It looks like the hot stranger has brains to go with his brawn.
He steps past me without a word, the scent of fresh soap catching my nose and stirring my hormones. Grabbing the chair by its wide arms, he heaves the entire thing from its resting place, uncovering a square of pristine honey-colored hardwood. My chest swells ever so slightly when I catch a nostalgic glimpse of what Black Rabbit’s floor must have looked like on the day Ned opened its doors for the first time.
“Is the Dumpster in the back?” he grunts under the weight of the chair, the strain in his muscles visible from beneath his shirt. He doesn’t wait for my answer, heading down the hall, stopping at the back door to both unlock it and, I suspect, to give his arms and back a break.
I trail him, dragging two bags of trash along the ground behind me, all the way out to the Dumpster. He flips the lid open.
“I’m guessing it’s too heavy to lift ov . . .” My words drift as he hoists the entire chair up and over his shoulders to topple it into the bin, the sound of metal ricocheting off the inside deafening.
“. . . or not.” My breath catches. I couldn’t move that thing even an inch and he just had it over his head. How is he that strong? He does have broad shoulders. I study his hands as he wipes them across his jeans. Large, masculine hands that look like they’ve done their share of manual labor. An angry scar runs along his right thumb, faded by years.
“What are you staring at?”
“Your scar,” I admit. I wonder how he got it, and if it bothers him, but I don’t ask. “I’ve covered a lot of scars for clients.”
“I don’t need it covered,” he says. “Scars give you—”
“Character,” I finish in unison with him. “I don’t mind them, either. They make people more interesting.”
He closes the distance and pulls the bags from my grasp, his fingers grazing mine, and tosses them into the Dumpster. “Anything else that you need carried out here?” His words are slightly breathless, and a light sheen of sweat coats his forehead. At least it wasn’t too easy for him. While I hate it when someone makes me feel small and weak and incapable, actually witnessing that made me feel something else. Something thrilling.
“I think I can handle the rest.”
“Okay.” He flips the lid closed. Looping his hand beneath the front of his T-shirt, he pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his chest and stomach, both of which are padded by an impressive layer of muscle. “So . . . should we get started?”
A flicker of light dances in his eyes, and I know that that was intentional. He could have used his arm, or his hand. Hell, he wasn’t even that sweaty.
“Yeah, sure.” I try to sound nonchalant, but for the first time since Ned died, I actually feel the urge to sit down in front of my machine. Even if it’s for the wrong reasons. I don’t care what this guy wants, or where. I’ll do it. But that’s not the most professional way to broach the topic with a new client. One whose name I don’t even know.
I reach out. “My name is Ivy.”
He pauses for a long moment, staring at my hand before taking it in his, his skin rough and warm and powerful. “Sebastian.”
“And what exactly were you thinking of having done, Sebastian?” Please let it involve taking your shirt off. Better yet, your pants.
“A piece, right here.” He runs long fingers over the left side of his torso, from below his armpit to his hip.
Jackpot. I stifle my smile. “That’s a big area.” Does he realize how long that will take? How much that will take out of him, and me?
“Yeah. It is.”
“That’s going to take hours.”
His eyes flicker over me lightning fast. “All night, maybe.”