Page 20 of Tabitha

“Of course.” I’m annoyed with myself for the lapse. We are here for a job, and I’m letting my personal feelings distract me. I grab my bags, drop them at the base of the stairs, then take a look around the place.

The color palette is done in “rich.”

Everything is white or a shade of gray.

Fancy glasses are lined up in the cupboard, and the appliances are stainless steel. Large windows allow natural light to shine into the rooms. Room after room is the same. The only sign of life is when we enter the den.

It has a lived-in feel. The books on the shelves are well read, the couches broken in, and the fireplace contains traces of ash. The massive desk is scarred and beaten up, the leather seat behind it not in much better condition, the edges of the leather tattered.

The rug is old, same with the two chairs in front of the desk reserved for visitors. They look like antiques that have been passed down through the generations. A painting of the old man and a hunting dog hangs on the wall behind the desk. Everything is done in dark woods and smells of pipe and tobacco.

The surface of the desk is littered with only a few items, mostly pens and antique knickknacks, everything lined up with precision. A pipe and a box sit at the far edge, like my grandfather will return home any second. Two red antique velvet chairs, decorated with dull brass tags and matching footrests, rest in front of the fireplace, a decanter of whiskey and two glasses waiting on a nearby liquor cabinet.

“Tabitha?”

I turn at the sound of my name, spotting Pierce standing in the doorway, and I realize that he must have called my name more than once. “Did you need something?”

He opens his mouth, then seems to change his mind. “I’ll search the place for listening devices and cameras.”

A shudder passes over me at the thought of being watched, the sensation like spiders skulking along my nape, waiting to nest in my hair. I don’t hate spiders, but they don’t need to put their creepy-crawly legs on me, either.

Knowing that people are going to be snooping, I head toward the shipping container out front. I unlock the door, then pull up the lever, yank it toward me, and haul back on the door. The screech of metal sounds like two massive ships are passing too close to each other, only made louder since the container rests on the cement slab of the garage apron.

When the door opens three feet, I push down the lever and walk inside. As requested, there is a pallet full of packing supplies waiting. I slip my knife out of my boot, easily slicing through the plastic straps and shrink wrap, and begin hauling the items into the house.

Pierce finishes scanning the house and catches me coming in the doorway with a stack of corrugated boxes. He nods in acknowledgment, signing that he located over a dozen devices, before he grabs the load from me and adds it to the growing pile.

I’m stunned as he walks away, my empty arms falling to my side, unnerved by his attentiveness.

I don’t like it.

It leaves me off-balance.

And I hate being unable to predict what he’ll do next.

Sure, he’s supposed to be working for me, but I’m used to doing things for myself. I hate being indebted to anyone. I put my hands on my hips and scowl at his back. “I have two hands and two legs. I’m more than capable of working.”

“Of course.” Pierce turns and walks toward me, a spark of mischief dancing across his face in a way that leaves me instantly suspicious. “But why, when I’m here to do it for you?”

Before I have a chance to protest, he passes me, his arm brushing mine as heads out the door. Goose bumps chase across my skin, and I rub my arm, my scowl darkening as I turn and storm after him. “Look, I—”

My eyes take a second to adjust as I enter the dark container, and I nearly swallow my tongue when I spy Pierce picking up the heavy boxes. There isn’t anything overtly sexual about it, but the way his shirt stretches tight across his back accentuates the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and spine.

I normally wouldn’t even notice such a thing, but it reminds me of when we spar against one another. He usually wears a tight tank top and workout shorts that cling to his form and show off the perfection of his body. It’s been a week since we last faced off against each other. I feel antsy without the three-times-a-week workout.

I might say that I’ve missed his touch, missed having his hands on me, missed my hands skating along his body as I try to keep out of his reach, but that makes absolutely no sense.

He is my nemesis, a potential target, nothing more.

Not a friend and definitely not lover material.

I went that way once and found the whole experience uncomfortable and messy. I crossed sex off my list and never explored it again.

Now, I wonder if that is a mistake.

My lack of experience with men now leaves me flustered and uncertain how to deal with the attraction. Sex would be the perfect outlet and stop these distracting thoughts.

Maybe, with enough practice, it could even be fun, but I’m reserving judgment.

---