3. Maple
three
Maple
Monday morning arrives with the sound of a diesel engine in my driveway.
I peek through the kitchen window to see Flint unloading tools from his truck, moving with purposeful efficiency.
Even his work clothes look good on him, faded jeans that hug his muscled thighs, a grey Henley that stretches across his broad chest.
Ally presses her nose to the glass beside me. "Who's that man, Mommy?"
"That's Mr. Miller. He's going to fix our house."
"He's really big."
Yes, he is . And I have no business noticing exactly how big, or how his muscles flex as he hefts a heavy toolbox, or how his dark hair falls across his forehead when he bends down.
I'm a thirty-two-year-old single mother with more responsibilities than money. The last thing I need is to develop a crush on the contractor.
Even if he is the most attractive man I've ever seen.
By the time I've gotten Ally off to school and returned home, Flint has already started excavating around the southeast corner. He works without a shirt now, sweat gleaming on his tanned back as he carefully removes stones from the failing foundation.
I force myself to go inside and focus on my work—freelance graphic design that pays the bills but leaves me flexible enough to be available for Ally.
But every sound from outside draws my attention.
The scrape of his shovel. The thud of stones being set aside.
The low rumble of his voice when he talks to himself while working.
At ten-thirty, I give up pretending to concentrate and take him a glass of iced tea.
He straightens when he sees me coming, accepting the glass with a nod of thanks. Up close, he's even more impressive—broad chest dusted with dark hair, corded forearms, abs that could double as armor plating. A thin scar runs from his left shoulder to his collarbone, and I wonder what put it there.
"How's it going?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
"About what I expected." He drains half the glass in one pull. "Original builders cut corners. Used mortar that's mostly sand, didn't dig deep enough for proper drainage."
"Is that why it's failing?"
"Part of it. Time and weather did the rest." He sets the glass down and crouches beside the excavation. "See this?"
I lean closer, catching his scent—clean sweat, wood smoke, something essentially masculine that makes my pulse quicken. He points to where water has pooled against the foundation.
"No proper drainage means water sits against the stones. Freeze-thaw cycles push them apart. Do that enough winters, and..." He gestures at the collapsed section.
"But you can fix it?"
"I can fix it." His certainty is absolute, reassuring. "Take time, but it'll be solid when I'm done. Probably outlast the house itself."
There's pride in his voice, quiet satisfaction in good work properly done. I find myself wondering what it would be like to have that confidence directed at other things. At me.
"I should let you get back to work," I say, reaching for the empty glass.
Our fingers brush as he hands it back, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm. His grey eyes darken, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged with possibility.
Then he steps back, breaking the spell.
"I'll need to cut power to the kitchen for a few hours tomorrow," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Working close to the electrical box."
"No problem. I'll work from the coffee shop."
He nods and turns back to his excavation, dismissing me. But I catch him watching from the corner of his eye as I walk back to the house, and I can't help but smile.
Maybe this project will be more interesting than I thought.