Page 11 of Gimme Some Sugar

Looked like there was somethinginsidethe house that needed fixing, too. And she’d bet Contractor Guy had all the right power tools for the job…

Carly sent a panicked look around the room, as if her dirty subconscious had broadcast the unexpected thought out loud. It wasn’t her fault that no matter where she went in the bungalow, Contractor Guy ended up in her line of sight, hard at work. And she could forget turning a blind eye, because staring at the man was just a foregone conclusion. Carly might still be irritated that he’d embarrassed her, but let’s face it. She was aggravated, not dead. And Contractor Guy was one-hundred percent red-blooded man.

She inclined her head at the sliding glass door, pretending her pulse wasn’t doing the skip-to-my-lou in her veins at the sight of him at work. His thick arms were already burnished from having been exposed to the sun all morning, tanned muscles standing in relief against his white T-shirt. Carly nibbled on the end of her pencil, letting her eyes trail over the hard planes of his chest, clearly visible beneath that snug, light cotton.

Nope! No. She had to focus, once and for all. She didn’t care how good his butt looked in those jeans when he bent down to rip up the old decking. She needed a man like she needed a tax audit, and plus, he’d laughed at her twice now. Although considering the circumstances surrounding both of those scenarios, it would have been nearly impossible for him not to laugh at her a little.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Olive oil…no, wait…

Carly tossed her pencil in disgust. Okay, yes, he’d laughed at her, but he hadn’t really been mean about it. Not even when she’d made an honest attempt to knock his block off like a raving lunatic. A really foul-mouthed raving lunatic. Wearing panties that her grandmother would’ve called respectable.

She eyed the sunshine pouring in through the windows. Yeah. Maybe apology lemonade was a good idea. Nothing said “I’m sorry for hurling insults and electronics at you” like a nice tall glass of summer, right?

Christ, she really was an idiot.

Carly padded to the bowl of lemons and limes on her countertop, rifling through it to pick out the prettiest specimens. She put a saucepan of water on the stove to boil before turning her attention to juicing the lemons. While there was an electric juicer hidden in the depths of her cupboards, she’d always been partial to doing the job herself. Something about the cool, imperfect exterior of the citrus just felt right under her hands, and she worked with quick, efficient strokes to get the job done.

She measured the sugar for the simple syrup just like she measured everything in the kitchen—with her eyes. People usually fell into one of two camps when it came to lemonade, but if she split the difference between tart and sweet, she’d probably come up with a winner. After all, it was the thought that counted anyway, right?

Snappy sexual tension aside, she really needed to apologize and forget it. Her track record with men was abysmal on a good day. Carly didn’t have the time or energy to deal with anything that would distract her from the restaurant, thus lessening her chances to move back to New York on the buzz of great success. If she got sidetracked and La Dolce Vita failed, she’d have no way to regain her good reputation. So, while Contractor Guy provided quite the view, as soon as she was done with the apology-and-lemonade thing, she was going to knuckle up and get some work done.

With the blinds drawn.

Sighing, Carly filled the belly of a gallon-sized infusion jar with ice, then added the ingredients to come up with a not-too-tart, just-sweet-enough batch of lemonade. She tossed in some lemon slices for good measure and gave the whole thing one last swirl before locking the spigot so it wouldn’t all leak out. All that was left to do before embarking on her little peace offering mission was to exchange her T-shirt for one that wasn’t impersonating Swiss cheese.

Except Contractor Guy had noticed her threadbare wonder earlier, enough to make a snarky comment about it. If she changed now, surely he’d notice that too, and the last thing she wanted was for him to think she’d changed because of his little remark. She glanced down at the garment in question, only to notice she’d managed to dribble coffee along the bottom hem at some point during the course of her morning.

Lovely. She picked up the infusion jar with a grumble, heading toward the back of the house before she could change her mind.

As soon as Carly peeked through the sliding glass door, she realized that walking through it wasn’t an option. In addition to the damaged board from yesterday, all of the railings the storm had left intact had been removed. The broken down railings and accompanying pickets littered the yard like discarded toothpicks, and power tools dotted the wreckage in a sprinkling of scary-looking machinery. Contractor Guy was down by the side yard, hauling a long beam of wood away from the house.

Right. Time to put an Out of Order sign on the ol’ sliding glass door until further notice.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves of the soaring oaks and poplar trees that lined the property as Carly made her way from the front door around to the side yard. Other than the obvious clamor from the demolition of the old deck, it was terribly quiet out here. No sirens breaking through the flurry of activity on a busy street, no voices floating by from people going out for a bite to eat. The quiet weighed on her, pressing against her eardrums as if she were under water and sinking fast.

“Hey. Just so you know, I’m behind you. I want to cover all my bases for personal safety.”

Carly whirled around, only to find herself face-to-sternum with Mr. Fix-It.

“Oh! You startled me. Again.” Damn! He must’ve made a whole loop around the house rather than doubling back like she’d expected.

“Everyone’s good at something, I suppose.” He chuckled, a low rumble that managed to reach into her belly. He was close enough for her to catch the clean scent of soap mingling in with a masculine layer of sweat and freshly cut wood. All of Carly’s plans to play it cool took the hand basket route straight to hell.

He gestured to the infusion jar awkwardly balanced on her hip. “Here, that looks kind of heavy. Do you want me to take it?”

Carly nodded, and he slid the cumbersome jar from under her arm just as easily as if it were the daily mail. “Thanks.”

“So, what is this?”

She blinked and craned her neck to look up at him. “It’s lemonade.” She thrust out the glass she’d grabbed from the cupboard in an awkward peace offering.

His good-natured laughter plucked down her spine, and he took the cup with a lopsided grin. “No, I meant the jar thingy. I’m pretty familiar with lemonade.”

Could she be any more graceless? “Oh, right. It’s, ah, called an infusion jar. See the spigot on the bottom there?” She pointed, and his muscles flexed as he turned the jar beneath his tree trunk of an arm to take a look.

Holy. Moly.

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