Chapter 5
Callie
The broken fence rail has been mocking me for days now, hanging at an awkward angle that screams “Thompson property maintenance failure” to anyone driving past. Dad keeps saying he’ll get to it, but between work and his ongoing obsession with perfecting his chili recipe for the competition, it’s not happening.
So here I am at eleven p.m., sneaking across the yard with a hammer and handful of nails, hoping to fix it before he notices how bad it’s gotten. I’m wearing my sleep shorts and a ratty shirt that’s seen better days, perfect for late-night fence repair and then going directly to bed.
The fence rail isn’t just loose. It’s completely detached on one end and splintered on the other. This is going to require more than a quick nail job.
“Dammit,” I mutter, examining the damage more closely. The wood’s rotted through where it meets the post. This isn’t a cosmetic fix. It’s actual repair work.
I bend over to get a better look, and that’s when I hear footsteps behind me. My body recognizes them before my brain does, that particular gait, that deliberate pace. My skin prickles with awareness.
“You’re going to make it worse.”
I spin around to find Wyatt McCoy standing ten feet away, carrying what looks like a proper toolbox. The moonlight catches on his face, highlighting the strong line of his handsome jaw. Damn. I did not need to see this man tonight.
My mouth goes dry.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, glancing toward the house to make sure Dad’s bedroom light is still off. “I gotta get this done while Dad’s asleep.”
“Saw you sneaking around with a hammer. Figured you were about to hurt yourself.”
“I know how to use a hammer.”
“Do you know how to use it correctly?”
“It’s a hammer, not a nuclear reactor.”
Wyatt steps closer still, and I can see the skeptical expression on his face even in the moonlight. His eyes do a slow sweep down my body, taking in my sleep shorts and shirt, and I see his jaw clench. “Show me.”
“Excuse me?” The words come out breathier than intended.
“Show me how you were planning to fix that rail.”
I hold up the hammer and point to the detached end, very aware of how the movement makes my top shift. “Nail it back to the post.”
“And the splintered part?”
“Nail it harder.”
Wyatt’s sigh is loud enough to wake half the county, but there’s something else in his expression. Heat, maybe? “That’s not how wood repair works.”
“Then enlighten me, oh master of fence maintenance.” I put my hands on my hips, which makes my shorts ride up slightly. His eyes track the movement.
He sets his toolbox down and opens it, revealing an organized collection of tools that makes my single hammer look pathetic. But I’m more focused on the way his muscles flex as he moves and the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he bends down.
“First,” he says, pulling out something that looks like a saw, his voice rougher than before, “you cut away the damaged wood. Then, you measure for a proper replacement piece. Then, you secure it with screws, not nails, because screws hold better in fence posts.”
“Huh.” I step closer, drawn to him like a magnet.
“It’s the right way to do it,” he says.
“Right is overrated.”
“Says the woman trying to fix a fence with a hammer at midnight.”
“Eleven p.m. It’s only eleven.”
“Whatever. You should be in bed.”
We look at each other, then back at the fence.
I watch him evaluate the broken rail, running his hands along the wood to check for other weak spots. His fingers are careful and methodical, and I find myself imagining those hands on my skin, that same careful attention to detail applied to—
“Hand me that level,” he says without looking up.
“I don’t have a level.” My voice comes out shaky.
“Of course you don’t.” He pulls one out of his toolbox. “Here, hold this steady while I mark the cut line.”
I move closer to help, and that’s when it happens. He reaches around me to position the level, his chest pressing against my back, his arms caging me in against the fence post. Every nerve in my body lights up at once.
“Like this,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
Oh shit. This is not good.
My hands shake as I try to hold the level steady. “I think I can manage.”
“Your hands are shaking.” His voice has dropped an octave, become intimate.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s seventy degrees.” He’s so close I can feel his heartbeat against my back.
“I’m always cold.”
His hands cover mine, steadying both me and the level. His palms are warm and rough with calluses, and I can feel the strength in his fingers as he guides my grip.
“Better?” he asks, and his lips brush my ear.
“Yeah,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure we’re still talking about the level. My entire body is hyperaware of his. The solid wall of his chest, the way his thighs bracket mine, the heat of him seeping through my thin clothes.
