Page 71 of One Touch

“Is that all?”

I nodded. Hope and excitement and full-body chills raced through me.

“That’s fine.” He didn’t bother looking up.

“Seriously? You’re okay with an on-television interview about the house?”

He sighed and sat back on his heels. “If it’s what you want to do, then yes. We can highlight the local businesses that we’ve worked with, and you clearly want to do it. It’s fine.”

My heart swelled for that crabby, sweet man.

He gestured toward the floor. “Now get off your ass and help me. This floor isn’t going to tear up itself.”

I laughed, knowing his teasing was part of his many charms. I snapped a picture of the Brutish Builder hunched over the flooring, his muscles taut and large as he pried a floorboard up.

Oh yeah ... fans are gonna love that one.

Dressed in adorable overalls and armed with heavy-duty kneepads, I sank down next to Beckett. I pulled my leather gloves on and lifted a pry bar. The wood floors had been chipped, scuffed, and beaten down by years of my family’s use of the back entrance. Beckett’s vision of Chicago exposed-brick flooring would provide warmth to the space but also durability. I couldn’t wait to admire the variations in color on the pallets of brick veneer that were waiting for us in the shed.

The ancient nails were thin, but tough, and I had to use my muscles and back to pry them free.

“Be careful,” Beckett warned.

I strained, wiped my brow, and tried again. “Yes, boss.” With a squeak and groan, the boards began to lift. Once the first got started, a renewed sense of determination flowed through me. Music played on the Bluetooth speaker, and I hummed as we worked alongside one another, prying up the flooring bit by bit.

When a popular song came on the radio for the third time, Beckett lowered the volume and sat back on his heels. “Did you ever imagine you’d be sweating your ass off, ripping up hundred-year-old floorboards, and that it would feel this satisfying?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you didn’t do pillow talk?”

Beckett’s shoulder lifted, and I could see he was fighting a smile. “I can’t listen to that song again. Besides, this isn’t pillow talk, it’s...” He shrugged. “Plywood talk.”

My head tipped back and I laughed, enjoying the playful energy flowing through me. “Well, in that case, is it safe to admit that I know fuck all about renovating hundred-year-old farmhouses?”

“Princess, I knew that the day you walked out wearing a pink tool belt and those tiny shorts.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Well, what about you?” I waved my pry bar in a small circle. “Is this living the dream?”

He grinned. “Damn close to it. I don’t mind the solitude. I like the sense of accomplishment when a project is done, but the solace of the day-to-day is what keeps me going.”

I smiled at him and hummed in agreement. Everything about it suited him. We continued working, board by endless board.

When I came to a particularly stubborn plank, I looked at Beckett. He pried and moved across the space with quick efficiency. All those muscles made it go nearly three times as fast for Beckett.

“I can’t get this one.” I pushed and pried and couldn’t seem to wiggle the board free.

“Try again.”

I shot him an annoyed look and put my weight into it. The board popped up, and I looked over at a grinning Beckett.

“Knew you could do it.”

I stifled a self-satisfied smile. When I looked at the exposed subflooring, I paused. “Hey. What’s this?”

Underneath the flooring was what looked like a cut into the subfloor. Beckett settled in beside me to examine it. “Huh. No idea. Let’s pry up some more boards and get a better look.”

I scooted over to give him room, and he pried up three more floorboards. The line continued and then took a sharp ninety-degree turn.

Beckett frowned down at it. I sent up a silent prayer.

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