Chapter 7 Cole
Cole
By noon, I’ve measured the same damn beam three times. Twice wrong, once out of pure distraction.
“Boss, you good?” Travis asks, hammer hanging from his belt. “You’ve been staring at that thing for twenty minutes.”
“Fine.” I circle something meaningless on the blueprints. “Focus on your spacing.”
He shrugs, trades a look with Jake, and they get back to work. The clang of hammers rings out, steady and familiar, but my head’s nowhere near this site. It’s back in that apartment where it has no fucking business being. Her laugh keeps echoing in my brain, her bare legs teasing me.
“Yes, sir.”
I set the clipboard down, rub the back of my neck, and mutter, “Get your shit together, Bristol.”
The wind kicks sawdust into my face. I deserve it. She’s Maddie’s best friend, for Christ’s sake. The one person I should keep a professional, brotherly distance from. Not the one I imagine pressed against a wall, hair slipping through my fingers while my tongue explores her mouth.
“Hey, boss, watch your step—” Jake shouts but I’m already airborne. I trip over a damn air hose, catching myself on the framing, and my crew’s laughter explodes around me.
“Real graceful.” Jake grins. “You sure you don’t need a day off?”
“Just so you can call me every twenty minutes to ask me a question?” This time, the guys laugh at Jake. I shake my head, pretending to check the level on the studs when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Mads.
Maddie: Hey, did Hailey ever reach out for help? She was having a hell of a time yesterday.
My thumb hesitates over the screen. The first instinct is to lie. To protect… what, exactly? The tiny thrill I felt when her text popped up? The fact that I dropped everything like some idiot teenager when she finally asked me for help?
It’s more than that. It’s the fact I went to bed hard thinking about her and woke up hard, still thinking about her. But I can’t lie to Maddie.
Me: Yeah. Helped her fix a shelf.
Maddie: Aww! I knew you’d come through. She was scared to text you, lol. She really needs a friend out there right now. You’re the best big brother.
I stare at the part where she says she was scared to text me. I want to ask her why but it’s none of my business. Nothing about Hailey Simpson is any of my business.
Me: She’s fine, Mads. Don’t worry.
Maddie: Still… thanks. Love you.
I pocket the phone and turn my attention back toward work. Somewhere behind me, the generator sputters. “Damn thing,” I mutter, fiddling with the choke until it purrs back to life. My hands stay busy, but my brain’s already counting down the hours until six.
I spend the rest of the day trying to come up with a reason not to go to her apartment. I bounce back and forth between faking a work emergency to get out of it and the guilt I’d feel for not helping her out after I told her I would.
Yet every time I picture her frustrated little frown or the bruise blooming on her elbow, something in my chest gives way. If I can’t put my fucking cock on hold to help out a woman I find attractive, then I have no business being around women at all.
By four, the guys are packing up. By five, I’ve glanced at the clock at least half a dozen times since they left. By five thirty, I’m already sitting in my truck, engine idling in front of her building, pretending I’m checking emails instead of waiting for the clock to hit six.
By 5:58, I’ve determined it’s an acceptable enough time to ring her buzzer.
The buzzer crackles. “Hi—yep, come on up.”
I take the stairs two at a time because the elevator’s still possessed, not because I’m that excited to see her. But when she answers the door, she calls my bluff without saying a word.
She’s barefoot this time and her hair is down, falling around her face in sleek waves. And I swear she’s wearing a whisper of makeup that makes her eyes pop. The oversized hoodie is gone, replaced with fitted long-sleeve tee tucked into knit pants that cling in ways I don’t need to be cataloging.
“Hi,” she says, smiling like she’s been practicing it all afternoon. “I made cocoa.”
“Cocoa’s good.” I step inside. The place smells like sweet chocolate. She hands me a mug with a large marshmallow snowman floating belly-up with a melting, lopsided smile.
“Don’t judge me. I go a little over the top at Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday.”
I lift the cup in a small salute. “No complaints from me.”
Her gaze skims over me. “You look very… contractor-y.”
“Contractor-y?” My brow crooks and she laughs.
“I just mean with the tool belt and pencil behind the ear.” She nods toward it and I reach up to pull the pencil down.
I nod at her pants. “You look like you’re dressed to work this time.”
“I am.” She juts her chin out like she’s determined. “If I don’t help, I’ll forget how to be a functioning adult and start calling you to change lightbulbs. My pride can’t take that and I should probably learn a few new skills for life on my own.”
