Page 34 of The Two of Us

“Thanks,” I murmur, cradling my hand to my chest.

“Mhm.” He looks back at my mess. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Not everyone’s good with their hands.” I jerk my eyes upward to find a playful glint in his eyes.

He’s teasing me.

I give him a mocking look. “If you’re such a pro, let’s see what you’ve accomplished.”

I start in the direction of the backyard, more than happy to walk off my sexual frustration, and Ambrose follows in silence. When I come up on the back patio, I can’t help but gawk. It’s incredible. It looks like he snuck a construction team in to help him without me noticing. The patio has a fresh coat of paint—an eggshell white that makes the wooden accents of the house pop. Outdoor tiles lie perfectly in a herringbone pattern and there are chairs around a new steel firepit. Multicolored pebbles lie around the plants I’ve planted, giving everything a crisp, modern look.

“It’s amazing,” I breathe.

Ambrose shifts uncomfortably under the praise. “I still need to incorporate some other decor features, but this will do for now. The plants you put in were perfect.”

He’s being kind and my heart squeezes. We walk back to the front of the house and he helps me throw all my garbage into contractor bags, with gloves this time.

“I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say. “I didn’t even order the materials for the new stairs yet. Who knows how long that’s going to take to get here. Laura’s going to have a field day with this one.” I slap my forehead. “Laura. How is she supposed to get into the house?”

“Just tell her to use the back entrance for now, she’ll understand. And don’t worry about the install for the new stairs, I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

“I know a couple of guys who have materials for projects like this just lying around. A few of them worked with your father back in the day.”

I offer him an out I hope he won’t take. “You don’t have to do that. You’ve already helped enough and I know you’re not letting my dad pay you a dime.”

His casual shrug confirms my suspicion. “Why are you doing all of this for free?”

“I owe Solomon.”

That gets my attention. “For what?”

He glances at his watch before clearing his throat. “Let me know a good time to bring the materials over and I’ll get started.”

His dance around the subject only fuels my curiosity. “Well, if you’re not going to let us pay you, then the least I can do is thank you with a drink. Beer at Duffy’s?”

I watch Ambrose’s guard go up. I’m giving him mixed signals again. I’m giving myself mixed signals. But I can’t help being pulled back to him, no matter the amount of guilt it causes me. My face falls. “I’m being confusing again, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” He’s breathing heavy from being in the heat too long and lifts an inhaler from his pocket to his lips. He keeps his eyes trained on me as he pumps it and I mentally slap myself for thinking about his mouth.

Again.

“You’re doing my dad a huge favor. The least I can do is be cordial. It’s not like one drink makes us friends or anything.” I laugh, but it’s breathy. Unconvincing.

His eyes turn molten as they slowly rake down the length of my body, his gaze catching on the wet patch of tank top clinging to my ribs and my mouth goes dry. “I’ve never wanted to be your friend. I’ll be back in an hour and then we can go.”

Once he’s out of sight, I raise my face up to the sky, letting the sun’s light blind me as I exhale. I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life but none of them have made my heart race as fast as Ambrose Young.

***

Duffy’s is shockingly empty for being the only bar in town. Granted, it’s a Tuesday before six p.m. We have no problem securing a seat—it’s one of the perks of living in a small town. To get into a decent bar in New York means being prepared to wait upward of forty-five minutes or praying to the gods that some guy will find you attractive and offer his stool. If not, you can bet you’ll be standing the entire night, knowing you’ll have to elevate your aching feet later.

Duffy’s is an Irish bar, which is hilarious because the owner, Lorenzo, is as Italian as they come. It has a warm, rustic feel and the acacia furniture looks even better with age. Ireland’s national flags adorn the walls and the only option for entertainment is an ancient jukebox and an open mic.

Ambrose picked me up in his Wrangler exactly one hour after I’d made a complete fool of myself. He left his scruff untouched but used a pomade to keep the hair out of his eyes. His black jeans are fitted and his crew neck with long sleeves covers his big arms, though no one would blame him for showing them off. He’s effortlessly attractive. I catch a whiff of his clean scent and have to stop myself from moving closer.

Everything I packed for my trip was either fancy enough for my remote work meetings or casual enough to lounge around the house in, no middle ground. Which is why I’m wearing a silky black camisole I usually wear under my blazers with an old pair of distressed Levi jeans. When I got in the car, Ambrose looked at me and said nothing before putting the shift into drive.

“Want to sit at the bar?” he asks.

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