I feel Callie's hand move softly over mine. "I'm sorry. I really am."
The way she says it, and the way she's touching my hand, it makes me think she's experienced this herself. Maybe not losing her best friend, but losing someone she loves. But I'm not going to ask her. For one, I'm not allowed to ask questions, and two, loss is something personal that people only talk about when they're ready to. It took me years to talk about what happened to Becky, and when I told Marissa, she didn't understand. She'd never lost anyone, and told me I should be over it by now. And maybe I would be if I didn't carry around so much guilt.
"It was a long time ago," I say. "But sometimes it's still hard, you know?"
She doesn't answer, but her eyes are on mine and it's almost like they're telling me something. I wait for her to share whatever that is, but she doesn't.
Her hand is still on my mine so I flip my hand over so that my palm is against hers. Her eyes go to our hands and I line my fingers up between hers and close my hand. It was a sneaky attempt to hold her hand and I'm not sure why I did it because I had no intention of holding her hand tonight. But it wasn't something I thought about before I did it. It was more of an instinctual response. One of those things you do when you feel some kind of connection with someone that you can't really explain or put into words. I felt that just now with Callie so when her hand touched mine, I had the urge to hold onto it.
"You're holding my hand," she says, her lips creeping up.
"I am," I say, matter-of-factly.
Her eyes return to mine. "Why are you holding my hand?"
"You have nice hands." I rub the top of it with my thumb.
"That's why you're holding it? Because I have nice hands?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"I guess it's okay. Although your hands aren't the greatest." She tries to hide her smile.
"You're making fun of my hands?" I hold up the other one that's not connected with hers. "I do construction for a living. I work with my hands. I'm surprised they look as good as they do."
She takes the hand I was holding up and inspects my nails. "You need a manicure." She tries to be serious, but then laughs.
"I'm not getting a freaking manicure. I'm not one of those metrosexual guys or whatever the hell they call them. The guys who walk around with purses? You see them downtown Chicago."
"There's nothing wrong with those guys." She sits back but keeps her hand in mine. "And by the way, it's not a purse. It's called a man bag. Or a murse. And a lot of guys get manicures. They're not just for women. It even has the word 'man' in it. And cure." She pauses, then smiles. "It's a cure for manly hands. Get it?" She laughs at her own joke.
I scoot my chair over and lean in close to her face. Her smile drops, her breath quickens, and her eyes fix on mine. She thinks I'm going to kiss her, but I'm not.
Instead I say, "I don't want a man bag. Or a murse. Or a manicure." I look directly in her eyes. "I'm a man's man. I like red meat. Football. A cold beer. Hard liquor. Pounding nails into walls. And women who challenge me."
She's looking at me with lust in her eyes, and God, I feel it too. The intense need to rip off her clothes and do her right here on this table. How the hell did this happen? How did we go from having a conversation to wanting to have sex? I'm not even trying to date this girl, and I definitely wasn't planning to have sex with her.
I'm here to do a job. Fix the house. That's it. Plain and simple. But suddenly it feels more complicated than that.
Chapter Seven
Callie
My heart is pounding and there's a throbbing, aching need building inside me. It's been a long time since I've felt like this. Like I wanted to rip a guy's clothes off and have wild, steamy hot sex without worrying about the consequences. I've only felt this way when I've been drunk, but I'm not drunk now. I had one beer and feel completely sober.
Why am I reacting this way? Sure, Nash is hot, but lots of guys are hot, although not as hot as Nash. The guys I dated in college weren't. Not even close. And they were small in comparison. Guys of average height, average build, who rarely went to the gym. Nash is big. Tall. Wide. Muscular. I'm guessing those muscles don't come from the gym, but from his job, spending all day doing physical labor that works every part of his body.
Lifting. Pounding. Damn, I'm getting turned on again. I need to stop this. But he's looking at me and I can't look away. His eyes are intense, filled with the same burning desire I'm feeling right now.
How did this happen? We were just talking and then...then he got close to me and I could smell his masculine scent and feel the heat from his body and he made that speech about being a man's man and suddenly I had this urge to rip his clothes off.