4. Chapter 4 #3
But something shifted in her expression—something softer. Warmer. She was starting to look at him the way she looked at the walls he’d fixed—like she was starting to believe in their strength.
“You’re damn good at it,” she said.
Their eyes locked. She glanced at his hands—powdered in white dust. Then to his arms, still taut from lifting. His shirt clung to the sweat down his spine.
She looked hungry.
Then—she looked away.
Heath exhaled. Hard. His body was a fucking riot of impulse and heat, and he hadn’t even touched her. Not really.
And then she moved. Reached for the tape again. Her hip brushed his thigh, the contact electric.
He didn’t step back. Didn’t breathe.
“Easy, tiger,” he said, his voice a rasp.
She froze. Then slowly, deliberately, she turned to face him.
Her eyes sparkled with challenge. With something else. “Worried about personal space?”
He arched a brow. “Only when my client starts pressing hers into me.”
“I don’t think we’re in danger of an HR complaint.”
“Didn’t say we were.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The tension between them was coiled so tight it buzzed.
Then she stepped back.
“I need water,” she said, too casually. “You?”
“I’m good.”
Heath didn’t watch her go.
Didn’t follow.
Just stood there, the drill still in his hand, drywall dust clinging to his knuckles.
His jaw was locked. His body rock hard. His mind screaming one simple truth:
He wasn’t here for this.
Heath watched her walk out, every muscle in his body coiled tight. The room felt smaller with her gone, like the air had thickened around him, leaving nothing but drywall dust and the scent of her skin in her wake.
He muttered a curse under his breath and ran a hand down his face. Fucking hell.
He dropped the drill, let it hang by his side, and stared at the section of exposed studs like it might bite him. His pulse hadn’t spiked like this since the last time someone tried to drop a frag in his lap. Maddie McAuley wasn’t a bomb—but she sure as hell had the same effect.
He crouched again, reaching for the joint compound, trying to reset. Focus. Breathe. He wasn’t here to get wrapped up in someone else’s storm. Not again. And definitely not her.
She was Natalie’s friend. A job. A favor. A woman in the middle of rebuilding her life—none of which involved getting tangled up with a guy who spent half his nights in the Pacific and the other half covered in scars, sawdust, and regrets.
But fuck, she was magnetic.
And when she walked back in—water bottle in hand, that same flush still lingering on her cheeks—he didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked to where he’d braced his forearm on the wall, veins raised, muscles tight.
He didn’t miss anything.
She stepped close, handing him a fresh mug of coffee. “This one’s not cold,” she said, soft but pointed. “No excuses now.”
He took it, brushing her fingers in the exchange. Brief. Barely there.
Felt like a goddamn sparkplug to his system.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rougher than intended.
She leaned a hip against the opposite wall, sipping her water. Watching him.
He set the coffee down and grabbed the putty knife. “I’m gonna show you how to mud these seams,” he said, as level as he could manage. “You’ve got one chance to do it clean. Otherwise, we’re sanding for days.”
“Sounds like pressure.”
“It is.”
She moved to stand beside him again, close enough that her bare arm grazed his as she leaned in. No apology. No space. Just heat.
“So,” she said, low. “Do I spread this like peanut butter? Or frosting?”
He stared at her.
She smirked.
He bit back a groan.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, pushing the knife through the compound and laying a smooth coat across the joint.
“Frosting then,” she murmured. “Got it.”
He handed her the second blade. “Here. Try it.”
She took it. His hand lingered a second too long on hers. She didn’t pull away.
And when she leaned in, trying her first pass at the seam, her backside brushed his thigh.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t say a word.
Just stood there, braced and tense, hyper-aware of every inch of her.
“You gonna hover the whole time?” she asked.
“Making sure you don’t wreck my work.”
She glanced up at him, lashes thick, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Right. Strictly professional.”
Heath laughed, stepping back, sipping his coffee.
He kept his focus on the rest of the walls and how he planned on securing the other two-by-fours in place, but his attention kept snagging back to her. The way she moved, the way she didn’t reveal much—like she was keeping herself carefully contained, giving away nothing.
That was the thing about Maddie McAuley. And for some reason, that just made him more curious.
“So, McAuley,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “What’s your deal? Where do you work? What do you do?”
“God, don’t even ask.”
“You really don’t say much about yourself.”
She shrugged, taking another slow sip of water, as if stalling. “Not much to say.”
Heath huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Hm.”
“Come on.” She frowned, lips pressing into a thin line. “Not everyone likes spilling their life story to a guy they just met.”
“Fair enough.” He adjusted the framing, reaching for the drill. “But usually, people at least feign some polite interest in people they are sharing air with.”
He expected a quick comeback, some half-sarcastic retort.
Instead, she hesitated.
And that’s when he realized—she hadn’t asked him a damn thing about himself. Not once.
He saw the exact second it hit her, too.
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle. She opened her mouth, like she was going to say something, then stopped.
Heath wiped his hands on his jeans, watching her closely.
“You’re married?” He kept his voice easy, his stance relaxed, like it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t even look at her at first, just let his gaze flick down—to the ring still sitting on her finger. “Kids, too?”
She froze.
Bingo.
The reaction was immediate—stiff shoulders, parted lips, eyes flickering with something sharp and unreadable.
He rolled a shoulder, keeping the delivery light. “Natalie didn’t say much about you, except that you’re married, that right?”
The silence that followed was heavy.
She looked like he’d just knocked the air out of her.
For a second, he thought she might tell him. That she’d take the bait, give him something real.
Instead, her jaw locked, and without a word, she turned and stormed out of the room.
* * * * *
Maddie left the room like it was on fire.
She didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked, fast and tight-limbed, her pulse jackhammering in her throat, each step echoing in the bones of the house like it knew she was coming apart. Her bare feet hit the kitchen tile and stopped cold.