Page 16 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I pat myself on the butt, checking it for excess jiggle—nope, firm as a Swiss medicine ball.
Yeah—I look pretty damned amazing.
I keep my outfit simple—skinny jeans, chunky black heels, and a black sleeveless V-neck top that shows off both the girls and my arms. Basic makeup—foundation, eyeliner, lipstick, a little color on my cheekbones. Bam—done, and I’ve got two minutes to spare.
I transfer my phone, wallet, keys, mace, and emergency makeup kit to my favorite clutch, a little black leather thing with rose gold accents that matches well with my heels and top. I want to beat Franco, so I hustle to the elevator; I make it outside just as Franco’s big silver pickup with the matching bedcap pulls up, sliding to a stop at the curb in front of my building. Before I can move from my spot on the steps leading up to the building door, Franco has jumped out, leaving his door open, and moves with unhurried grace around the hood to open the passenger door.
I eye him suspiciously as I move toward the truck. “Trying to butter me up with good manners, Franco?”
He takes my hand in his and helps me up into the truck—unnecessary, considering there’s a step and I’m not helpless, but it’s a gesture that leaves me off-balance with its sweetness. “Nope. Just have good manners.”
I snort as I settle into the pebbled black leather of the seat. “Because ghosting on your partner is good manners.”
He sighs, an almost inaudible huff of long-suffering as he shuts my door and circles back around to his side. Hopping in and closing his door, he buckles up, turns down the music, and prepares to reverse out of the spot. I take the moment while he’s distracted to check him out: clean, dressy blue jeans, perfectly fit to his lean physique, spotless dark brown leather Red Wing boots with red laces, a gray short sleeve polo French tucked—just the front around his belt buckle tucked in. His hair is brushed back and bound into a neat low ponytail, not a strand out of place. Freshly shaven, smelling of clean male and faint cologne, plus a pungent layer of sawdust that I think is just part of his personal scent.
God, he’s beautiful. Masculine, vital and vigorous and primal, but just…beautiful. Perfect chiseled jawline, sharp high cheekbones, deep-set icy pale blue eyes. He’s channeling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall, especially with that long hair. I’m not usually a fan of men with ponytails, but on this guy it just works, and a little too well at that. And the body I know he’s hiding under those clothes?
Gah.
My mouth waters, my thighs clench, and my hoo-ha tightens just thinking about that impeccable crossfitter’s body. Every line, every curve, every angle is carved from marble to such perfection that he could be a sculpture by Michelangelo or da Vinci. Being an athlete and trainer myself, I know exactly the kind of dedication it takes to achieve a body like his—not just the hours in the gym, but the devotion to clean, optimal nutrition. For an intensely physical person like me, Franco’s body is a drug, and one I could very easily become addicted to.
I notice, too, that the interior of his truck is as spotless and perfect as the day he bought it, but I can see the odometer, and it reads over a hundred thousand miles, so it’s definitely not new. A quick twisting glance through the back window into the bed, and I can see his tools and toolboxes, all neatly arranged and tied down and organized.
His eye catches mine. “What?” he asks.
I shrug. “Nothing. Just noticing you seem to have a perfectionist streak.”
“Perfectionist streak?” He snorts a laugh as we pull out onto the main road, heading for Callihan’s. “Try a friggin’ perfectionist highway. Borderline OCD, according to the therapist I saw a few years ago.”
I eye him, trying to decipher the various bombs he just dropped—he’s seen a therapist? Borderline OCD? Where do I start? Why would he admit this to me, someone he barely knows?
“Borderline OCD?”
He nods, checking his mirror as he changes lanes to get around a slower-moving car. “Yep. Meaning I don’t have the compulsion to, like, wash my hands eight times every hour, or turn my locks in a specific order, but I am borderline obsessive about things like being neat and orderly and perfect. It makes me a great carpenter because I can’t consider a project finished until it’s as absolutely perfect as it can get, but I tend to work slower than someone with less of a compulsion for perfection.” He glances at me. “Is that an issue for you, me being a perfectionist?”
I shrug and shake my head. “No, of course not. Just noticing. I’m guessing you’ve owned this truck from new, and it has a hundred thousand miles on it, but the interior is literally like new. Plus your tools in the back are so organized its mind-boggling.”
