Chapter 6 Hailey #2
His voice is a low rumble that hits right behind my belly button, sizzling down until I feel warmth start to slowly radiate outward.
Oh my God, I’m so turned on right now. I panic, attempting to squirm away from him, but it only makes it worse.
Suddenly, it’s not the blush staining my cheeks that I’m focused on; it’s the slight twitch of something growing firm against my ass.
He glances down at me, eyes catching mine for half a second. The look is sharp, intense, like he’s thinking the exact same thing I am but trying really hard not to.
“Okay,” he finally says, clearing his throat and readjusting our bodies. “Back away slowly.”
I shuffle sideways, heart slamming so loud I’m positive he can hear it. He lets go once I’m out of range, running a palm over the side of the shelf like he’s soothing a wild animal. “You weren’t kidding. This thing’s a death trap.”
“I warned you,” I say, trying to sound breezy even as my face burns.
He crouches again, tracing his thumb over the crooked joint. “Looks like the cam bolts weren’t locked right. Easy fix.”
“Easy for you maybe,” I mutter.
He straightens, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Maybe you do need a man after all.”
I gasp in mock outrage. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m fully capable of emotional self-sufficiency and medium-level assembly. This definitely qualifies as advanced.”
He grins. It’s quick and subtle but devastating. “Sure, you are, Simpson. Sure, you are.”
I cross my arms, pretending not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Hard not to,” he says, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms as he reaches for the shelf again.
I try not to stare at his hands while he reaches for the books and begins to pull them off the shelf. Try and fail miserably. I’m locked in so deep I’m chewing my bottom lip, trying to determine if I could even handle two of his fingers comfortably when he stands up and looks at me.
The air between us hums, and suddenly, I’m very aware that my hoodie barely covers my thighs, that his arm had been around my waist, palm flat against my stomach just two minutes ago, holding my body against his.
“Go sit down before you hurt yourself,” he says softly, not looking at me as he reaches for his tools and crouches back down.
I should. I absolutely should. But I just stand there, watching him instead, pulse racing and lips caught between my teeth.
“Cam locks weren’t rotated all the way,” he says, more to himself than to me. “And your floor’s a hair out of level. Not uncommon in all these new builds.” He tears a strip of cardboard from one of my boxes, folds it twice, and slips it under the back corner. “That’ll fix it.”
I try to act like I’m listening but I’m too focused on him… It’s his forearms. They’re thick with a dark smattering of hair and thick web of veins that bulge against his skin. Heat rushes up my neck when he stands, shrugs out of his flannel, and drops it onto my chair.
Fuck me.
The T-shirt underneath his flannel is so much worse.
It pulls against his chest, the sleeves straining against his biceps that has one of the veins running up it.
And his tattoos, oh my God, his tattoos.
No longer does he have smudged, cheap tattoos on skinny arms. Now, they’re detailed and intricate, wrapping around his massive arms like a python wrestling a tree trunk.
I want to drag my tongue over them.
“You okay?” he asks without looking up.
“Yup,” I squeak, then clear my throat. “Totally fine. Just observing.”
“Uh-huh.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
He moves up the shelf, tightening, testing, tightening again.
Every time he reaches overhead, the shirt rides up just enough to flash hard abdomen and that sharp V of his hips above his jeans.
There’s another dark smattering of hair that thickens as it reaches his waistband and disappears.
My brain abandons all higher functions to focus on the flex of his back beneath cotton and the way his biceps bunch when he braces the unit and wrenches a bolt into submission.
“How’s it look?” he asks, palm braced high as he holds it in place.
“Good, really good.”
He glances at me, clearly amused when he notices my eyes aren’t focused on the bookcase. “The shelf, Hailey. Is it level?”
“Oh. Yes. Very level. That’s what I mean. Good. It’s level.” Kill me.
He huffs a laugh, then steps back, testing for a wobble again. It doesn’t. “Better. I’ll still want to anchor it.” He glances down at his watch. “I’ll bring a drill and a stud finder tomorrow, throw a couple safety brackets in. We can finish the coffee table and that TV console too.”
“Tomorrow?” It slips out a little too eager. I try to tone it down. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m sure I can figure those out.”
“I was two blocks over doing trim when you texted,” he says, gathering up the little graveyard of wrong screws I abandoned. “I can swing by tomorrow after work. I’ll be here at six.”
“Oh.” My heart does a dumb cartwheel. “Right, okay. Yeah, that works. Thank you… for all of this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, grabs his flannel, and slides it back on which is objectively a tragedy, but he leaves the top buttons undone. “Don’t touch the unit until I anchor it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes catch mine for a beat, something tight and electric pulling between us. Then he looks away, jaw flexing once. “Text me if anything else tries to crush you.”
“I will.” I walk him to the door, but he pauses, fingers on the knob. For half a second, I think he might say something he shouldn’t, but instead he nods toward the room behind me. “Don’t attempt to finish any of that stuff without me.”
“I can confidently say that you can trust me not to.” I laugh, the thought of trying to figure out that coffee table on my own already frustrating me.
His mouth twitches. “See you tomorrow, Hailey. Six.”
“See you tomorrow, Cole.”
I sink onto the couch, press my palms to my cheeks, and replay the last twenty minutes in hi-def: his arm locking around my waist, the heat of his chest against my back, the way his voice dipped when he told me not to move.
Did his cock really twitch against my ass?
It’s been a long time since a man made me feel like this.
Back in Chicago, every date had the same glossy, forgettable finish.
It was the same brand of guy over and over again.
The ones who ordered espresso martinis and their only personality trait was which stock portfolio of theirs was doing the best. Waxed chests.
Eyebrows better shaped than mine. The kind of men who’d panic worse than me if a screw stripped or a tire went flat.
Cole Bristol is none of that.
He’s rough edges and calloused hands. The kind of man with hair dusting his knuckles and forearms, a hint of it on his chest where his shirt gaped open just enough to tease my imagination. The kind of man who smells like the outdoors and very bad decisions.
My lips twitch, because I want to text Maddie and tell her a man finally gave me the tingles. Real, full-body, spine-melting tingles. The kind of tingles she always swore the next guy would give me after another failed date. But I can’t. Because the man who did is her brother.
Guilt hits fast, curling hot in my stomach. I should not be thinking about him like this. About the size of his dick that I’m confident I felt twitch against my ass earlier. And yet… when I glance at the coffee table he promised to finish tomorrow, my pulse jumps again.
Because I can’t wait to see him walk back through that door.