We stay like that for longer than necessary, making me want to turn in his arms and—
“Callie,” he says, his voice strained.
“Yeah?”
“You’re infuriating.”
I turn in his arms, which puts us face-to-face, only inches apart. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Yeah?”
“You show up here with your fancy tools and superior attitude, acting like I can’t handle basic home repair.”
“But you can’t handle basic home repair.” His hands have moved to my waist, his thumbs finding the strip of bare skin where my top has ridden up.
“Says who?”
“Says the woman who was about to nail rotted wood to a fence post.” His thumbs stroke across my skin.
“It would have worked.”
“It would have fallen apart in a week.” He’s leaning closer.
“A week is better than nothing.”
“A proper repair is better than a week.” His hands tighten.
We’re arguing in whispers, standing so close I can see the stubble along his jaw. The level is still in my hands, pressed between us, but nobody’s focused on the fence anymore.
“You know what your problem is?” I ask.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re a perfectionist. Everything has to be done exactly right, according to your standards, or it’s not worth doing at all,” I say.
“And you know what your problem is?”
“Please. Share your wisdom, Mr. Wyatt McCoy.”
“You’re stubborn. You’d rather do something wrong than ask for help.”
“I didn’t ask for help because I didn’t need help,” I hiss.
“You obviously need help.” His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back.
“I needed to fix a fence rail, not get a lecture on my shortcomings.”
His hands are still on me, one in my hair, one on my ribs, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing, and how thin the fabric is between his hands and my skin.
Beneath our argument there’s something else, something that has nothing to do with fence repair and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.
“You’re impossible,” I tell him, but my hands have come to rest on his chest.
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re dangerous,” he growls.
“Dangerous?” The word comes out breathier than I intended. “How am I dangerous?”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying my face in the moonlight. His hand in my hair tightens, and I feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against my stomach.
“Because,” he says finally, his voice rough, “you make me want to do things I shouldn’t.”
“Like what?” My fingers curl into his shirt.
Instead of kissing me like I expect, he spins me around, pressing me against the fence post. His body cages me, and he leans down, his mouth on my ear.
“Like touching you,” he whispers, his hand sliding from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying possessively. “Like finding out if you taste as good as you smell.” His lips brush my neck. “Like discovering every sound you make when you come.”
My knees go weak, and if it wasn’t for the fence post and his body holding me up, I’d collapse.
“Whoa,” I breathe.
He pulls back suddenly, stepping away like I’ve burned him. “We should fix this fence before your dad wakes up.”
Right. The fence. The reason we’re out here in the first place. Not so I can have dirty fantasies about Wyatt McCoy’s body.
I hand him the level with shaking hands and try to ignore the way my body is screaming for his touch. “Fine. But I’m helping.”
“You can hold the flashlight.”
“I can do more than hold a flashlight.”
“Can you use a circular saw?”
“No.”
“Can you measure twice and cut once?”
“Probably not.”
“Then you can hold the flashlight.”
“This is why you’re infuriating.”
But I take the flashlight without further argument, because the truth is, I don’t know how to use a circular saw, and I’d probably cut my fingers off if I tried. Plus, holding the flashlight means I get to watch him work, watch the way his muscles move, watch the competent way he handles his tools.
We work in comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes.
Wyatt cuts away the damaged wood with quick, sure movements, then measures and cuts a replacement piece from lumber he brought with him.
I hold the flashlight, trying not to get distracted by the way his shirt rides up when he reaches, exposing a strip of skin that makes my fingers itch.
“You just happened to have extra fence rail lying around?” I ask, needing to break the tension.
“We live on a ranch. Of course we have extra fence rail.”
“How did you even know I’d be out here?”
“Saw the broken rail yesterday. Figured you’d try to fix it yourself eventually.” He marks the screw holes with precise movements.
“And you thought you’d save me from myself?”
“Something like that.” His eyes meet mine briefly, and there’s something soft there, something that makes my chest tight.
“That’s very presumptuous.”
“That’s very practical.”
He holds the new piece in place and marks the screw holes. “Hand me that drill.”
“Why did you come help me? We’re supposed to be maintaining distance, remember? No contact, no emergencies, no exceptions.”