Page 15 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“I was.” he stammers, backtracking. “Um. I mean. I was talking to you, not about you. I’d never say—ah… I was referring to the window, not you. Time to mount the window. I shouldn’t have—um. I mean.” He slaps his forehead. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
I try to lighten the mood, go for a joke. “Well, I certainly hope that’s not how you talk to women.”
“I never refer to women as bitches unless it’s in reference to my ex, and I sure as hell never use the term ‘mount’,” he says, indignant.
“Well, that’s good to know. It’s not an attractive term.”
He’s back on more solid footing. “No, it definitely lacks sexiness.” He’s silent a moment. “Unlike you.” He says this to me with his eyes on mine, his hands idly toying with the edge of the window.
“Oh, yeah?” I say, a little disingenuously.
“Yeah. The term ‘mount’ is decidedly unsexy.” He pauses again for emphasis. “Unlike you.”
“Unlike me?” Is he calling me sexy?
“Yeah. You don’t lack sexiness.”
I decide it’s probably safest to put the knife down for now. “I—I don’t?” I sound even more shocked than I feel, and endeavor to sound…something like confident. “I mean. Neither do you, if we’re on the subject of sexiness.”
Jesse runs a finger along the upper edge of the window frame. “I don’t think I’ll ever see a Bull’s tank top quite the same way, now that I’ve seen the way you wear one.”
I glance down as if I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Oh, this old thing? It’s comfy, and I’ve had it forever, so I guess it has some sentimental value. It doesn’t quite fit anymore.”
His gaze wanders from mine southward, to my cleavage, lingers there, and then travels back up to mine. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d say it fits you just fine.”
I grin, because I can’t help it. His words make me a little giddy with flattered excitement and anticipation. “It does cling in certain places, doesn’t it?”
He hesitates over his reply. “Ah, yeah. Cling is a good way to put it.” He steals a glance at my hips. “Those shorts come with the tank top?”
I twist away a little, straighten one leg behind me, and look back over my shoulder at my own butt. “Oh, these? Um…? No, I think I bought them as workout shorts when I was in college, back when I had both the courage and the body to wear them out of my own house.”
“Well, I can’t speak to courage, but I’d say, for my part, that you definitely still have the body to wear those shorts wherever the hell you feel like.”
I laugh, a genuine bark of humor. “That’s awful nice of you, Jesse, but I was raised to think shorts ought to at least cover all of my butt to be considered acceptable to wear out of the house.” I tap the undersides of my buttocks, which hang below the edge of the shorts. “As you can clearly see, I’ve outgrown that particular stipulation.”
Once again, he doesn’t hide the blatant way his eyes roam my backside. “Well, it’s working in my favor, that’s for damn sure.” He clears his throat, turns to the window. “I—um. I’ll get this in and get out of your hair.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” I say. “You’re not in my hair.”
“Not yet I’m not,” he says, but it’s under his breath and I don’t think I was meant to hear it.
I pretend I don’t hear it, and go back to cutting up the peppers. The meat is browned now, so I drain it, add the diced peppers, a packet of taco seasoning, and a little extra garlic and cayenne for a kick. A few minutes of tossing that over the heat and it’s done. The rice has been done for a while, so all I have to do now is put together a little salad. Some greens, some cucumbers, celery, tomatoes, baby carrots, some cheese, and it’ll be good to go.
By now, Jesse has the window in and is crouched on the sink fastening it into the space with a screw gun. He has pieces of molding stacked on the counter nearby, and uses a nail gun to fasten molding around the edges, then takes some outside and does the same around the exterior.
Done outside, he returns to the kitchen with a small shop vac, which he uses to suck up all the sawdust and mess, and makes quick work of cleaning up his tools and supplies, returning my kitchen to its original state, plus one new window. This done, he stands in the middle of the kitchen eyeing his handiwork.
“What do you think, Imogen?” he asks, glancing at me. “How do you like your new window?”
I turn the stove off, cover the pan with a lid, and stand beside him. The window is…huge. It lets in acres of daylight, making my little kitchen feel larger, airier, and just…lighter. He reaches forward and rotates the knob to open the window all the way, and immediately a gentle breeze floats through, catching the draft from the open back door and front door.
