Chapter Two
Just A Little DIY
L uke
I got the first night of good sleep this month after leaving Abigail and her boy next door. Sipping at my coffee at the kitchen counter, I think of her and the way she broke last night. She truly is overwhelmed. I don’t know why her son fell asleep the moment I cradled him against my chest, but I am grateful he did. Both of us were in serious need of sleep.
I want to head next door and help her with everything that has been piling up in her life. I think of my own mother and can only imagine how hard it must have been raising me and my sister on her own, and we were both in school when our dad died.
I don’t know where Tyler’s dad is, but I do know he hasn’t been helping her, that much is clear. I wonder if the asshole from the other day is his father. But if that’s the case, he would be here helping Abigail. I don’t know what to do with my feelings but I do know I can’t just go stomping into her life and rearranging shit any way it pleases me, even if my OCD is driving me up the walls. We don’t know each other for shit. Besides, I need to get down to House of Ink, the tattoo parlor I own with my two best friends. I have an early appointment.
Instead of going next door, like I want to, I hop through the shower before jumping in my truck and heading off to work.
The hours pass in a blur. The tattoo gun in my hand buzzes, stripping my thoughts away and just letting me be in the moment. My art flows from somewhere deep in my soul and the piece is finished sooner than I thought it would be.
“When is my next appointment?” I ask my sister, Skye, after my client has paid up and left.
“You are wide open,” she says with a smile. “Actually, with how picky you are, you are set to have a long weekend.”
“It’s only Wednesday.” I frown.
I know I don’t work on just anyone, but I thought I had more appointments this week. I may need to rethink the policy I have on clients. I can’t only work once a damn week. I’ll go nuts staring at the fucking walls in my apartment.
“I know. I have you booked up for the next two weeks, if that makes you feel better, but nothing for the rest of this week.”
“That seems like just my luck.” I smile, rapping my knuckles on the glass counter. “I’m going to clean up and head out.”
At least I have some prospects in the next couple of weeks.
“Have fun.”
****
“F uck!”
I hear her curse before I even hit the landing to my floor.
“Why the hell is this so damn difficult?” Abigail says, sighing loudly.
“Because you need to use a screwdriver,” I reply from the doorway, watching her struggle to assemble what looks like a bookshelf.
She screams, holding tightly to her chest with one hand while wielding a butter knife in the other.
“What the hell, dude?” she yells. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” I say, chuckling, holding both my hands in the air.
“Whatever,” Abigail mumbles, returning to her futile task.
“Do you need some help with that?” I ask, trying but failing to hide the amusement in my tone.
She glares at me. “No,” she says sarcastically. “Can’t you see how easy this is?”
Shaking my head, I leave her to her own devices and head over to my apartment where I grab my toolbox and a beer.
“Move over, woman,” I say as I walk back into her apartment. “Let me do this before you break something. Or hurt yourself.”
Just then, Tyler makes a cooing sound over the monitor she has set up on the arm of the gray two-seater couch. She glares at me as she moves out of the way and toward her son.
“You should thank him for saving your ass. I hate men telling me what to do.”
A chuckle escapes me as her ass sashays away from me. Now that she isn’t a sobbing mess with a screaming child, I can actually appreciate her. She is a beautiful woman. Short and curvy, her black hair piled on top of her head in that messy nest women often make. I’ve seen a hint of pink peeking out through the black and wonder how much color she actually has in there.
Assembling the shelf is faster than I thought it would be.
“Wow,” she says behind me.
“I know, right,” I reply. “If you have the right tools the job goes so much faster.”
“Kiss my ass,” she sasses. “I’m not a handyman.”
Looking up from my spot beside the shelf, my gaze travels up her tanned, toned legs, over her tiny jean shorts. Her flat stomach peeks out beneath a baby pink halter top, her substantial chest, and finally stops on her makeup-free face. She is holding the little boy in her arms.
“Is there anything else that needs assembly?” I ask, my voice gravelly. I need to stop thinking with my dick, and manual labor should do the trick.
We haven’t even had a decent conversation and already I want to know what she looks like naked. I haven’t gotten laid in month, as picky about my sexual partners as I am about my clients at House of Ink, and that is clearly playing a role in my dirty thoughts right now.
She throws her head back and laughs. Fuck, that’s sexy. How the hell am I this attracted to a woman holding a baby?
“Only about a hundred more things,” she says.
“I’ll make you a deal then,” I say. “You get the beer and pizzas, and I’ll assemble whatever you want.” Standing up I wipe my hands on my jeans.
She looks at me skeptically. “Why would you help me?”
“My dad died when I was a junior,” I say honestly. “My mom raised me and my sister by herself. But once a month, Mr. Murdoch from down the street came over and did all the little DIY stuff she needed help with. She always paid him with beer and pizza.”
“You assume there isn’t a man in my life,” she says with another glare.
I consider asking her about the asshole I met in the hallway, but he isn’t important. If he was her man, he would be assembling her furniture instead of me.
“I assume,” I say instead, taking a step closer to her, “that no man worth his salt would let his woman struggle on her own for a month. That a real man wouldn’t leave his son to cry through the night but would be there to help the mother through this. And I know if you have a man in your life, he sure as shit would not let the neighbor assemble your furniture with you wearing those shorts.”
“What’s wrong with my shorts?” She stares down at her body.
“Not a damn thing,” I mumble, looking at her legs once more. “So, do we have a deal?”
“Fine. But I like pineapple on my pizza.”