Chapter 4
Chapter Four
J ack
The last thing I need is a distraction.
Especially this kind of distraction.
But there she is again—Holly—bent over my workbench like she owns the damn place, hair tied up in some lazy knot, wearing one of those ribbed tank tops that hugs her just a little too tight. Her jeans are worn in all the right places, and her boots are scuffed like she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. I think of what the guys said yesterday–how Slate just had a feeling that Emma was for him. Did it feel like this? Like losing her might leave a heart-shaped hole in my chest?
Holly’s humming some off-key holiday tune and organizing my drill bits.
Wrong.
She's reorganizing my drill bits.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, watching her from the shadows. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”
She jumps a little, spins around with a cocky smile that doesn’t match the innocent act. “Relax, mountain man. Needed something to do while Josie naps and they were a mess. You had a quarter-inch bit jammed in the five-eighths slot. That’s criminal.”
“They were organized my way,” I growl, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her slowly. She doesn’t flinch—just plants her hands on her hips and tips her chin up like she’s daring me to argue.
Hell. I admire the nerve.
“Your way is chaos,” she says sweetly. “I upgraded you.”
“You don’t upgrade a man’s workshop without permission.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” She bats her lashes. “Should I go unstack the lumber you left leaning against the bandsaw too?”
I stop right in front of her, close enough to smell the coconut scent of her shampoo. She doesn’t move, just cranes her neck to keep her eyes locked with mine.
“Don’t test me, sunshine,” I murmur. “I’ve got a whole list of rules, and breaking them comes with consequences.”
“Oh?” Her tone lifts, flirty and dangerous. “Like what? You’ll reorganize my sock drawer in retaliation?”
I smirk. “No. I’d bend you over the workbench and remind you exactly who’s in charge of this shop.”
That wipes the smile from her face—but not in the way I expect. Her lips part slightly, and her breath hitches, just enough to give her away.
Gotcha.
But she recovers fast. Too fast.
“You talk a big game, Jack.” Her voice drops, smoky. “But I’m not convinced you’ve got the follow-through.”
I step in closer, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the bench. My hands go to the surface on either side of her, caging her in. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.
“You really wanna test that theory?”
Her eyes flash. “Maybe.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. Full. Pink. Smart. Dangerous.
I should walk away. But something about her keeps digging under my skin, like a thorn I can’t pull out. Familiar. Warm. Wild. And so goddamn tempting.
Instead of kissing her—which is what I want—I back off with a slow smirk. “Good to know.”
She lets out a breath, annoyed. Flustered. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
She shakes her head, that smile curling her lips again. “Because I’m not a quitter. And because your coffee machine is better than mine.”
“Damn right it is.”
We work in silence for a while—me planing a slab of walnut for a new commission, her sanding down one of the reclaimed beams I pulled out of a burned barn last spring. She’s good with her hands. Focused. Knows when to shut up and when to sass. Which, annoyingly, is almost never.
But she’s efficient. Competent. Too competent.
And every time she looks at me with those knowing eyes, I get this tight, twisting feeling in my chest like I’m supposed to know her. Like she’s not a stranger. Like this has happened before.
But I’d remember a woman like her.
Wouldn’t I?
She breaks the silence first. “So, there’s a wedding next weekend.”
I grunt. “I know. My buddy Slate’s finally roped Emma into making it official.”
“I met Winter at the park yesterday. She says it’s a big deal. Half the town’ll be there.”
I nod, not looking up. “They expect me to show up with a date. Told them not happening.”
She hums. “Well, lucky for you, I’m available.”
I glance up sharply. She’s leaning against the sawhorse now, arms crossed, smirking. “You offering?”
“You need a buffer, don’t you? Someone to keep them from cornering you about your nonexistent love life.”
I snort. “To say the least.”
“So, I’ll be your fake date.” Her tone is playful, but there’s something else beneath it. Testing the water.
“Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “It’s festive. It’ll be fun. And it buys me more time.”
My jaw tightens. “Time for what?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just bites her bottom lip and looks at me like she’s carrying a secret too big for her pocket.
“For you to prove if you’re worth trusting,” she says finally, quiet but direct.
The air thickens. “You think I’m not?”
“I think you’re gruff. Closed off. Suspicious of everything that breathes.”
I cross my arms. “And you’re not?”
She tips her head. “Touché.”
I step closer again, slow. Deliberate. Watching her squirm just a little.
“So if we’re fake dating,” I say, “we’ll have to be convincing.”
Her eyes narrow. “You suggesting we practice?”
“Only if you’re brave enough.”
She laughs, breathless. “You’re impossible.”
“You haven’t seen me try.”
She spins on her heel before I can respond, walking toward the front door with a sway in her hips that’s 100% intentional.
“You’re not ready for me, Jack Rivers,” she throws over her shoulder.
Maybe not.
But damn if I don’t want the chance to prove her wrong.