I close the door to Evelyn’s bungalow and hop down the stairs, still shirtless, feeling like I’ve never had a better time with a woman, or an Olympic mud puddle diver, which in Evie’s case is the same thing. I chuckle at the thought of her nosedive into that mess. And then I start thinking about the way she looked, no bra, tight shirt. Damn. While she’s smoking hot, it’s more than that. I can’t explain why, but I needed to stay today. I felt compelled to help her, feed her breakfast and lunch, and talk to her about dogs and literature and home improvement. I just needed to be with her, all day.
Half-naked.
She’d insisted on washing my shirt and returning it clean, since Chauncey got it thoroughly wet during his bath—even though she was wearing it, not me. I tried to argue with her, but she stuck the shirt in a bin and wouldn’t let me have it. While it was weird to be lounging around in just my track pants all day, she didn’t seem to mind. I caught her looking at my chest when she was talking to me. Did I read her right? Is she as attracted to me as I am to her?
I hope so. I cross the street at the corner and head back home.
After we bathed her dog and she showed me the renovations she’s planning for her house, it was time for lunch. She tried to insist on hobbling around to make it, but I shooed her out of the tiny kitchen.
“But it’s a one-butt kitchen,” she said, protesting.
That stopped me, and I stared at her. “What?”
“Only one butt fits. That’s how my grandma used to describe her kitchen when she shooed me and my dad out. She’d say, ‘This is a one-butt kitchen, no room for any of you.’”
“Well,” I replied, laughing, trying not to think of her glorious behind, “get your butt out of your one-butt kitchen, so my butt has room.” I found bread and lunch meat, and made turkey sandwiches and fruit salad.
We sat across from each other in her dining nook at the edge of the one-butt kitchen and ate, discussing what’s next for the house.
I like her ideas for the space and am not the least bit sorry I didn’t get it. She’s fixing and updating, but keeping the original charm and bone structure of this great, old-fashioned home.
Honestly, I wish I could help more. She’s got a lot of work ahead of her, and it’s not all stuff you can learn from This Old House. The wavy, double-hung windows need to be reglazed, the siding and roof have to be replaced, and the landscaping is abysmal. And that’s just the outside. Inside, it looks like she’s never moved in, with moving boxes everywhere.
I’m amazed that she’s lived there for as long as she has without unpacking. It’s like she’s so busy with work and fixing up her house, she can’t be bothered to actually live in her home. But there’s electrical work, plumbing, refinishing floors, and hanging light fixtures, just for starters. After lunch, I figured if I didn’t say goodbye, I was probably moving in and picking up a grout trowel to help finish the tile in the second bathroom.
As I pass the edge of the park and turn back up my street, I realize she’s gotten under my skin because I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s so… intriguing.
Somehow, during all that time, I forgot why I even know who she is. All that matters is that after spending hours with her, not only am I fascinated by her renovation work, but I’m also a little enchanted watching the way her mind solves problems. The way her eyes light up when she figures out a design solution for the entranceway. How cute she looks pushing her bangs to the side so she can concentrate.
Really, she’s beautiful. Even with dirt on her face and a flush in her cheeks, completely flustered, her easy good looks shine through.
She felt amazing against me, too.
At first, I only wanted to help her home, since she was hurt. Something changed, though, when she wrapped her arms around me to keep from falling. When I gripped her, my arm around her narrow shoulders, her lush body molded against mine like it was made for me. She smelled sweet, like almond-scented shampoo, and felt warm and strong, but feminine. I wanted to keep my arm around her for longer than it took to get her home.
But I can’t touch her again. She’s my attorney.
Probably.
When I step up to my building, I remember my cousin, who’s a lawyer, telling me that his partner got in trouble for banging a client.
Shit. I guess Evie’s completely off-limits, no matter how beautiful she is and no matter how interesting I find her.
Christ, then I shouldn’t have gone crazy with those cock jokes.
A smile lifts my lips when I think of the red hue that crept up her neck when we talked about that silly cutting board. I love a woman who doesn’t take herself so seriously.
And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased she was curious about my dating status.
Since I still haven’t done my workout, I go down to the basement and crank up the speed of the treadmill. Running indoors isn’t as fun as running in the park, but I need to get in the exercise.
As I run, I think about ways to solve some of her remodeling problems. There’s wasted space in the hallway that could become a closet for linens or a bookshelf. And I know a great salvage house parts shop that would surely have a better pedestal sink than Home Depot.
I beat out four miles in record time and, panting, sweaty, I take the stairs to feel the burn in my legs.
Once in my living room, I do a few pushups and sit-ups, and while I really need to shower, I’m distracted by wanting to check out the Pinterest board she mentioned.
For the record, guys don’t do Pinterest, and if Drew ever found out I was trolling this site, he’d make me hand over my balls.
But I create an account so I can see what she’s talking about. Because I want to know more about her. I find her profile, follow her, and check out her boards. The posts look fantastic—warm, Roycroft-inspired paint colors, Stickley furniture, mica lamps, Fiestaware plates, subway tile, and vintage appliances.
The pictures are the complete opposite of my home, but I love them. I love the design details that look almost Japanese. The handcrafted spirit. For a style that is more than a hundred years old, it’s strikingly modern and still looks good today. Total architect porn.
I shut my laptop and head to the shower.
Reaching in, I turn the water on, shuck off my clothes, and step into the warmth.
But here, as I’m soaping up, I’m not thinking of Evie’s Pinterest board full of wooden ladderback chairs. I’m thinking about how her eyes are luminescent when she laughs. And how her smile nearly knocks me over every time. And how I’d love to feel her curves and press myself against those beautiful tits and round ass.
Fuck.