“I don’t have any pockets, so it’s convenient. I saw it on one of those life-hack videos on Facebook. Besides, it was either that or my cleavage.”
His eyes drop to my chest and then flick away as he laughs and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Can’t say I store my keys there. Women get so many conveniences.”
I want to smack myself for bringing up boobs. “We are definitely the luckier sex.” I get the door unlocked, wondering what the hell I’m doing. I really shouldn’t ask him in. Except he did get us coffee and pastries and half-carry me down the street. Clearing my throat, I give him an awkward smile. “Want a refill on that coffee? I could make us another pot for the”—I take a quick peek in the bag with the food—“for the croissants you bought us.”
“We should take a look at your ankle. Get some ice for it.”
Five minutes later, he has me cleaned up and seated in my breakfast nook in the kitchen with my leg propped up.
I watch him wander around, grabbing a Ziploc bag and ice like he owns the place. Not that I mind.
Josh motions toward my leg. “Let’s put this on for fifteen minutes. There’s a lot of bruising and swelling, but your range of motion is decent, so I think it’s just a bad sprain.”
Nodding like a good patient, I follow his directions, icing my ankle, while he heats our pastries in the microwave. He shoots me one of those sexy smiles, and my insides feel warm and gooey, like he’s slowly melting me.
When he goes to put away the ice tray, he picks up my cutting block, holds it up, and looks at me, waiting for me to say something.
It’s a huge maple board with the image of a rooster engraved on the front.
From the expression on his face, he gets the joke.
My lips twist as my face warms. This is embarrassing. “That was a gift from my best friend Kendall. It’s, um…”
“A cock block.” He chokes out a laugh, but then in mock seriousness says, “Who doesn’t love a good cock?”
“Exactly,” I say, internally dying. “What’s not to love about… roosters. They’re actually really pretty. I mean, sometimes. You know, the plumage.”
SHUT UP, EVIE. Can I hide under my table?
He laughs, and I wonder if we’re both thinking about the same thing—his blog.
But God, he’s gorgeous when he laughs. He’s sweet and thoughtful and sexy as sin.
If he is single, something has to be wrong with him. He’s too perfect on the outside. A killer smile. A dope career. A smoking hot body. An even better sense of humor.
That’s when I remember that he wanks it for thousands of women online.
I pause on that idea, feeling conflicted.
Which makes me feel like a judgmental bitch. Because really, what’s wrong with expressing yourself that way? Just because he posts online doesn’t mean he’s necessarily promiscuous. He certainly doesn’t have a reputation for being a playboy.
My palms start to sweat as I consider the question. Don’t ask it. Don’t. Ask. It.
“So, can I ask a personal question?” Holy crap. I’m asking it. “And you can totally tell me to mind my business.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You know more about me right now than ninety-nine percent of the people in my life. Go for it.”
“Does your blog bother your girlfriend? Or are you really ‘Portland’s most eligible bachelor’?” I ask dramatically.
His lips twist in a grin. “I see you’ve Googled me.”
“Any good attorney would.”
“Touché.” Rubbing a palm over his stubble, he leans against the counter. “I suppose the blog might upset my girlfriend. If I had one.”
Relief, thick and palpable, rushes through me. I keep my face neutral and nod. “Well, that makes it less complicated for you, I’m sure.”
His lips twitch again. Is he trying to hold back a smile? I pet my dog and pretend I don’t care that he’s single.
We sip our coffee and munch on the croissants and talk about how much we love this neighborhood. Chauncey flops on his back at Josh’s feet, and Josh leans down to rub his belly.
“He’s getting mud everywhere. Do you have a towel I can use to dry him off?”
Sighing, I wave him off. “It’s fine. I’m going to have to bathe him anyway, or he’ll have the entire house smelling like wet dog.”
His eyebrow arches.
“What?”
“Are you up to wrangling your dog for a bath?”
Not really. I’d prefer to kick back with a bottle of wine and Netflix until the swelling in my ankle subsides, but Chauncey is a mess. “I’m sure after a little ice and Advil, I’ll be fine.”
“Where do you bathe him?”
“In my guest bathroom.”
He motions down the hall. “The first door on the left, right?”
Um. I’m about to be freaked out that he knows the floor plan when it starts to make sense.
“You were serious about wanting to buy this house?”
“I never joke about property acquisitions. And yes, that’s how I know the layout of your house. My realtor gave me a tour.” He laughs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to weird you out.”
He gives me another one of those Colgate grins before he picks up my dog and heads down the hall.
Holy shit. Are you really giving my filthy mongrel a bath, or did I hit my head at the park and I’m lying in a gutter right now?
By the time I limp to the bathroom, Josh has the tub half full and Chauncey is covered in bubbles.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I mumble, plopping down on the closed toilet seat.
“It’s better than the mountain of work I have to do at the office. By the way, I love what you did with this new tile.”
He must have a damn good memory for details, but he is an architect after all.
“Thank you. I had a hellish time finding the right vintage pattern, and then I was terrified I’d run out of tiles or break one.”
He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “You did it yourself?”
I nod. “Just don’t look too closely because it’s not perfect. Bob Villa makes it look so easy online.”
“You learned how to grout the bathtub with do-it-yourself videos?”
“Yes, sir. I’m handy like that. But I grossly underestimated how long it would take to learn how to do it, find the right equipment, prep the area, and then actually execute my plan.” Reaching up, I retie my ponytail. “It’ll probably take me ten years to finish renovating this place, but I don’t care. I love this house.”
“What else are you hoping to do?”
We talk about the rest of my plans, and Josh listens, asking more questions, and by the time Chauncey is rinsed, I’m altogether enchanted with this man. I suspect my dog is too.
But wait. I can’t be enchanted. I need him as a client.
It’s hard not to feel conflicted when this gorgeous guy is kneeling shirtless in my bathroom, smiling up at me as he pets my sopping wet dog.
“Chauncey never sits still for me.”
He wraps a towel around my pooch and smiles. “Guess I have the magic touch.”
As Josh dries him, Chauncey’s eyes close like he’s having the time of his life.
I can only imagine.
8
Josh