“Wow,” I said. “This looks…”Perfect.“…expensive.”
“I’ll stay within budget,” Ronan said, sitting on the edge of the table, arms crossed. The scent of shower soap—plain and generic—and the heat of his skin wafted over me. His hand came up, his finger tracing a line on the paper. “This is where you can run electricity for lighting and your tools. I’m not certified. You’ll have to hire another guy for that.”
“No need,” I said. “And no budget. No matter what Bibi says, I’m not letting her drain her savings for me. My hand torch runs on batteries, and I’ll run an extension cord for my soldering stick.”
“A decent camping lantern should work too if you’re out here after dark.”
“I will be.” I looked over the plans again. “This looks great, Ronan,” I said and immediately regretted saying his name. An inexplicable flush of heat swept over me as the sounds rolled off my tongue.
I raised my eyes to his; Ronan towered over my five foot seven. My heart stuttered at how close his square jaw and full lips were to mine. The hard, stony gray of his eyes was now smoky and soft.
“Yeah, so thanks,” I said, clearing my throat and stepping back from him.
“Yep.” He held out his hand.
“What?”
“The plans.”
“Oh. Right.”Jesus, girl.
Ronan stuffed the paper into the back pocket of his jeans and turned away from me to pick up the rake.
I took his empty mason jar, leaving the other for him. He could drink it or not. What did I care?
But against my will, I glanced at him over my shoulder. My heart tripped to see he was stealing a glance at me too. We both looked away, and I hurried into the house.
No, no, no. I do not get flustered.
Bibi was on the couch knitting, Lucy and Ethel curled around her feet.
“Well?” Bibi asked, not looking up. “Can we keep him?”
I coughed. “Yeah, he’s…fine. Goes to Central, turns out.”
“Oh?” Bibi’s needles flew. “Isn’t that something? I thought he seemed pretty young for a serial killer.”
“Right. So…I’ll be in the garage.”
I put the glass in the sink and hurried to the safety of my workshop to throw myself into my work—the ring I’d sketched that morning. A piece for my eventual shop.
I rummaged in a bag of semiprecious gemstones I’d ordered from a wholesaler that had cost me a semiprecious fortune. I imagined the coils of metal would hold something vibrant and rich. Malachite, maybe.
I found myself reaching for the smoky quartz instead.
“Stop,” I scolded myself. “He’s hot. There. You admitted it. Now get back to work.”
But Jalen Jackson was hot too, and he’d fallen out of my thoughts the minute I left New Orleans.
Ronan Wentz was…
Something unexpected.
And I was going to have this guy at my house, in my class at school. Every day. Inescapable.
Nothing can stand in your way. Not one thing.
I put the gray stone back in the bag.