Chapter 9
NINE
Chloe
I wonder if the earth could just open up already and swallow me whole. Could I possibly be so lucky?
“I stupidly freaked out over every single thing with the bathroom last night. My guilt-ridden, sex-starved brain turned everything Miles said, asked, or did into an over-the-top innuendo. I’m totally channeling my inner twelve-year-old boy,” I tell Kate as I hit the button to open the garage door.
I don’t know what time Miles is going to come. Come over. Get here. Jesus .
I obviously need more coffee. I pad back into the kitchen and pour myself another cup, groaning at the realization that Jake—my sweet, innocent baby boy—is just a year shy of this stage. Unless twelve-year-old-boy humor is the new eleven-year-old-boy humor.
“You don’t think Jake knows about sex, do you? God, I need to have the talk with him. Fuck me,” I whisper-shout into the phone.
Because my luck, timing, and Karma are all out to get me, the door from the garage opens, the doorway filled with a broad, bearded, muscled man. And to make matters worse, it’s Jack’s voice that echoes through my phone’s speaker.
“Want me to do it? If I screw it up with your kid, I should be able to adjust discussion points by the time I need to talk to my boys about dicks and chicks. You’re on speakerphone, by the way.”
I close my eyes, say a prayer, and do a round of box breathing.
Inhale for a count of four.
Hold.
Exhale for a count of four.
Hold.
When I slide my eyes open, Miles looks like he’s fighting hard to hold in his laugh.
“Thanks for that, Jack. You are, too. And now, I need to run. My friend’s here to help with the house,” I say. “Bye. Love you guys.” I tap the screen, ending the call, desperate to keep my embarrassment to a manageable level.
“Good morning,” Miles says. He’s still trying—and failing—to stuff down a laugh. The way it pushes his cheeks high and lights up his eyes is a good look on him. “How was everything this morning? Enjoy your shower?” Casual as can be, he arches a brow and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans.
I swear I can feel my blush rising from my chest, up my neck, and flushing my face bright red. Why the interest in my damn shower? He can’t know I was thinking about him in there the other night, can he? And if he does know, why the hell would he get rid of my handheld shower? A girl—well, a single mom—only has so much at her fingertips for a quick orgasm on the down- low. God knows, if I had a vibrator hidden away, Jake would find it and ask all the questions.
I drop my head forward, staring very intently at his work boots, because for the love of all things good and holy, I cannot look him in the eye. “It was fine.”
He snorts a laugh through his nose and mutters, “Hate that word,” under his breath.
“It was great. Perfect. Absolutely no complaints.” I lift my coffee mug, desperate for a different focus. “Can I get you a cup?”
“Nah, I’m good. I just wanted to let you know I’m here.” He turns back toward the garage and pauses, his fingers drumming against the door. “For what it’s worth, Jake probably knows more than you think about sex.” He chuckles softly as he disappears through the door.
As the door closes, I stand in the middle of my kitchen, not sure whether I want Miles to be right or utterly wrong. Maybe I should take Jack up on his offer. The guys from Dallas’s team swore to me at the funeral that they would do anything I needed. Help in any way. But do I really want a bunch of hard-charging, testosterone-filled, alpha males to explain the birds and the bees to my kid? Probably not.
I know I should go out there with Miles and clean the garage—I can practically smell the mildew from here—but I just can’t. I need a minute to tame my embarrassment, so I crank some music and give my house the deep clean that it desperately needs. I’m not sure how it can be as filthy as it is when we’ve only lived here for a few months. And where do all the lids to the storage containers go? I know for a fact that when I packed things up in New York, I got rid of anything that didn’t have a match. Stray lid with no bottom? Gone. Bottom with no matching lid? Out it went. And somehow, it feels like they’ve not just returned, but also multiplied.
I set to work with the matching game, making myself comfortable on the countertop so I can reach. This is one of the chores I should hand off to Jake. I need some help around here.
A crash echoes in the garage, followed by a loud, “Shit.”
I hop down and swing the door open.
Nothing in life could have prepared me for what greets my eyes. Sweet baby Jesus in a manger.
Low-slung jeans riding a tad lower due to the heavy tool belt testing gravity. Sweat-slicked muscle packed on top of sweat-slicked muscle, all barely contained beneath a tight gray t-shirt.
My mouth goes dry at the image of male perfection grunting in my garage.
For the first time in ages, I feel like a teenage girl lusting after her crush instead of a single mom. I can do this. It’s okay. Perfectly natural to have thoughts about Miles. To desire… something.
“Are you all right? I heard a crash,” I ask from the threshold.
Miles is standing on a raised platform, arms extended over his head, holding a huge sheet of drywall to the ceiling. A beam of lumber lies to one side, and screws are strewn across the floor.
