9. Matt
nine
Matt
M ay 31
The cardboard box groaned as I ripped through packing tape with my pocket knife, glancing towards Casey as I took stock of the supplies he’d ordered. He was wiping down the cabinet, and I pushed the box his way, then hefted another up onto the big table in the middle of the arts and crafts hut.
“What the hell did you order? Why are these boxes so heavy?”
"You didn’t check my order when I sent it over?" His voice had that honeyed snark that was starting to grow familiar. "Figures. If you actually cared about artistic development, we wouldn't be staging this tragedy in a raccoon's abandoned meth lab."
I glanced up to find Casey hip-checking the splintered supply cabinet, his purple bangs catching dust motes floating through afternoon light. My throat tightened at the way his oversized sweater slid off one shoulder as he wrestled with stubborn drawers. "Relax, Picasso," I said, tossing tempera paint bottles onto the long worktable. "This place has a creative legacy."
"Legacy?" Casey's laughter rang sharp as wind chimes. He gestured dramatically at the cobwebbed rafters. "Do you ever clean in here? And don't get me started on these—" He kicked a warped floorboard, his chunky platform boot thunking hollow wood. "—death traps lying in wait for uncoordinated people."
I leaned against the table, watching his hands dance around him as he spoke — slender fingers dotted with silver rings, wrists disappearing into absurdly large sweater sleeves. He was wearing a snug-fitting pair of wide-legged cargo pants and an oversized cropped gray sweater that seemed like a poor choice for cleaning. Underneath, as he lifted his arms to clean a high shelf, I caught a tempting glimpse of a body-hugging shirt that showed off his slender waist.
My pulse kicked when he licked his lips mid-rant. "You're mistaking character for decay," I countered, gesturing to the vibrant chaos splashed across the back wall. "See that mural? Ben painted that when he was twelve after sneaking in past curfew, and ever since, kids have been adding their own special touch to the mural. The squirrels were a pair of girls just last summer. And those neon handprints? A few years ago, the CITs dipped their palms in glow-in-the-dark gesso."
Casey's nose crinkled adorably. "And the suspicious brown splotch by the kiln?"
"Fourth of July incident involving root beer floats and a misguided sparkler." I grinned at his horrified expression. "So that one was less artistic, but that’s not my point. Real creativity happens where perfection isn't breathing down your neck. Where kids can slop acrylics on their shoes without some woman in a black turtleneck clutching her pearls."
He marched toward me, cargo pants swishing like a shower curtain. "I saw how you fold your rock climbing ropes. Why doesn’t art deserve the same care?" His finger jabbed my chest, the contact zipping straight to my groin.
I stepped towards him. "At least we're not teaching kids to play the violin in sterile white cubes that smell like rich people’s anxiety."
His dark eyes flashed, chest rising fast beneath that slouchy sweater. For half a breath, I imagined peeling it off him slowly, watching pink hair catch on coarse knit. "Violins?" Casey hissed, yanking free. "I'm planning to teach them a love for music, you tone-deaf lumberjack. There's a place for classical instruction, but camp should be about fun and exploration. We'll have drum circles by the boathouse, guitar lessons around the campfire, ukuleles and sing-alongs—"
"Ukuleles?" I barked out a laugh, crowding him backward without thinking. "These kids want to get messy and wild, to chuck water balloons at each other, not harmonize on cute mini guitars."
He stumbled against the corner post, pine resin and the scent of his shampoo flooding my senses. "You're impossible," he spat, but his trembling lower lip betrayed him. His furious blush was doing something to me, the way his pale cheeks now matched his cotton candy hair. He was a sexy mess, his skin dewy with sweat, eyeliner smudged from the hard work, his hair sticking out in all directions. My fingers itched to wipe the shimmering residue beneath his lashes.
"Not all kids are the same. You're so cocky, always making assumptions."
"Am I?" My voice dropped as I caged him against weathered wood, forearm braced above his head. "Or are you just pissed I'm right?"
Sunlight caught the gold flecks in his widening eyes. I counted three freckles along his jawline I'd never noticed before, constellations begging to be traced. His throat begged for my touch, my lips. It was long and elegant, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
"The only thing you're right about..." His whisper ghosted over my chin. "...is needing better ventilation in here. Your Axe body spray's melting my retinas."
A surprised chuckle punched from my lungs. "Axe? I don’t use cologne. That’s handmade soap scented with cedarwood and citrus, you heathen."
"Smells like regret and middle school locker rooms to me." His pinky finger hooked briefly in my belt loop - accidental or calculated, I couldn't tell. "Also, are we just ignoring the fact that your 'legacy wall' includes someone's questionable rendition of...is that a hedgehog? Or a testicle with a lot of hair?"
"Porcupine," I corrected, leaning closer. His breath hitched deliciously. "Painted by an eight-year-old. You want to criticize that too? It's children's art."
For a heartbeat, I thought he might surge forward - those petal-soft lips parting, eyes darting to my mouth. Then he ducked under my arm, all prickly bravado. "I want functional electrical outlets that don't spark when you plug in a phone charger!" He brandished a battered hot glue gun like a sword. "And decent scissors that don't squeak like dying mice!"
I snatched the glue gun. "Careful," I murmured, thumb stroking his knuckle. "Wouldn't want you hurting those pretty hands."
