Chapter 7 Dakota
DAKOTA
Iam not going to engage with the sweaty, hunky landscaper today.
I’m not.
I mean, I have to help him with framing the structure today, but that doesn’t mean I have to let him talk and get me to talk like we did yesterday. I don’t know what got into me, but it won’t happen again.
I’m determined today.
When he shows up in his regular work truck, his T-shirt and jeans fitting him just right—not an extra scrap of material covering his muscular body. I barely acknowledge him as I walk outside.
“Dakota.” He gives me a polite nod.
“Are you ready to work?”
He chuckles and nods. “Absolutely.” He whistles all the way to the backyard. “Just have to check on the foundation and make sure it’s ready to go.”
I don’t say anything to that. No need to. And I’m not engaging.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care as he walks around, checking the now-dried cement. “Looks good.” He smiles over at me, so bright and shiny, it punches me right in the heart. But nope. It’s a trap, I’m convinced.
Unbothered, he walks over to his truck and starts to gather tools and supplies, piling wood over by the greenhouse spot, and I stand where I am, feeling awkward and useless. But I’m not asking him if he needs me to help with anything. If he does, he can ask me. He knows I’m here.
I watch him work until he asks me to hold something, and I do what he asks, but I remain quiet. I notice out of the corner of my eye when my favorite barn cat wanders out the door, sauntering around like he owns the place.
I didn’t adopt the cat, but it appears he’s adopted me.
There are three around who seem to wander here from time to time.
But he’s the one who sticks around the most. The others don’t stay here most of the time, and I find myself wondering where they go when they aren’t here. I’m not jealous. Okay, maybe a little.
I just don’t think anyone else can give them a better home. I put the good food out for them every day—costs a pretty penny, but I don’t mind. I make sure they have fresh hay in the barn where they like to sleep and even buy them toys and treats.
But if they want to explore, who am I to judge? Though I’ll never understand that. If I didn’t ever have to leave my property, I sure as hell wouldn’t.
“Cute.” I realize Gabe’s gaze has followed mine as he eyes my cat. “What’s its name?”
I look back at Gabe and frown, hanging onto the post he’s having me hold while he’s supposed to be working, not asking about my cat. “That’s Marvin.”
He grins. The sound of his nail gun shooting a nail through the wood startles me for a moment, but I like to think I quickly recovered. “Cute. Where did you get that name?”
“He told me,” I deadpan, and he tosses his head back on a laugh.
“You really do hate making conversation, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate conversation,” I bristle, my tone haughty, and I’m on high alert. “But this is not a get-to-know-you. I’m helping you frame the greenhouse because you said you can’t do it alone.”
I expect him to get defensive. Maybe try to be all macho and state that he could do it on his own but would rather not or some other bullshit.
But he doesn’t. His slow smile tells me he’s totally unaffected.
“So why not chat a little while we work? It could make the day go by a little faster. Make it more fun.”
I scoff loudly at that. “This is work, not fun. Is that what Oakley’s Crew does? Just stand around and chitchat all day?”
His laugh is unexpected, and I don’t know why.
I’m angry. I know my tone says I’m irritated.
And there he goes, just chuckling away as he moves to the next post, and I follow him begrudgingly, scowling.
“That’s part of the fun of Oakley’s Crew, yeah.
We’re fully capable of talking and working. Most of us are friends.”
I roll my eyes. “Friends. You’re coworkers.”
“Two things can be true,” he says, his face fixed in a permanent unnerving smile. “What do you do for work?”
“I work from home.”
“I figured.” I want to be offended by that, but it doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be rude or even get under my skin—though he most definitely is. “So you work on the computer?”
Again, my eyes roll as I stand there and brace the piece of wood as he works to put it together. “No. I just sit in my house and money magically goes into my bank account,” I deadpan again, fully aware I’m being an asshole.
“Don’t want to talk about what you do for a living, huh? What else can we talk about?”
He moves to the next post, and I try like hell not to ogle his ass when he bends over to pick it up. But just because I’m allergic to human interaction doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes notice when a man is beautiful. And Gabe is beyond beautiful. The man is a work of art.
“Nothing. Soon you’ll be getting far too personal.
” I surprise myself by saying that out loud, but I don’t call the words back.
It’s true. I don’t want him prying into my life.
It’s bad enough that my dreams were focused on the handsome, way-too-friendly man last night.
Heat crawls up my neck to my cheeks, just thinking about it while standing here with him.
