“This is yours now. You’ll love it and take care of it.”
Taking the small knife and rounding the table, I looked for a good place to engrave the wood as I bit my lip in concentration. I decided on a corner. My letters were small and when I blew the wood shavings and dust from it, I smiled a little as I met Paul’s gaze. Then I held the knife out to him.
“Your turn.”
He looked stunned. “You want me to mark your table?”
“You built it,” I answered. “You’re part of this table’s history.”
Taking the knife, his mouth partly curved upward, as he scouted the surface of the table, looking for the perfect place to engrave. I’d like to tell you he picked a corner, just like me. An area that’s small. Something modest, yet meaningful. But, no. He picked the center of the table.
Dead center.
When he finished, he smiled down at his engraving. EPIC.
“Center of the table?” I questioned dryly. “Very subtle.”
He laughed as he folded the knife and slipped it back in his pocket. “Life’s too short to be subtle.”
Bending over, he blew away the dust and ran his hand over it once more. “Besides,” he added with a sideways smirk that told me whatever was about to come out of his mouth would be sarcastic. “I kind of like the idea of you seeing my name there every day and thinking of me.”
“I’m sure you do,” I snorted. “Good thing I brought some tablecloths from Texas with me. They’ll fit perfectly on this.”
He laughed as I spun around and headed inside for the wood stain. When I returned, he was shirtless. Really? Couldn’t he at least keep his clothes on? Perched on the table, his back to me, his arms were crossed and his warm skin glistened with the slightest sheen of sweat. Even from behind, he looked delectable. Shit.
I chucked a clean rag I’d grabbed from inside at him. “Tables are for glasses, not asses.”
He slid off the table with ease and turned to me, his dark eyes squinting against the bright and unrelenting sun. At the sight of his front side, I rolled my eyes. Stupid, stupid, muscular sexy chest. And arms. Those were stupid, too. Oh, and the dark hair on his chest that seemed to angle down perfectly until it thinned out, disappearing beneath his shorts. I’d never dated a guy with that much . . . hair. Not that Paul had too much, or that I thought about dating him or his hair, but Kurt had very little and the little he did have, he shaved. I had never developed an opinion on the whole hair thing with men, but on Paul I found it very . . . virile. It was alluring. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers over it. Then I wondered why in the hell I was thinking about running my fingers over Paul’s chest hair. What was wrong with me?
“It’s hot as hell out here,” he noted, raising one hand up and running it through his dark hair.
“Are you staying?” I asked, snapping myself out of it.
“Thought you might want some help with staining it and getting it inside.”
“You don’t have to do that, Paul.”
Beaming a smile at me, he shrugged one shoulder. “Call it a peace offering.”
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Was a table supposed to buy my forgiveness for him treating me so badly when I’d first arrived? Or rather since I arrived. Either way, I didn’t question it. If he was willing to call for a truce, I’d take it. At that point, I was exhausted in every way. Having one less enemy at the office would be wonderful.
“So we’re partners, right? No more bullshit?”
His gaze flicked down and he moved his hands to his hips, before meeting my eyes again. In his deep and husky voice, he said, “No more bullshit.” Then he came to me, stood in front of me, and extended his hand. I took it, and we shook.
He stayed all day. After we stained the table, he helped with the cabinets. After the cabinets, he helped me remove the toilet from the downstairs bathroom. By the time night fell, I was thoroughly exhausted. We sat outside on a blanket and ate tuna fish sandwiches with Cheetos and Coca Cola.
Before he left for the night, we stood by his truck awkwardly. Finally, he stunned me with an awkward one-armed hug, before he slid in his truck and drove away.
Ashley’s mouth twists as she taps her pencil against her notebook. “So . . . nothing really happened?”
“What do you mean?” I ask with a snicker.
“No kiss? Not even a hug?” Zane is watching me, his brows raised as if he is waiting for my answer. Apparently he’s finding my story quite intriguing.
“Well, there was a one-armed hug, like I said,” I point out. “But nothing major yet.”
Ashley gives a weird smirk, clearly disappointed with my answer, but decides to move on. “Was there peace? Did you two start getting along?”
Sighing, I say, “With Paul and I, yes. With Marcus . . . no. The others started to warm up to me, but it was slow going, and Marcus’ attitude toward me wasn’t helping.”
“We’ll get to Marcus in a few minutes,” Ashley insists. “I want to hear more about the budding friendship between Paul and you.”