my palm.
I spin. “Be back.”
I leave my tools inside my room only to find Sonja still watching me from her doorway. She knows where my room is.
Dang it.
I trot down the stairs and pop the trunk on her car. A huge bag with airline tags still attached fills the space. I heft it out. She has to have small children packed in there as much as it weighs. I set the bag on the ground and lock her car. Curiosity wins. I lift the printed tag. DFW.
Fuck. My. Life. She’s from Texas.
I heave the bag back to her room and knock on the door. She opens it so fast she must have been waiting.
“Here you go.”
She steps back, inviting me in. My heart pounds a warning tattoo against my ribs. My dick hollers, “Yee haw!” My dick is dumb. I push the bag over the threshold. “Have a nice stay.”
Before she can say anything else, I pivot and practically run back to my room. For the first time since I came to the Sunflower, I lock my door.
In the shower, I take care of all the dirt and sweat, and jack myself off to my favorite imaginary woman who suddenly looks a lot like Sonja. Not good.
I towel off and toss on my sweats commando. I type her name into the browser on my phone. Nothing. No author by that name.
It don’t mean nothing. I’m just being paranoid. Lots of authors don’t publish under their real names. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be hanging around here. I’ll be busy with the construction of the club. The downstairs is basically done, and we’ve finished framing out the restaurant. The first two condos just need paint and fixtures. They’re fully accessible to ADA standards. We’re just waiting for the inspection. Should be perfect timing for Blake getting out of rehab.
I can keep my head down and my hands to myself until the club opens. Once it does, I can express myself in a safe place—with plenty of witnesses. And no Sonja.