I should tell her no. Not because she can’t but because I don’t need her in my space or under my hands. Yesterday was already too close and I’m still trying to get her scent out of nose.
“We’ll go slow,” I say anyway. “Follow my lead. No hero moves this time.”
“Yes, sir.” She blushes. “I mean—yes. Sure.”
I don’t hide my smirk this time when she says it. But I do set the cocoa down before I forget what we’re doing and try to push things further. “Coffee table first. Then TV and pictures.”
She kneels on the rug like we’re about to perform surgery, tucking one leg under, neat and eager. “I got stuck at the part where the tiny cartoon man grows eight hands.”
“Cam locks and dowels.” I crouch opposite her, our knees almost touching. “Keep the arrows on the cams pointing toward the hole. Quarter turn only.”
She leans in, tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth while she slides a dowel home. “Like this?”
“Exactly.” My knuckles brush her fingers when I steady the panel.
The contact is minuscule but we both notice it.
We both go still for a beat, then I clear my throat and move on.
Pretty quickly, we find a rhythm: she feeds me hardware; I torque things down.
And every time our hands meet in the middle and her fingertips touch mine, I pretend that I don’t have to stop myself from grabbing her hand and tugging her into my lap.
“Flip,” I say. We roll the tabletop together. Her knee bumps mine as she reaches, and the hem of her shirt lifts just enough to flash a sliver of bare skin at her waist.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“You’re fine.” My voice drops a shade too low as my eyes stay steady on her waist. “Hold it there.”
How the fuck does an inch of skin have you tripping over your own tongue?
We slot the last leg and tighten the screws, finishing it in no time.
“Not bad, Simpson,” I say as we look at the finished table. “You might have a future in carpentry after all.”
She beams, running her hand over the edge of the table. “Aw, our first furniture baby.”
The corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. I stand and scan the room for our next project so I don’t fall into the easy, flirty banter that feels like it would flow naturally between us. “TV console is the second baby, right?”
Her eyes flash to mine the second I say the word baby. I heard it too, the way my voice dipped low. But then she blinks and smiles, pointing at a flat box on the other side of the room. “And if you’re up for it after the TV, the gallery wall and a full-length mirror need mounted.”
“TV first.” I grab my stud finder. “We’ll anchor the console so it doesn’t try to kill you.”
She leans against the wall, watching me slide the scanner over drywall. “I’m impressed you didn’t pretend to beep yourself.”
“Do I look like that kind of clown?” I say gruffly, followed by a wink. I pencil two marks. “Left of the outlet, center here. You okay to hold while I anchor?”
“Put me to work.”
I set the console upright and show her brace points.
We kneel shoulder to shoulder while I drive the first screws.
Her thigh presses into mine when she shifts, and my body misreads it like she meant to.
The smart thing would be to break the contact and readjust. Instead, I stay right where I’m at, pressing my thigh against hers.
“Keep pressure there.” My palm lands at her hip to square the panel.
It’s completely unnecessary and we both know it.
I should be ashamed at how unnecessarily handsy I’m being with her but my brain won’t let me the second I feel her warmth through the knit.
She inhales sharp and quick, her eyes falling down to where I’m holding her.
My hand wants to stay. It doesn’t get to.
“Good,” I say, moving back to the drill. “Don’t let it slip.”
“Not planning on it,” she answers, her voice a touch higher.
We finish the remaining mounts and I stand, tugging the frame to make sure it doesn’t move. “Done.”
She sits back on her heels, looking up at me, her cheeks pink. Before my brain tells me otherwise, I reach my hand down to help her up. She slides her delicate hand into mine and I tug her upward, way too hard. She gasps, tumbling right into my chest with a laugh.
“Fuck, sorry,” I apologize, my hands grabbing her upper arms to steady her.
“It’s okay. Just harder than I expected.” She laughs, reaching up to brush her hair out of her face and I do the same.
For some insane reason my hands are now tangled in her hair, attempting to smooth it back into place as she stares up at me with big, dangerous eyes. She freezes. So do I.
“You had some sawdust,” I lie, like that somehow makes it less intimate.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I point myself at the safest thing in the room, stepping several feet away from her. “Pictures and then done, right?”
“Yes, yes, um, pictures,” she says softly, a knowing smile starting to pull at her lips.
I lay frames on the floor, set the grid, and measure the spacing. “Eye level center line or bump it for ceiling height?”