Chapter 9
Nine
Skylar
I wake to the face of a black cat on my stomach, who doesn’t care about my sore muscles.
“You want food,” I say to the purring monster, rolling up into a sitting position.
Nirvana hops off the bed and chirps at me until I shuffle from my tiny bedroom into the hallway and finally into the kitchen to open a fresh can of paté. This is the only time of day he’s not aloof with me.
I took him after he showed up on my porch one day during a freak ice storm.
The power was out for days, and we kept each other warm.
Once the power was on and he realized I was going to feed him regularly no matter what, he was less cuddly.
He’s the embodiment of “Oh well, whatever, never mind,” hence the name.
As I watch Nirvana eat his food, I wait for my coffee to brew and think my thoughts.
Finn put me through my paces yesterday. After that unexpected makeout session, he was all business.
He picked up on how my energy shifted, too. When he said “fucking mine,” I felt that thing I’m not supposed to feel. My mind knows how to differentiate between flirting and real feelings. I always keep it light, fun, and frothy.
But possessive dirty talk blurs the lines. When Finn said “fucking mine,” a wave of safety washed over me. Closeness. Attachment.
Well, Skylar Morris doesn’t get attached. I don’t date. What I do is flirt with whoever I choose, and if something fun happens, it happens. And I get on with my life. I don’t fall into relationships.
The aroma of fresh coffee fills the room, giving me another thought.
God, I’m such an idiot that I didn’t see it.
Clearly, Finn had a moment of clarity and realized we shouldn’t be acting that way on the job site. I threw myself at him, creating a hazardous work environment, when he’s just ending three weeks of hell because of an accident with his workers.
What was I thinking? That’s just the problem. I wasn’t. Finn is another one of those deep thinkers. And I’m not. All the more reason to be careful with this man. One of us is going to get hurt if we don’t keep things professional and emotionally surface-level.
I pour my coffee, happy to have an explanation for Finn’s shift in tone yesterday.
Because I’ve never encountered a man who turned down an opportunity for a quick handy, and it wasn’t because he suddenly wasn’t into me. The way my boobs got three tiny hickeys makes that pretty clear.
No, I clearly rattled him, I think as I take the first sip of coffee. Finn is a professional, and I need to respect that.
Just then, I receive a text from Finn.
Finn
We have to get some actual work done today. No flirting, OK?
So bossy, he is.
I reply:
Then I suggest you not wear that slutty tool belt, sir.
Honestly, if he doesn’t want the consummate flirt to show up today, I shouldn’t be there at all.
By all rights, I should be frolicking in the flowers today. It’s May third, and today, I turn 30.
Instead, I’m hot and bothered in my kitchen. I lean over the sink and open a window to let in the cold morning air.
Nirvana finishes his breakfast and winds around my legs. He does one, two, three figure eights, then lets me pet him for exactly eleven seconds. He nips at my fingers and skulks away to his bed at the living room window.
We have a lot of shelves to assemble today, so I’d better get dressed and ready to go, and wonder if I’m going to walk into a thirst trap again.
Good for me, I think, as I pull on my second pair of jeans in a week. I miss my skirts, cute tops, and non-rugged shoes.
I’m growing. This is growth.
I’m turning over a new leaf, and I like that about me.
I think.
“Skylar, what are you doing?”
“I’m just bringing sustenance, that is all,” I say, laying on the officious tone rather thick.
I deliver the tray of drinks and box of donuts wearing a very non-flirty outfit — baggy jeans, messy hair, hoodie, and an oversized T-shirt that’s been stretched out all to hell. As for Finn, he’s done me a favor and put on an actual shirt today.
But damn that tool belt. And what is underneath it is the most wonderful tool of all, if I had to guess.
Finally, he smiles and sets down his hammer. “Thank you, Strawberry.”
I inch closer. “You called me Strawberry.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you called me yesterday when you were, uh…”
“Skylar. We said we weren’t going to go there again.”
“You said Strawberry, not me!”
“OK. It was an accident. Sometimes when I’m around you, I forget myself. I start…stumbling and bumbling.”
I grin and bat my lashes. “Doesn’t bode well for my carpenter to say he feels unsteady on his feet.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“OK.”
“You smell too good for a job site,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“Golly. Should I leave?”
“No. But we need boundaries. Today, no kissing. No touching. Just work.
Hammers and nails, screws and drill bits.”
He’s so serious. It’s adorable. “Why do all the bits of construction work sound so sexy? Screws. Studs. Nails. Wood…”
“Skylar.”
“Sorry. What are we doing today, boss?”
I really do appreciate a man who sets clear boundaries and sticks to them. There’s a certain kind of safety in that.
Boundaries are good. Let’s both have boundaries. No more flirting. No more kissing…or staring…or touching…or sniffing…or licking.
Somebody open a window, because it’s getting hot in here.