Page 39 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
What if I try, and it backfires? I’m fragile enough as it is right now—another heartbreak would put me beyond any capability of repair, I think.
Would it be worth the risk?
With Jesse, just possibly.
I turn onto my street and then, half a block from my house, I slam on the brakes so hard my tires squeal. My front yard is brilliantly illuminated, shining from the back rack spotlights on Jesse’s truck, which is backed up part way onto my lawn on a diagonal, the front tires on the street. I pull into my driveway, exit my car, and stand there, stupefied.
He has completely rebuilt my front porch. Before, it was three too-short, too-narrow steps leading up to a landing just big enough to stand on as you enter the front door. Now, the front porch spans the entire width of the home, with the steps properly sized and spaced for a natural tread. As I stand there, gaping, he presses his nail gun into the bottom-most tread at the front left corner, squeezes the trigger to send in a nail with a pneumatic thwack. And then he sinks back on his knees and tosses the nail gun aside.
He turns to me, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, grinning. “Hey.” He gestures at the new porch. “Surprise!”
I open my mouth, and close it again without making a sound. “Um.” I have to try twice to even get that much out. “Why?”
“Well, I sort of vanished on you, and I came by this afternoon to talk in person, and my foot went right through the step.” He shrugs. “So, I ran over to the lumber mill and got down to business. I started out thinking I was just gonna do another porch like you had, but then said nah, fuckit, might as well go whole hog, you know? I was done for the weekend, so this is all on my own personal time.”
I step away from my car and sit on the edge of the porch a few feet away from Jesse. “I don’t know what to say or how to even begin thanking you.”
“Well, ‘thanks’ is a pretty good start.” He gives me his trademark cocky smirk. “I can probably think of a few other ways, if you’re really determined to thank me properly, though.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. O’Neill,” I say, smiling coyly up at him.
“I drive a hard something, all right,” he murmurs, standing up to tower over me. “Not sure if ‘bargain’ is the right word, though.”
“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine?” I ask. “I have to work early in the morning, so I can’t stay up super late, but if you wanted to talk, we could do it over some wine.”
He nods, wiping his brow again. “Sounds good. Let me put my tools away and I’ll be right in.”
I just nod and smile, and head inside. Usually the first thing I do is change out of my scrubs and into my pajamas, but I find myself resisting that idea, instead choosing to put together a snack plate of cheese and lunch meat and nuts, and pouring the wine. If I change into that outfit, it’ll spark a sexual chemistry conflagration I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to resist, and until I’m sure of what I want and what to do about Jesse and this thing, I need to back things off a little.
Audra told me to be bad, to be dumb and reckless, but I’m not the type of person who can entirely just throw all caution to the wind all at once. I have to be smart about being stupid. And so far, all I’ve been is stupid, letting my libido rule over my sense and sensibility: “If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy.”
Ha—Jane Austen, you were far too wise for your own good, lady.
Jesse clomps in the front door and into my kitchen, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face, baring his hard, tanned stomach. He goes right to the sink and washes his hands and face—automatically, without even thinking, I hand him paper towel to dry his face.
He tosses the wadded paper towel in the trashcan and glances at me. “Awww. I was hoping you’d change into something a little more comfortable.”
I can’t help grinning at him. “I know. I’m sorry. But I think for right now this probably safer.”
He nods seriously. “You in those pajamas? Yeah, you wouldn’t be safe around me.”
I carry the snack plate out into the backyard, and Jesse follows me with the glasses of wine, and the bottle. When we’ve settled into our seats and have taken a few exploratory sips and bites, I glance at him. “So. You were going to explain why you didn’t call or text for almost a week?”
