Page 47 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
He rolls his eyes. “No kidding. Who knew construction involved so many emergencies, huh?”
“Right?”
We each begin our work, him removing the old sink, and me putting together a meal. Fortunately, I have chicken thawed, so it’s a matter of pan-frying some breasts while water is on the boil for pasta, with some broccoli steaming.
Jesse sniffs the air as he marks where to cut the countertop away. “You’re a really good cook, you know that?”
“According to my ex-husband, I’m a utilitarian cook. I can do the basics pretty well, but—”
“Your ex was a dick,” Jesse cuts in. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was a grade-A dick who clearly had no clue what a treasure he had in you.”
“Thank you for that,” I say, focusing on dicing the chicken.
When that’s done and the pasta has been boiled and the broccoli steamed, I mix it all together in a casserole dish, mix in a few cans of cream of chicken, cover it, and put it in the preheated oven to bake.
I wash my hands, and then lean against the counter. “I’m going to go up and rinse off before we eat. I’m all greasy from sunblock.”
“Can I help?” he says, grinning, “I’m great at rinsing.”
I’m sorely tempted to say yes, but I don’t. “I think I can manage on my own.”
He snaps his fingers. “Damn. Way to ruin all my hopes and dreams.”
“Ruined? Or delayed?” I tease, sashaying toward the hallway.
He twirls his chalk marker between his fingers. “The way I’m feeling right now, they’re the same thing.”
I have no answer for that—at least not one that doesn’t involve jumping his beautiful bones right there in the kitchen. So I just shoot him a smile over my shoulder as I head for the stairs. In my room, I strip out of my clothes and rinse off quickly, taking a few extra minutes to make sure everything down south is trimmed and that my legs are smooth. What to wear is a conundrum, though. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, so it can’t be fancy, but I want to look nice, so it can’t be grubby, either.
I end up wearing a blue and white silk romper, barefoot, no jewelry, minimal makeup, and just a spritz of perfume. I twist my hair up in a simple chignon with a few loose wisps draped casually down my cheeks. Underneath the romper, I’m wearing the same red lace set of lingerie that had almost caused the wreck, because while I’m not positive anything is going to happen tonight, I want to be ready if it does.
Feeling pretty and presentable, I head downstairs. Jesse is just then setting the new faucet into the sink, then leaning in underneath it to tighten it into place. My timer beeps, letting me know it’s time to add the cheese. I take off the foil, add a thick layer of cheddar, reset the timer for another three minutes, and then turn to find Jesse leaning back against the finished sink, his eyes on me in that blatant, admiring way he has.
“You look incredible.”
I duck my head at his compliment. “Thanks.”
“If I’d known you’d dress up like that, I’d have brought a button-down and nicer jeans.” He flips his wrench in his hand, and then holsters it in his tool belt, which he unbuckles and removes.
I laugh. “I’m not dressed up, I’m just not in pajamas anymore.”
“Hey, those pajamas are—”
“The cat’s pajamas?” I suggest, grinning.
“Okay, grandma. No, I was going to say they’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, but then, that wouldn’t be fair to what you’re wearing now.”
“You like the romper, huh?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “I like beer and pretzels and ESPN sports highlights—I love that romper.”
I smile happily. “Well…I’m glad you like it.”
Why does this feel awkward, all of a sudden?
Jesse is just staring at me, looking me up and down, a tiny, private grin on his face.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“Nothing. I just can’t help staring at you.” He sets his tool belt on the counter, and turns back to me. “Is it making you uncomfortable?”
I nod. “A little.”
“Sorry, you’re just gorgeous, and I’m not great with self-restraint.”
“You’re really laying it on thick tonight, Mr. O’Neill.”
He shrugs. “I just calls ’em like I sees ’em.” He gestures at the sink. “So, what do you think?”
I move over next to him, standing in front of the sink. “It’s…it’s perfect, Jesse.”
He traces the side of the sink with a fingertip. “It’s an actual antique, you know. Over a hundred years old, original to the farmhouse. The owners were happy to see it go to someone who would appreciate it. If I hadn’t taken it they were going to see about selling it to an antiques dealer, but while it’s beautiful and in perfect condition, it’s not like they’d have gotten a lot for it. Better this way.” He taps the countertops, which are laminate made to look like marble, a cheap, chintzy effect. “All you need in here now is to replace these countertops, paint the cabinets white, and put in glass-front doors.”
