“Let me see your hand,” I murmured, tugging off his glove. The skin was torn and bleeding. He’d been trying so hard not to use it, but I’d seen him slipping, lifting boards when he thought I wasn’t looking. “You should call it quits, Dad. We can’t risk an infection.”
“You going to stop too?” he asked.
And I hesitated, not wanting to leave Beckett alone, cleaning up after my family.
“You know what I could use?” Beckett said, trying for lightness. “Pizza. Jack’s meat lovers. Why don’t you two go grab it while I finish the last couple of boards?”
“You’re right. We need fuel,” I said, forcing a smile. “But Dad gets vegetarian with light cheese so we can start to unclog those blocked veins of his. I’ll call it in so it’ll be ready for us to pick up once we clean up.”
“I’ll order it,” Dad insisted. “You two are fixing my mess. The least I can do is buy lunch. My phone’s at Beckett’s. I'll go grab it.”
“Why don’t you stay there and shower. That way I can rebandage your hand before I clean up.” Dad looked like he might object, and I pushed with a tease. “Can’t go into Jack’s smelling like the trash Vader’s been bringing up from the river.”
Beckett stepped in to help, just like he always did. The kidding in his voice was far more successful than mine. “Please, for the love of God, take Vader with you before he brings an entire dump’s worth of garbage up.”
I glanced gratefully at Beckett when Dad’s lips twitched. He tossed the gloves onto the table and whistled for Vader. The dog bounded up from the river with yet another mangled pinecone—proud, oblivious, happy in a way that made me jealous.
“Let’s go get a treat, boy,” Dad told him. Vader’s ears shot up. He dropped the pinecone and tore out of the yard toward Beckett’s place. My father trailed behind him with a tired determination that made my throat sting.
“Your dad’s pride is hurting him more than his hand,” Beckett said. “You continuing to baby him is only going to make him feel worse.”
Even though I knew he was right, I still couldn’t stop myself from snapping back, “Don’t tell me how to handle my dad.”
I turned back to the partially dismantled porch and picked up one of the drills Beckett had been using to undo the screws on the joists. I attacked the next set of screws with a vengeance, ignoring Beckett when he came tostand behind me.
“If you keep taking your frustration out on that screw, you’re going to strip it,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the drill.
“I’ve got it.”
The next thing I knew, his arms were around me, and he was yanking the drill from my hand. The motion tossed me off balance, and I slammed back into his chest. He stabilized us by widening his legs on either side of my hips.
I ignored the ever-present flare at his touch and hissed, “Back off, unless you want to owe me another romance book.”
Instead of stepping away, Beckett took my hand, placed it on the drill trigger, and then moved our hands together toward the next screw. “You have to be a bit gentler. Patient. You can’t go at it all fierce and determined, my Maisey-girl. Sometimes, slow and steady really does the trick.”
It shouldn’t have been suggestive—we were unscrewing a bolt, for heaven’s sake—but it was. With his hands on me, his body surrounding mine, and words that weren’t sensual yet held a promise of what would happen if I let Beckett take his time with me, my body lit up.
I turned my head to look at him and found his lips were a mere inch from mine. Warm and full. Tempting and tantalizing. My gaze slowly drifted up from his lips to his eyes. The chocolate had turned dark and molten—a lava cake ready to be consumed. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move. Neither of us did.
The drill stopped.
In the silence left behind, birdsong filled the air, joined with a few pitiful croaks from the frogs down by the river. A car engine revved before heading off. A phone rang in the distance.
“You have a bit of…” Beckett had removed his gloves, and now he ran a bare finger along my cheek before settling it on my lips. “You have the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen.”
My heart slammed into my ribcage at the words. Harsh. Fierce. Aching.
“Catching a taste the other day was like stealing moments with a goddess.” His voice was so deep, so full of lust and want and need that I’d have to be dead not to discover a return craving surging in me.
“You’ve got our roles reversed, Fireball,” I said, proud when my voice didn’t reveal the depth of my longing. “If anyone is going to be a deity in this scenario, it’s you.”
His lips quirked upward, an amused light sparking in his eyes.
“You’re right. You’re not a goddess.” I refused to let his words hurt. He hadn’t meant them the way my childhood would have me believe. Becketthad been the first person in my life to insist I was beautiful. “You’re more like a saint.”
I cringed at the word, Chelsea calling me Saint Maisey ringing in my ears. By the time she’d started using it instead of Cornlette, I’d learned enough about my sister to realize it was a disparaging nickname and not a sweet one.
“I don’t want to be a saint or a goddess, Beckett. I’d trade any and all claims to those titles for a single night where I could be anythingbuta saint. To experience, for at least once in my life, the kind of life-altering passion and sin that prevents any thought, any plans, any worries from sinking in.”