Chapter 15 Sadie
FIFTEEN
SADIE
Sadie woke to the sound of aggressive banging. Not the fun kind with moaning and praise kink. No, this was the construction-site-from-hell kind. A noise so loud it jackhammered straight through her skull and yanked her out of a perfectly decent dream.
She stomped to the window with violence in her heart and promptly came face-to-crotch with a very large man. Good morning to you, too.
The scary part was that she recognized the crotch instantly. On sight. Which probably said something about her.
Quentin was currently perched on a ladder, drilling into her cabin’s facade. Sadie yanked open the window, resisting the very real urge to give the ladder a little shove and let physics handle the rest. Instead, she leaned out as far as she could manage without committing a felony.
“Hi, Quentin’s crotch. Nice to formally meet you.” I’ve had dreams about you. And you did not disappoint.
Quentin jolted so hard he nearly lost his footing. The drill shrieked against the wood, skittering sideways as he scrambled to regain control, swearing under his breath. “Jesus, Sadie!” He glanced down at her, eyes wide, face flushed. “Can we not start the morning like this?”
“I was starting my morning peacefully,” she said. “Then some brute with a power tool decided to violate my walls.”
His lips twitched. She could practically see the inappropriate joke forming behind his lips. “You know, there are worse ways to be woken up.”
“Not on my day off, there aren’t.” She leaned on the windowsill, arms crossed. “Why are you here? And more importantly, why are you desecrating my poor, defenseless cabin?”
Quentin pointed toward the roof. “Installing a motion-activated light. For the bears.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
Her irritation wavered. Damn it. He did things like that, just thoughtful enough to make it harder to remember why she found him so insufferable.
“That’s… actually really nice.”
He smirked. “Can’t have you sneaking into my cabin again and nearly sending me into cardiac arrest. I have to protect myself.”
“That was one time!”
“Yeah, and my soul still hasn’t recovered. My therapist refers to it as ‘The Sadie Incident.’”
“I want to push you off that ladder. But you’d definitely haunt me.”
Quentin leaned sideways, twisting in a bolt like it was the most seductive chore known to man. “Oh, I’d haunt you. Exclusively in the shower. Very ethically. Very thoroughly.”
Oh, for the love of—
She slammed the window shut before her ovaries could revolt. The drill roared back to life outside. It was far too early for this level of nonsense. But damn it, she was smiling anyway.
Shuffling into the kitchen, she brewed herself a coffee, still grinning like a fool. What a menace. A tall, infuriating, unfairly attractive menace. With a stupidly firm ass.
She paused mid-pour. Nope. Not thinking about his ass this early. Not doing it.
She brewed a second cup anyway. She made his aggressively sweet, adding sugar until it was less coffee and more science experiment. She had a feeling he’d take one sip, grimace, and mutter something about his abs not being able to metabolize sugar.
She threw on a robe, shoved her feet into boots, and trudged outside to find her unwanted contractor.
The first thing she saw was Quentin, still on the ladder, still drilling, still—oh hello.
She stopped in her tracks, blatantly staring. There it was. That firm ass. Just right there in her direct line of vision, like a damn public service announcement. She allowed herself the freedom to admire it. Just for a second. Strictly for research purposes.
Sadie groaned internally. What was wrong with her? She was supposed to be immune to Quentin Ramos. She was supposed to be holding a grudge, not checking out his back muscles.
Yet, here she was, standing, coffee in hand, openly appreciating the view like she was reviewing a damn art exhibit.
Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out: “Nice view.”
Quentin, bless his clueless little heart, glanced over his shoulder at the trees. “Yeah, the mountains look amazing this morning.”
Sadie took a slow sip of coffee and tilted her head. “Sure. The mountains.”
Quentin narrowed his eyes, following her gaze. The second realization hit, he groaned. “Seriously, Sadie?”
“What?” she said, all faux innocence. “A girl can’t appreciate the natural curves of the landscape?”
She held the coffee out like a peace offering. He sighed, the long-suffering kind, and started climbing down the ladder like a man heading to his doom. His cheeks were definitely pink.
She should feel guilty. This was the same man who had emotionally bulldozed her once upon a time without blinking. She should probably be throwing coffee at his stupidly symmetrical face instead of finding new ways to make him flustered.
“You should not be allowed outside before ten a.m.,” he muttered as he took the mug.
“Bold of you to assume I’m allowed inside either,” she said calmly. “Drink your coffee.”
Quentin took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. To his credit, he didn’t spit it out or complain, just swallowed like a man enduring great hardship.
“You know,” he said, eyeing her over the rim of the mug, “you could’ve just ogled from the window like a normal creep.”
“And deprive myself of watching your ears turn red in real time?” She tipped her head, considering him. “No thank you. This is a live experience.”
He laughed, low and warm and deeply unnecessary before nine a.m. “You are a problem.”
“I prefer ‘woman with hobbies.’ Speaking of which, there’s a loose stair out front. I almost die on it daily.”
He frowned. “Define almost.”
“Enough to see my life flash before my eyes, but not enough for a settlement.”
“Tragic,” he said gravely. “Do we need to notify the authorities?”
“It’s a public safety issue. I could be hot and injured.”
She turned toward the door, expecting him to make a joke and keep drilling. Instead, she heard the clink of his mug hitting the railing.
“I’ll take a look,” he said, already grabbing his toolbox.
She paused, glanced back. “Wow. No complaints? No dramatic sigh?”
“Don’t ruin this for me,” he said. “I’m being heroic.”
“Oh, I see. Fixing a stair before breakfast. Very rugged. Very Hallmark.”
