Chapter 27
PIPER
“What the …?” I mutter to myself as my car slows to a stop in Nash’s driveway.
There’s a jumble of cut pieces of wood in the front yard, strewn on the ground near a table with an electric saw attached to it.
Curiosity pings inside me when I step out of my car. I eye the wood fragments with a quirked brow as I step onto the porch and reach for the front door.
When I open it, my breath catches at the sight in front of me.
Nash is sitting on the living room floor. He’s moved the couch to the far side of the room to give him space—because he’s building a bookshelf.
A backward baseball cap sits on his head, his ruffled black hair spilling from underneath it. He’s in the middle of hammering a nail into the side of a bookshelf that looks close to finished. His brow is furrowed in concentration while he holds two other nails ready between his plush lips.
When my gaze snags on the way the veins in Nash’s forearm swell, bulging over the hard slab of muscle as he swings his hammer, my nipples pinch into tight, sharp points.
The heat in my core turns liquid, and I could swear the temperature in this house is in the three digits, even though I can hear the AC humming.
Nash wears a plain white t-shirt that hugs the broad muscles of his back and his wide, rock-like shoulders, sleeves so short that I can see his entire bicep pop as he holds the bookshelf in place while he hammers.
He’s bent over, the hem of his shirt pulling up and revealing his trim waist above a worn pair of blue jeans, which look to be newly speckled with drops of paint.
I notice that he has a pencil sitting wedged at the top of his ear, I guess for making measurements, and something about that only makes this scene even hotter.
Nash takes one of the nails from his mouth, lines it up—I now notice that he’s hammering the shelving into place—and starts pounding it in with deft, swift strokes of his wrist.
I feel like a total perv just standing here, ogling him shamelessly while he’s too wrapped up in his work to notice I’ve arrived. I should make my presence known.
“Hi, Nash,” I say.
He startles at my introduction mid-swing, and hits his fingers with the hammer
“Shit!” he grunts, dropping the hammer and pulling his hand close to his body.
“Oh, no! Nash! I’m sorry!” Worry and guilt thread through me as I hurry to him.
I expect him to be mad, to have a harsh word to say to me for surprising him like that at the worst moment possible and making him hurt himself.
Instead, his eyes soften when he looks up at me, and the pain in his expression melts into a grin.
Well, it mostly melts, at least. His forehead is still lined.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice reassuring, like he cares more about setting me at ease than he does taking care of the fingers he just smashed with a hammer. “Occupational hazard.”
“Let me see,” I say. I hold out my hand for him to show me his.
He puts his hand into mine, and electricity snakes through me at the contact. His hands feel coarse and rough from working with them all day, and the smell of wood shavings and paint hits my nose.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” I say. “Just a little bit of swelling. I know more about dealing with burns than blunt impacts, but it looks like you just glanced it.”
“It feels better already.”
His words make me hesitant to drop his hand. I hold it for entirely too long, mesmerized by how big it is, how long his fingers are, how powerful every slight flex of his joints feels.
A clench of want tightens at the apex of my thighs, and I wonder how it would feel for one of those big, strong digits to relieve the ache by pushing into me …
I swallow thickly. That’s my cue to let go, which I do, taking a step back for safety.
“Are you building a bookshelf?” I ask, willing my heart rate back into a medically safe zone.
“Bookshelves, plural,” he grins. “This is the second one. You have a lot of boxes in your car, and I’m guessing they’re all full.”
My heart does a twirl in my chest. “Nash, you did not spend your day off making me custom bookshelves.”
He tilts a shoulder. “I got bored.”
My cheeks feel warm as I can’t hold back a smile. “Nash, this is really sweet.”
“What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t give my wife somewhere to put her books?”
“Now I’ll have to think of something nice to do for you in return.”
Nash stands up, his broad frame towering over me. Electricity prickles over my skin as he steps forward, flooding my senses.
I expect him to dismiss my last comment, to tell me that I don’t have to do anything for him.
Instead, a hint of boyish mischief glimmers in his eye. “Hm, what can my wife do for me to pay me back? I’ll have to think about it.”
There’s an unfamiliar smolder in his whiskey-hued eyes, and the suggestive rumble of his voice goes right to my core.
“Where’s the other bookshelf?” I ask, changing the subject to something that feels less explosive.
“It’s outside. I brought it out to paint. It’s drying now.”
Nash follows me as I walk back to take a look. The finished bookshelf is sitting on a tarp. It looks beautiful, painted a rich shade of brown.
“You actually built that yourself?” I marvel.
Nash makes an affirmative hum. “I’ve been meaning to get more experience working with my hands.”
I wouldn’t mind being the subject matter for some new hands-on experiences.
I chase the stray thought out of my head.
“Are you painting the other one the same color?” I ask.
Nash makes a contemplative sound in his throat. “I was planning to. Unless you like a different color?”
I look inside the house, pondering. “I think the brown definitely looks good on that side of the room,” I point. “But if we put the other bookshelf on that side, near the table … I think a warm, creamy tone would look good.”
Nash nods his head, humming. “My wife has good taste.” I look at him and see a playful spark in his eyes. “In husbands, and in bookshelf colors.”
He’s hot. He’s thoughtful and selfless. He builds me bookshelves. He’s funny …
I know this thing with Nash will never be anything but fake. But I can’t help thinking that if I could build a real husband from the ground up … he might look a lot like the grumpy hockey player I spent two years in college despising.