“Yeah, I’m fine, but can you grab that two-by-four support and shove it up under that end of this sheet?” He nods his head, indicating what he’s talking about and where he needs it. He shifts under the awkward weight he’s balancing overhead, causing his shirt to lift, showing a hint of dark hair on his tight abs.
I should hurry, move with a little quickness to jump in and help him out, but the flood of lusty hormones seems to slow down my brain.
“Chloe? You gonna help me out here or what?”
“Mmm, yep.” I blow out a breath and get my ass in gear. The T-shaped support is heavier than it looks, and I struggle to get it upright and wedged under the sheetrock. “Like this?” I ask.
“Yeah, just grab the base and push it, so it’s in there good and tight,” Miles grunts out the words.
I know what he means. I know it’s innocent enough, and he just needs to make sure the unwieldy thing is fully supported before he lets go. I know all of this, but none of that matters.
My immature sense of humor bubbles back up from where I tried so hard to stuff it down earlier. Maybe his word choice was on purpose? Maybe we’re flirting, and I’m just so out of practice that I’m missing the cues?
I glance up quickly, and all I see is the pinch of concentration.
I roll my lips between my teeth and bite down, trying hard to act my age.
With a groan, I push at the bottom of the lumber until Miles huffs out, “That’s it, right there,” and then it’s all over for me.
I step back and slip on some scattered screws, falling to the floor. My knee lands smack in the middle of a handful of screws, and pain radiates through my leg. “Shit. Damn it. Ow, ow, ow,” I say, half crying, half laughing as I tip over onto my butt.
Miles jumps down from the platform and skates his hands down my back. Across my arms. Barely making contact until his palm meets the knee of my leggings and comes away, smeared with blood.
“Hold still,” he says.
He grabs the cotton and pulls. And just like that, my leggings rip, giving way as Miles wrenches the material apart, not stopping until the edge of my panties is exposed. He ignores my gasp of surprise as he whips off his shirt and gently dabs at the broken skin. A stinging pinch, and then the slight burn dissipates as he pours water from a half-empty bottle over the cut. After the aggression with which Miles destroyed my pants, his gentle and delicate touch is almost unexpected.
“Can you bend it?” he asks softly, sliding one hand around my calf and the other up to support my thigh.
How can such big, calloused hands be full of so much care?
“I can,” I rasp.
When I try to stand, Miles adjusts his hands, applying pressure to keep me in place. “I asked if you could bend your knee, not if you could stand up.”
There’s heat in his eyes that reflects my own. He moved me. Kept me where I was, where he wanted me. He manhandled me in the most delicious way.
Our eyes lock as he scoops me up into his arms. He stands, cradling me close to his chest as if it takes no effort at all, and makes his way through the garage and into the kitchen. Feeling the muscles I was ogling earlier bunch and shift against my body has me hot, bothered, and swooning, all at the same time.
Miles sets me on the kitchen counter, placing my injured leg along the breakfast bar. “First aid kit? Need to get this cleaned. Sterilized.” The efficiency of his words matches the efficiency of his movements.
“It’s in the half bathroom, under the sink,” I say, breathless from the way he palms my leg before stepping away. My fingers curl around the edge of the granite, holding on for dear life, because the things I’m feeling right now have me reeling.
Miles returns, clearing a space on the counter, and sets to work, inventorying my kit. “We need to restock this thing,” he mumbles half to himself. He scrubs his hands twice over, steam billowing from the faucet. “Need some gloves in here. Better antiseptic that’s not past its expiration date.” He turns back to me, wedging himself between my thighs, his attention on the blood spilling from my knee. He dabs and blots and then shifts me, so my injured leg spans the sink. He leans into my leg that’s hanging off the counter, essentially trapping me there. “Deep breath,” he says.
As I fill my lungs, he opens the tap, directing the water at my gaping wound. And if that isn’t bad enough, he pulls at the edges of the split skin, opening things up and dousing it, cleaning it even more thoroughly. I whimper pathetically. Tears spring to my eyes, and I start to pant with a bastardized version of Lamaze breathing.
“Almost done. Switch to box breaths. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Hold.” He glances up, locking his gaze on mine.
“I know what—” My lips slam shut as he pumps antibacterial soap onto his hands and dribbles the suds over my leg, lighting it up with fire yet again.
“Breathe.” He pulls a slow breath in, holds it, and then blows it out through perfectly pursed lips. He nods on the next breath when I match his inhale, completing several rounds of the exercise. “Helps, right? SEALs use that to reduce anxiety and stress.” His fingers work deftly, drying my skin, pinching it together, and applying a neat row of butterfly closures. He gathers the trash and throws it all away before washing his hands, and then he leans into the counter next to my foot. “You doing okay?”
His eyes bore into mine, assessing. The deep brown pools pull me in, and once again, my breaths come in shallow pants. His hand slides along the outside of my leg, skimming lightly along my bared skin. He moves forward, following the path his touch maps on my leg, wedging his hips closer to me with each step.