I don’t even know if the dreams were particularly sexy. I just know he was the star of my night, and I don’t like that. It’s not like he’s even an option for me. He’s straight. The man has a kid, and I’m sure a very pretty blonde wife. She’s likely who his daughter takes after.
Not that I want to date him or anything.
It’s been a ridiculous amount of time since I’ve gotten laid. But when you barely leave the house, that kind of just happens. It’s not like there are gay bars around here, and there’s no way in hell I’d take a chance hitting on anyone around here.
I was tormented in school, always small for my age. Feminine-looking, according to my classmates, and they somehow assumed I was gay before I even knew what gay meant.
If Gabe knew I was checking out his ass, it’s likely he wouldn’t be all that friendly anymore.
“Personal?” His brow raises at me in question, and I stiffen . . . pleading with him to just shut up and work. I don’t want to talk. “What? Like asking you what kind of toothpaste you use?”
A startled laugh leaves my lips, and the sound is almost totally foreign to me.
How long has it been since I’ve laughed?
Gabe looks taken aback for a minute too, staring at me with wide eyes and a large smile.
I want to crawl into a hole and hide. But instead, I just grit my teeth. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, continuing to work, but he most definitely does not shut up. “Nothing more personal than oral healthcare.”
I sputter. Is this guy for real? He winks at me, and I feel even more off-kilter than I did at the beginning of this morning.
“Jesus. No. I didn’t mean toothpaste.” I roll my eyes at him for the millionth time today because the man is straight-up ridiculous.
“I meant like you grilling me about why I insist on only one worker here at a time.”
“Oh,” he says easily, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“What?” I sputter again. “No.” I raise my one free hand up in a huff. “See, this is why I don’t engage.”
He just chuckles. “Look, you don’t have to tell me why. We figured it out. You’ve been a great help today.” I huff again, but he just keeps going, “I don’t believe in pushing people to talk about things they don’t want to.”
I don’t understand this man at all. I really don’t get why he doesn’t just give up on me and maybe bring earbuds to listen to music or something instead of trying to get me to chat with him.
I really don’t know why I open my mouth to ask him a question—just allowing him to pull me into a conversation. “Did you play sports in school?”
“Of course,” he answers like it’s a no-brainer.
He secures the post, and I toss my hands up. “So you were a jock. I wasn’t wrong about that.”
He studies me for a moment, not looking at me like I’m insane, but like I’m some sort of puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “I mean, I liked sports. Still do. Loved to play football and baseball, and now I love to watch. Is that really a bad thing?”
“It is if it’s your whole identity.” I try not to think about all the jocks in high school who made my life a living hell. Their whole life revolved around sports and making me miserable.
Was Gabe one of them? I imagine he was a little bit smarter about it if he was. Probably didn’t just outright torment but took his time. Like he’s doing with me now.
“Sounds a little judgy. I take it you don’t like sports.”
I roll my eyes at him, and he cackles, shaking his head and moving to another post.
“You look like my ex-wife when you do that.”
“Ex?” I find myself stupidly asking.
He nods as he motions for me to hold the post for him, and I do. “Yeah. My daughter’s mom.”
The information doesn’t matter. He’s straight.
He’s still a total dude-bro, jock-type who so isn’t my type of man.
But for some reason, it sends a heightened awareness through me as I stand so close I can smell his cologne or body wash—some woodsy, manly scent mixed with sweat and earth. “And I look like her?”
He grins. “No, not at all, but she does roll her eyes at me a lot. Did last night, that’s for sure.”
I shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable and unsure why. “You spend a lot of time with your ex?”
“Not really, no, but she wanted to make sure I was okay with the bomb she dropped on me.” His eyes meet mine, and he looks a little sad. “She’s having a baby.”
“And you’re not the father?” I blurt out but stop myself from letting my eyes widen in horror at my own brazenness.
“Nope,” he says seamlessly. “Her new husband is the father.”
I frown. “So she needs you to be okay with her having a baby with her current husband?”
He laughs gently. “Yup. She wants to make sure I’m not influencing our daughter negatively.”
“That sounds complicated,” I say, and he grins at me, shaking his head.
“It is.”
“Crest,” I say, and he looks confused for only a minute before he realizes I’m answering his ridiculous question about toothpaste.
He smirks. “Only right answer.”
Damn him.
So much for not engaging. But his smile is so relaxed and beautiful. Could anyone really blame me?