Page 14 of One Touch

“Yeah. You were.” Kate laughed, and it floated up above the noise of the bar. “But that’s okay. I won’t tell your secrets.”

I leveled her with a stare and lowered my voice. “If anything, I was surprised to see the always demure and pleasant Kate Sullivan getting wrecked in public.”

“I was just dancing.” She lifted a shoulder. “Besides ... maybe I’m not the girl you thought I was.”

Trouble was, I knew exactly who she was. My silver-tongued little brother’s ex-girlfriend, who’d allowed someone to make decisions for her for years. Never a hair out of place or a disagreeable word to be spoken.

“Well, try not to let your Stepford wife image get too tarnished in one night.”

I knew I had hit a nerve because she turned on her heels, sending her floral perfume flying and hitting me square in the chest. I also didn’t miss the mumbledfuck youshe shot over her shoulder before she stormed away.

Pissed at myself for the shitty comment, I finally headed home. The warm lake air hit me as soon as I pushed my way out of the Grudge. The summer evening was busy with people meandering down the sidewalks of Outtatowner. A soft glow from the lampposts illuminated the main roadway, which led down to the large public beach. The lighthouse at the end of the pier loomed and blinked in the distance. People walked, laughing and eating ice cream or sitting on outdoor patios.

As it always was, the vibe in Outtatowner was relaxed and happy. As I stomped down the road, I took a left to walk up the neighborhood sidewalks toward the house. Mentally I ticked off the list of things I planned to accomplish at the Sullivan place tomorrow.

My thighs burned and my blood pumped as I climbed the steep hill toward my house on the bluff. I swung the front door open and peered into the cold, empty house. The dark, cavernous room felt like a prison, but its solitude was the only thing keeping me from the overwhelming urge to turn around and apologize to Kate.

FIVE

KATE

It certainly would be easierto be annoyed at Beckett if he didn’t look so damn delicious. Hauling out the remaining matted-down carpeting from the living room was dirty, sweaty work. At some point Beckett grabbed the hem of his T-shirt to swipe sweat from his face, and the thick garbage bag I was hauling slipped from my grip when I spotted the cut lines of his abs.

Beckett was unlike any man I was used to. Certainly the opposite of his little brother, who wouldn’t be caught dead in faded, worn-in blue jeans. During my time in Montana, I’d learned to appreciate the snug fit of a good pair of Wranglers, but the way Beckett’s jeans hugged his ass was downright unfair.

After the living room was completely cleared and swept, I stepped up to the threshold of the room beside him. I mirrored his stance with wide legs and crossed arms. Without any furniture, the space felt massive. Under the old carpet was a glorious surprise—the same hardwood floors that ran down the main hallway continued into the large, square living room.

I sighed. “Well, we can’t cover these up.”

Beckett scowled beside me. “Obviously.”

I huffed a breath and turned toward him. “Are you always this rude to your clients?”

He shrugged but didn’t give me the satisfaction of another verbal sparring match. In fact, he’d been quietly moody and sullen all morning.

“I’m documenting the whole renovation on Instagram, you know.” He stayed quiet beside me, so I continued: “I thought it would be a fun way to see the progress. Keep in touch with my Montana friends. I’m already getting a few followers, which is fun.Home Again.” I moved my hands in a rainbow to emphasize the cuteness of the IG handle. “You know, because we’re making the house a home again. Get it?”

He harrumphed beside me.

Annoyed, I planted my hands on my hips. “Okay, well,Fixer Upperwas already taken.”

Beckett’s piss-poor attitude today and last night’s crappy comment about being a wannabe Stepford wife still stung. I don’t know what the heck I had done to make him so hostile when all I was trying to do was have a fun night out with my friends.

Without another word, Beckett moved into the empty living room space. He circled the bare floor before stopping in front of one of the windows. Without the usual floor lamps, his frame was silhouetted by the large windows overlooking the wraparound porch. Impulsively, I slipped my phone from my back pocket, checked that it was on silent, and quietly snapped a photo.

The Brutish Builder.

The quick caption was the only text I put on the picture before I hit post.

“We could open this all up.” Beckett’s voice startled me, and I slipped the phone back into my pocket. “Add a few more windows for natural light to come through.”

I hummed in agreement and considered how beautiful it would look with more sunlight streaming in. The living room itself was large and open but held no visual interest with its plain, bare walls.

While we had a blank slate, and he was already annoyed with me, what better time to poke the bear?

“I want a bookshelf.” I pointed across the room to a tall, straight wall. “Over there. A big one with one of those dreamy rolling ladders.”

Beckett turned to see where I was pointing and shook his head. “No.”

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