He shot her a look. “Careful, or I’ll start charging by the hour.”
She smiled, helplessly. “You can’t afford me.”
He laughed again and headed for the steps, and she followed, telling herself very firmly that this meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except, apparently, everything that made her thighs clench and her day significantly harder.
She stayed planted in her chair, legs crossed, coffee in hand, watching him work like this was a ticketed attraction and she’d splurged on front row seats.
The way his shirt pulled across his back when he crouched.
The steady rhythm of his arm as he swung the hammer.
And the forearms. The audacity of those forearms.
She knew she should look away or at least pretend to check her phone like a normal person, but instead she took another slow sip and tilted her head, studying him like abstract art. Quentin paused mid-swing, without looking up.
“You’re staring.”
“Am not,” she lied smoothly.
“You sighed.”
“That was boredom,” she shot back. “You’re slow.”
He gave the nail another tap, smirk clearly audible in his voice. “You wanna help, or are you just gonna sit there imagining me shirtless?”
“Wow,” she said. “Confidence really is your personality.”
“I’m just observant,” he said, glancing back at her now. “And what I’m observing is you pretending not to be impressed.”
She snorted. “Please. I’ve seen better arms on rotisserie chickens.” A bold, reckless lie. His bicep flexed when he laughed, and she was suddenly very confident it could crack a walnut and then apologize for the mess.
“Keep talking, sweetheart. You’re only making me stronger.”
She muttered something deeply unladylike into her coffee and made a point of staring anywhere except the way his shirt stretched when he leaned forward again.
“Where’d you even get tools?” she asked, mostly to distract herself from the heat crawling up her neck and into her face.
“Jerry lent them to me,” Quentin said. “He owns the cabins and the land. Real salt-of-the-earth guy. I told him a defenseless beauty was being stalked by bloodthirsty bears.”
She lifted her mug in a mock toast. “Be still, my loins.”
His brows shot up. “Loins?”
“I’m expanding my vocabulary,” she said coolly. “Helps when I’m forced to interact with walking thirst traps.”
Quentin tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Thirst traps, huh? I’d pay good money to see your search history.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Just a hunch,” he said, grin widening, “but I’m guessing it started as a hate-watch situation, maybe late at night, where you told yourself you were only watching so you could tear me apart properly, and then somehow an hour disappeared.”
Her mouth fell open. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
He smirked. “Is that so?”
Maybe once. Maybe during a wine-fueled shame spiral, she'd accidentally ended up on one of those videos. The kind with cinematic lighting and unholy levels of slow motion.The kind of editing that made removing a wetsuit feel like a spiritual experience.
But that was an accident. One click. Maybe two. Not her fault the algorithm had opinions.
“I didn’t search for you,” she said, defensively. “I searched Solstice Break. For plot-related reasons. And the algorithm got…excited.”
Solstice Break was one of his first movies. The “plot” was basically abs in swim trunks, occasionally interrupted by dialogue.
“So basically, fate wanted you to watch me take my shirt off… in 1080p glory.”
“It was the editing that caught my attention,” she hissed. “The transitions were seamless!”
“Oh, transitions,” he said, laughing. “That’s what hooked you.”
“It was very professionally done!”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I’m a woman of culture, okay?”
“And yet that culture somehow leads directly to the beach scene where I peel off a wetsuit in stages.”
“It was.. it was visually compelling!”
He tapped the final nail into place and stood, brushing his hands on his jeans.
“Well,” he said, flashing that crooked, movie-star grin, “I’d be happy to track down a wetsuit if you’d like to see whether it’s as visually compelling in person.”
She just stared at him. Her loins, traitorous and ungovernable, remained aggressively unstilled.
“Try it,” he added, stepping back and gesturing to the repaired step. “See if it holds.”
She eyed the step like it might bite her, then gingerly placed a foot on it. No wobble. No dramatic collapse.
“Huh,” she muttered. “Color me impressed.”
Quentin flashed her that maddeningly slow grin, the kind that should come with a health warning.
“Relax,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m just pro-not-dying.”
“Uh-huh. And the loins comment? That just part of your fall prevention strategy?”
“I like to keep morale high on construction sites.”
“Well, mission accomplished. My morale is… extremely high right now.”
“Oh my God,” she said, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” Quentin said, leaning in with that infuriating smirk, “are in deep. You admitted to watching my thirst trap video.”
She scoffed. “You mean your thrust trap?”
He blinked, then grinned wide. “Oh, so you do remember.”
“I was drunk!”
“Drunk enough to watch it on loop?”
She made a strangled noise. “That is not—okay, first of all, that’s not even relevant—”
“Oh, it’s very relevant,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “Because you’re one glass of Merlot away from confessing you’d lick sweat off my abs.”
“I would never,” she started, then froze, the words dying on her tongue. Her brain betrayed her with an image so sharp it almost burned. His skin hot under her tongue, salty and slick and stupidly perfect, her hands pressed to his stomach to steady herself while she—
She shook her head hard, like she could rattle the fantasy loose. “That’s not even—that’s not the point!”
Quentin laughed, low and dangerous. “You’re loining.”
“I am not.”
“You so are. Look at you. Loining all over the damn place.”
“That’s not a verb!”
“It is now.” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. “You just made it a word. With your… loining.”
“I loathe you.”
“You loathe me like you wanna climb me.” His eyes dragged over her. “It’s practically a love language.”
She turned away to hide the grin she couldn't fight anymore. And maybe she liked him a little more than she meant to. Which was a problem. A hot, hammer-wielding, forearm-flexing problem.