Chapter 2
Dakota
“I like your plan. It looks good.”
“You do?” If you had told me that Cam Briggs would ever be sitting in my kitchen tapping his fingers on the table while humming his approval of my basement development plans, I’d have thought you were crazier than the last idiot to make the Johnny Board in Lit Creek.
And he’s on there for accidentally sexting his cousin.
For three days. (She didn’t reply.) Thank God I’ve never made it on the Johnny Board, despite all the embarrassing situations I find myself in.
“Yup.” He stands up, indicating that our little tête-à-tête has concluded. “I’ll head over to the shop to check on your orders, and I’ll work on getting the permits this week.”
“Um…” I should say thanks. I really should. But I’m too nosey for my own good. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really doing this now?”
He grabs the back of his neck, making his bicep pop under his sleeve. “Ya, that’s a no.”
“Come on. It’s only fair.”
He eyes me up and down for some reason, and ridiculously I can feel a blush creeping up the side of my neck.
“I’ve got my reasons.”
“So you said. Oh! That means there’s more than one. Just tell me one for every week that you get some work done.”
“Ya, maybe.”
“Maybe?” I squeak, sounding far more desperate for this information than would be considered healthy.
But come on, the man is in my kitchen. In my house.
Willing to do a shitload of work for free.
I need to know why. It’s what I do, being a journalist and all.
Finally. No thanks to him. Damn, this is all coming full circle, and I blurt out, “You owe me.”
He laughs. Only thirty percent sounds like an amused version of laughter. The rest is more like, oh, the audacity of this woman.
“I owe you? Really?” He rocks back on his heels. “The way I see it, after all of this is said and done, you’ll…never mind.”
Oh, damn. He was about to say that I’d owe him. This just got juicy.
I don’t see Cam for the rest of the day, and while I’m writing my current article for the Lit Creek newspaper, I nearly forget that there’s a new man—a man I disdain—living in my house.
Nearly forget. I can’t forget though because his cologne is lingering in the air.
Or maybe it’s just lingering on the chair he sat in.
Either way, it’s proven quite distracting.
To my lady parts. And ignoring them has been a full time job.
That evening I’m about to make myself a salad for dinner when I hear something out in the yard, so I go to check it out.
And.
Damn.
If I thought his cologne was distracting, I’m not sure how I’ll get any work done after witnessing this image.
There, out in my yard is Cam with a hose. Shirt off. Spraying himself down. I swear I can see the outline of his dick—a very prominent outline—when the water shoots against his groin.
His head is thrown back, eyes closed, and he’s dragging a hand through his hair. This has got to stop. I have neighbors, like Tara, for Pete's sake. And she’s got kids. They can’t be seeing this strip show.
I slide open the back door and march out.
“What the hell are you doing—Ahh!” The scream shoots out of me as I trip down the stairs of my deck. A small deck mind you. A deck I have never tripped down in my life.
And…now…I have to say something. The man is not fazed.
Gingerly, and I mean, at a snail’s pace, the man turns off the water, shakes it out of his hair, and saunters toward me.
A little pep in his step, a little concern for my wellbeing, anything like that might have been nice.
But do I get it? Nope. I get a dripping wet hottie—I mean…
I don’t know what I meant—just a sopping wet man in front of me.
“You okay?”
I’m gripping my ankle, hopping on one foot. “Do I look okay?”
He gives me another one of his looks, the kind where his eyes trail my body in search of something, but I have no idea what he’s looking for. “I’ve seen you look better.”
What kind of backhanded comment is that? I just grumble and turn to hop back up the stairs.
“Let me help you.”
“I’m goo—”
I’m swept up in his arms. Pressed against his damp chest.
“You’re wet,” I say with as much disgust as I can muster against such a solid wall of muscle.
“Yup. That tends to happen when you shower.”
“Oh my God, no.” Before I can think it through, I’m spewing all kinds of nonsense. “You’ll use my shower before that happens again. You are not—I repeat—not showering in my backyard with a hose every day for the next few months.”
“How about every other day?”
“No.”
“With a bucket?”
“No.”
“In your front yard?”
“Oh my God, Cam—”
“I’m kidding. I just had to do that because I got a bunch of insulation on me. Won’t happen again. Likely.” And the dude has the balls to smirk. Not while looking at me though. Just to himself as if he’s told the world’s funniest joke.
My arms are crossed awkwardly in an immature way to avoid touching him. Because honestly, my body is on fire.
“You okay? Seriously, Koty? Are you hurt?”
“What?”
“Your ankle?” He tilts his head toward my foot just before setting me down on one of the chairs in the kitchen.
Shit. With all the fiery patches on my skin I’m trying to mentally put out, I forgot about the throbbing between my legs—I mean, in my ankle.
Oh my God. What is happening to me? Cam’s hot.
It’s an objective fact. All the Briggs boys are super fine.
I’ve always been able to separate Cam’s hotness from himself because of the terrible things he’s done to me.
But right now, my body is vibrating in direct response to having been held by His Hotness.
“Ya, it’s fine.” I stand up to prove my point, only to wince in pain.
“Alright, I get it. You’re tough. But before you do any more damage to your foot, why don’t I wrap it up?”
And because I just don’t have the wherewithal to fight my body’s vibrations, I say something awesome, “Whatever dude.”
I think I can hear him chuckling as he rummages through his bag and returns with athletic tape. “Come on.” He pats his thigh as he squats in front of me. “Gimme your foot.”
I figure the louder I scowl, the less likely I am to forget all my reasons for resenting this guy and jump his bones. To add to the volume, I keep my arms crossed.
But in hindsight, that was a mistake. I should have taken off my own socks because even though it’s not sexy, having him undress me in any way sends a riot of shivers up my leg and all the way up my spine. And then his delicate fingers—large, calloused hands—gently wrap my foot.
“There. That should help you prove your toughness without making a fool of yourself.”
“Great.” Again. I should say thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Ya. That lie’s not going to last long. I know exactly what’s wrong with me. It’s been less than twenty-four hours in Cam’s presence, and I’ve already found my melted panties on the floor.
“By the way, thanks for opening up and letting me use your shower for the foreseeable future. It’ll be a lot easier than what I had planned.”
I open my mouth and gape at him for a second.
“You’re a woman of your word, right Dakota? You wouldn’t take that offer back, would you?”
Damn him and his hotness.