I quickly scan the area for my dad or Cody, making sure not to linger too long on any one of the men in order to avoid accidentally seeing Lucas, but with laserlike precision, my gaze is drawn directly to him. He’s curled over a table, one long, powerful arm outstretched along a length of wood with a measuring tape in hand. He pulls a pencil from behind his ear and marks the wood before shoving it back between his ear and his backward baseball hat. His muscles bunch beneath his form-hugging tee and I’m captivated. His body stills, and as if he can somehow sense me, his head slowly lifts before his gaze slams into mine.
“Shit!” I turn away, pull my pickup to the side of the house, and force my racing heart to calm.
What is it about this guy? If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d be running to the cops or at the very least to my dad, but something holds me back. Call it loyalty, or standards, or stupid, no matter how I work it all through in my head I can’t and could never bring myself to expose him.
I just didn’t realize how much I cared about him until I pulled away from him. Every time I see him, I hope my draw to him will lessen, that I won’t feel the overwhelming urge to touch him in some way, to hug him, hold his hand, or press my lips to his, but I do. I feel it every single time.
I fist my hands in my hair and groan. “You’re sick, Shy . . . sick, sick, sick.”
A loud knock sounds at my window and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Cody’s standing by my door glaring. “’Bout friggin’ time.” He pulls open the door to reach over me and grab the checkbook. “Hey . . .” He tilts his head. “You feeling okay? You seem, I don’t know, pale.”
“Fine. I’m good.” I throw the truck into reverse, happy to get the hell away.
“Whoa, not so fast.” Cody reaches in and throws the transmission into park. “Dad needs you.” He walks away and I’m paralyzed, not with fear, at least not in the typical sense, but anxiety has me dreading leaving the safety of the truck.
I’m going to have to face him eventually. It’s not like he’ll even speak to me after the way I’ve treated him, ignoring his attempts to connect.
I push out the door and move to the house, thankful that my dad is the first person I see. I scurry up to his side. “Hey, Dad. Cody said you needed me?”
My hands tug impatiently on the hem of my T-shirt and my dad peers down at me through a narrow gaze. “Where’s the fire, Shy?”
“Fire? No fire, just ya know, work to do back at the office.” Male voices boom from behind me and I turn, thankful I don’t see Lucas. “Lots of work, so what’s up?” Get to it, man!
He doesn’t seem convinced but ignores my edginess. “I want you to head over to the Dover house. It’s a single level, end of the cul-de-sac. Four-seven-seven is the street number. Woman’s name is Gabby Anderson.”
“Sure, what do I do when I get there?”
“She wants to redo her kitchen and dining room and she’s looking for some custom pieces.”
My heart drops into my stomach like a brick.
“. . . need him to take a look at the space, get some ideas of what can be done . . .”
No, no, no!
“. . . get along so well, figured you could go with him.”
“What? Why?”
My dad’s glare grows impossibly tighter. “He ain’t good around new people, Shy. You know that. You do the talking while he takes a look around.”
“Have him take Cody, or”—I motion around the job site—“one of these guys. I really have too much to—”
“Go.”
I blink at my dad’s abrupt dismissal of my lame excuse. “But—”
“Hurry. She’ll only be there till two.” He turns back to what he was doing, not open to further argument.
What the hell.
I have no choice. He’s given me no choice!
My heart thunders in my chest as I drag my feet outside and after a quick search find Lucas at the circular saw. His hat is still backward and he’s wearing protective glasses that make most men look dorky, but with Lucas’s powerful bone structure and model-worthy skin, they look like designer shades.
It’s impossible to take a full breath as I move to him and brace for him to notice me.
He makes a quick cut, catches me out of the corner of his eye, and moves slowly to standing upright. Is he taller than he used to be or am I starved from not being near him? Ripping off the protective glasses, he stares at me with a blank expression.
I think back to the photos I saw of him on the Internet. Same blank stare. His emotions tucked deep, protecting himself.
“Hey, Lucas.”
“Ma’am . . .” He shakes his head and drops his gaze to my neck. “Shyann.”
I swallow hard. “I . . . um . . . My dad, he said you need to go to a house and give a bid for some custom—”
“Yes.”
“He’s asked that I go with you?” Not sure why that came out as a question other than the fact that although doing this is an order from our boss, I feel the need to gain his permission.
He pulls off his hat and flips it forward on his head, then pulls it low over his eyebrows. “Now?”
I nod.
“Oh . . .” He grabs his tape measure and brushes sawdust off his shirt and jeans. “Okay.”
“I can drive.”
His chin lifts, and even though I can’t see them very clearly, I feel his eyes on me. “No. I’ll meet you there.”
“Lucas, you don’t—”
“It’s okay, Shyann,” he whispers. “I understand.”
I blink and shake my head. “Understand? Understand what?”