Page 46 of Our Long Days
She wears the same infatuated expression from when she ticked the first item off her list. Green mists my vision. That smile is for me. It’s only a few feet away that I recognize this sensation as jealousy, and my footsteps falter.
Nico is twenty-six, much closer in age to Florence. He’s also reliable, talented, and looks after his mom, who was recently diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. A real catch.
Just not good enough for her.
And neither are you.
At the sound of my approach, they glance up.
“Hey, man,” Nico greets, straightening to adjust his hat. “I was showing Florence the original designs for the cabin.”
“Haven’t you got something else to be doing?” I snap.
He blinks in surprise. “Oh, yeah. Got it.” He turns to Flo. “It was good seeing you again. If you’re ever?—”
“She’s not. Florence, a word?” I squeeze my large frame between them and plant my hands on the table, back to Nico.
When he’s gone, Florence’s cheerfulness deflates. “That was rude.”
It was, but I’m struggling to work out what the appropriate reaction was. I exhale through my nose. After three lungs full of air, calm settles over me. “You ready to finish up the tour?”
She has every right to eye me warily. “There’s more?”
No.“Yeah. The loft. You haven’t seen the loft.”
If the ringing in my ears wasn’t lingering, alarm bells would be screaming at me to stop.
Popping a hip, she grabs her discarded hard hat, smile returning. “Lead the way.”
I ignore the stares from my team as we walk through the cabin. It’s one floor, but the narrow roof is spacious enough for a sleeping loft, similar to the A-frame. Florence goes up the ladder first, something I quickly regret as the globes of her pert ass come level with my face. Each cheek bounces with every rung, the perfect fucking handful.
I’m a sadist, no other way about it.
We reach the top—her oblivious and me with a half-hard cock.
She does that thing, spinning around, arms wide as she takes it all in. Her happiness is a tonic to the soul, warm and revitalizing, one I drink up greedily. Balancing on her toes, she peers through the skylight.
Silver specks dance in the sunbeams, our movements disturbing the dust. The late afternoon sunshine paints everything in streaks of luminous amber. It bounces off her white-blonde hair, making her appear brighter, if that’s even possible.
“What will they use this space for?” she asks, dragging me from my hypnotic state.
I shrug, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Most store crap, but I’ve seen a few people turn them into small theaters or cover the entire floor in cushions.”
Her eyes widen. “I’ll take ten.”
She moves to the other end of the loft, allowing me the opportunity to readjust myself.
A squeal, so loud it cuts through the buzzing in my ears, has me on high alert.
I spin around and find her swatting at the air, spluttering and blowing raspberries amidst her panic. “I’m under attack!”
“What? What is happening?” My boots thud against the floor.
“Help!”
“I’m trying.” I find the culprit: cobwebs wrap around her head, some in her eyelashes. “Keep still a sec.”
She goes rigid, face scrunched in disgust. “Is it on me? Is the spider on me?”