Our fingers brushed, and he jerked back as if electrocuted, his sweater sleeve catching on a protruding nail. The ripping fabric sounded like a gunshot. We both froze, staring at the jagged tear exposing his entire left arm and his pale, finely muscled shoulder.
"Shit," I breathed. “Are you okay?"
Casey tore off the sweater and examined the damage with impressive calm. "Well. Now it’s ventilated." His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Add 'clothing mutilation' to Eagle Ridge's long list of charms."
He shivered, and without thinking, I shrugged off my flannel. The air chilled my bare arms as I draped it around his shoulders. "Here."
"I don't need-" he began, but I was already rolling up the too-long sleeves, fingertips grazing his collarbones. His pulse was rabbit-quick under his silky skin.
"Just keep it." I stepped back, shoving trembling hands in my pockets. “It's raining and 50 degrees outside, and I'm not bothered by the cold. It looks better on you anyway."
He clutched the plaid fabric closed, small beneath its bulk. When he met my gaze, something raw flickered behind his carefully curated snark. "Anything looks better on me. But this is decidedly not my style."
“Want to give it back, then?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest, noting the way his eyes darted down to my shoulder muscles as they flexed. The raw hunger in his eyes told me the muscle tee was the right choice.
“The shirt is warm,” he hedged. “But I wouldn't need it if you had heating in this shack.”
The air between us crackled like live wires as I took another step forward, and Casey’s back hit the wood-paneled wall behind him. My forearm braced against the wall beside his head, my other hand trembling as I let my fingers play against the collar of his tank top, stopping when my palm rested against his throat as I wondered what it would be like to kiss his soft, pink lips. He stared up at me, gasping softly, his eyes wide, pupils blown out with unmistakable lust.
His pulse raced against my palm.
“Enough griping,” I growled, my voice rougher than intended. “You think I don’t care about these kids? That I’d let them work somewhere unsafe?”
Casey’s chin jerked up, pink strands catching sunlight filtering through dust motes. “I think your nostalgia’s blinding you.” He shifted and his knee brushed mine—accident or provocation, I couldn’t tell. “That mural’s gorgeous, but what good’s art if—”
My thumb smoothed over his jaw, chasing its shape. I could feel the vibration when he swallowed. “One. Goddamn. Time.” Each word came out tightly strung, my control unraveling faster than I could reel it back. “Try seeing what’s here instead of what’s missing.”
His laugh sounded punched-out. “Says the man who rebuilt the entire housing system, but won’t replace the warped floor.” Casey’s laughter died against my palm, replaced by a ragged inhale that made his chest rise sharply. His throat worked under my grip—not fighting, just... The realization hit like ice water. Why the fuck did I have my hand around his throat? It was decidedly sexual, and some sort of harassment. My fingers sprang open and I took a step back, instantly missing his warmth.
“Shit.” I stumbled back, sneaker crunching over a dried paintbrush someone had abandoned last season. “Casey, I’m—”
He moved faster than I’d ever seen him. One second there were three feet of warped floorboards between us, the next his hands fisted in the collar of my tank top, dragging me down. His mouth crashed into mine with enough force to knock me back a few steps.
Cherries. Chapstick, maybe, and a hint of mint gum. His lips were softer than they had any right to be, parting with a quiet hitch of breath that went straight to my groin. I froze—camp director, employer, fucked-up adult who shouldn’t be doing this with his college-aged arts coordinator.
Then his teeth caught my lower lip.
Every coherent thought vaporized. My hands found his hips, my fingers digging in as I moved to return the kiss.
But just that instant, a shout echoed from the outside. Sutton was looking for me.
Reality came roaring back. I tore myself away, chest heaving. Casey stared up at me, lips swollen pink, hair mussed. His chest rose and fell like he’d sprinted from the lake.
“I— Shit. Fuck. Fuck.” He slapped both hands to his flaming cheeks, eyes blown so wide I could see the starburst of gold around his pupils. “I didn’t— That wasn’t—”
“Casey—”
He ducked under my arm, nearly tripping over a huge tub of glue. The screen door shrieked on its hinges as he bolted from the room.
For a full minute, I just stood there. I touched two fingers to my mouth. They came away faintly shiny, and I could still smell the cherry Chapstick on them.
My reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink looked thoroughly wrecked—hair wild, neck splotchy red where Casey’s nails had skidded. I never crossed this boundary—never made a move on my employees. Now one sarcastic music major with purple hair and a hero complex had me harder than a fucking canoe paddle after five seconds of a kiss that I hadn’t even returned.
There’d been nothing tame about the way he’d bitten at my mouth, all frustrated energy and sharp edges. Like arguing with him felt—a challenge wrapped in silk. And I hadn’t even kissed him back. Rain pattered steadily on the roof now. Somewhere outside, Casey was either hyperventilating into his phone or drafting a blistering resignation letter. Both possibilities twisted something behind my ribs.
The door slammed open, and hope rose in my chest, but it was just Sutton. “You really need to answer your phone, man,” he said, panting. “That guy is here about the issue with the septic field.”
Right. Priorities. I jammed my hair into a fresh ponytail, grabbed the clipboard, and shouldered open the door.