Chapter 7
Ocean Eyes
The next morning, I’m standing in Patterson’s Hardware, watching Luke compare two different grades of wood stain with the intense focus most men reserve for playoff games.
The siding project uncovered dry rot along the back wall—because of course there’s no such thing as a simple fix.
Somehow Luke’s “I’ll take care of it” turned into “We should go pick out materials together.”
Which is how I’ve ended up here, pushing a shopping cart through aisles of power tools and paint samples.
The store smells like sawdust. Classic country songs play tinnily from overhead speakers. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
It’s not a romantic place, that’s for sure.
Luke’s got his backwards baseball cap again, along with a soft grey t-shirt and jeans. Today, he’s got a pen tucked behind his ear too. Somehow, he makes the most basic things look lethally sexy.
He’s explaining something about moisture barriers to me. I’m nodding like I’m following along. But mostly I’m just watching the way his hands move as he talks, the way his dark eyebrows knit together in concentration when he gets into the technical details.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” Luke says.
I realize he’s looking right at me, amusement in his gaze.
“I am absolutely listening.”
“Yeah? What did I just say?”
“Something very important about... wood.”
Shaking his head, he goes back to his comparison. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
My heart does a little flip at that casual “you’re cute,” like it’s just a fact, like he’s been thinking it for a while.
“So which one?” I ask, trying to refocus.
“This one.” He holds up a can of semi-transparent stain. “It’ll protect the wood but let the grain show through. Last longer too.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He tosses it in the cart, then consults the list he made on a bar napkin last night. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. “Need galvanized nails, caulk, and a new caulking gun because the one at the bar is shot.”
We navigate through the store, and I’m surprised by how easy this feels. How domestic. Luke grabs items with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times, occasionally asking my opinion on things I have no business having opinions about.
“Which one?” He holds up two tubes of exterior caulk.
“They’re both grey.”
“This one’s slate grey. This one’s weathered grey.”
“They’re the same color.”
“One is cool toned, the other is warm toned, and—” He stops, seeing my grin. “You’re messing with me.”
“Little bit.” I’ve got my elbows propped on the cart’s handles as I rest my back against it, enjoying this moment way more than I should. “Tell me more about cool versus warm tones.”
Luke leans over me to drop both caulking tubes in the cart, but he doesn’t move back, caging me in with his arms on either side of me instead. Close enough to see the green flecks in his irises. Ocean eyes. They’re mesmerizing.
Especially when they’re roaming over my face the way they are now.
There’s a whiff of spearmint gum on his breath as he bends his head to murmur in my ear.
“Here’s what you need to know about warm tones.” His lips barely brush my earlobe. “They make everything feel more inviting. Hard to look away from.”
My pulse is racing, but I manage to keep my voice light. “Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm. Take your eyes, for instance. That golden-brown? Definitely warm.” His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “And this—” He lets the strand slide through his fingers. “Dark brown, but it catches red in the sunlight. Warm.”
His eyes drop to my cheeks, and that slow, devastating smile spreads across his face. “And then there’s this.” He traces his fingertip feather-light along my cheekbone. “The way you get flushed. All that red underneath your skin. Pure warmth.”
“That’s just makeup,” I bluff, knowing I’m blushing harder. “You know, the stuff that comes in a compact?”
“Is it?” The intensity in his blue-green gaze makes my skin burn hotter. “Because I’m watching it deepen. Spread down your neck.” His finger trails from my cheekbone down to the pulse point at my throat, where my heartbeat is absolutely betraying me. “Makeup doesn’t do that, darlin.’”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling gently in my hair. His gaze drops to my lips.
“We’re in the middle of Patterson’s Hardware,” I whisper, but I’m arching into his touch instinctively.
“Well aware.”
His thumb strokes along my jaw as he tilts my face up toward his. My eyes flutter closed. I can feel the heat of him, the magnetic pull drawing us together. His breath mingles with mine.
He’s right there. Right there.
“Excuse me, do you folks know where I can find the wood stain?”
We spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted. An elderly man with a cheerful smile stands at the end of the aisle, completely oblivious to what he just interrupted.
Luke blows out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. Two aisles over, left side, sir.”
“Much appreciated!” The man ambles off.
I’m gripping the shopping cart handle so hard my knuckles are white, my heart still pounding like I’ve run a marathon. When I finally dare to look at Luke, he’s staring at me with an expression that’s equal parts frustration and heat.
“We should—” I swallow. “We should get to Mad Dog’s. Shift starts in twenty minutes.”
I try to feel grateful that the moment between us was shattered.
Friends can go shopping at a hardware store together.
Friends do not kiss in the middle of said hardware store.
And Luke is the first good friend I’ve had in a long time. I don’t want to mess it up.
In the parking lot, Luke loads up his truck with the supplies—which he stubbornly and stupidly, if you ask me, refused to let me pay for—while I get settled in the passenger seat and tune the radio to a country station.
We both seem glad to let the music fill the silence.
So. We’re not going to talk about the fact that we definitely almost kissed.
Which is good.
Because it’s definitely not going to happen again.