Page 50 of When Sky Breaks
This room is too stifling, too full of memories. Perhaps drowning in reality TV will help relieve me of this…I don’t know what the fuck to call it.
After a few minutes of getting my heart rate back to normal, I open my door and stride down the hall on a mission to find the most mindless and brain-numbing show ever when I skid to a stop at the threshold into the living room. August is in my kitchen, head bent back, a glass at his lips as he sucks down water.
Goodness, was his throat that sexy before?
If nothing else, it’s a kiss—punch-worthy throat.
He finishes and turns to the sink—completely ignoring me, or maybe he hasn’t seen me—and washes the cup. Once he’s done, he sets it on the towel next to the sink, looking extra familiar in my home. Like he’s been here a lot.
Finally, he faces me. The only acknowledgment I get is a small nod before he heads outside, the sliding glass door closing on a quiet snick.
Absolutely baffled, I plop on the couch and turn on the TV, not even paying a lick of attention to anything that comes across the screen. I’m too hyperaware of the man outside.
Thirty minutes later, and still no luck getting lost in a show. I jump when the garage door to the house opens, and in he comes with a ladder, his biceps bulging under the weight, sweat beading on his forehead. That stupid lock of hair once again flops over his forehead.
He sets up the ladder right underneath the ceiling fan directly in front of the couch I’m sitting on. Another trip to the garage and he comes in carrying a wide box and sets it on the end of the couch.
After too many tension-filled seconds, he slides his gaze to me and scratches the back of his neck. “I have to cut the power to the living room.”
I stare and give him a stiff nod, no words making their way from my mouth.
The power off means the TV doesn’t work. The only option is to watch him or go back to my room. My ass refuses to move from the couch. This is my house, dammit.
He’s halfway through changing out the old fan for a new one before I can’t take the silence anymore. It’s thicker than the fog this morning.
“What are you doing?”
He pauses, lowering his arms, but doesn’t look at me. “Replacing the fan.”
“And the deck?”
“It needed new boards before someone fell through it.”
“But why?”
He eases down a few steps and turns, sitting on the bottom one, his long legs spread out in front of us, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. A screwdriver dangles in one hand. This shift sends his scent over me.
Irish Spring.
Wishing I could hold my breath, I move slightly on the couch, my cheeks warming at how close he is, his shoes almost touching mine.
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out already, Miss Mystery Reader.” He twirls his finger all over the room, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
I scrunch my eyebrows. Suddenly, I think about the new kitchen sink and the faucet that no longer leaks. The shiny wood shutters and lamppost that no longer flicker outside. The replaced fence boards. “It was you? Fixing all the stuff around here?” My pulse picks up.
He nods.
“So you’re like…friends with Foster?”
He shrugs and stares at his hands, twirling the screwdriver between his fingers. “You could say that, yes.”
“For how long?”
He hesitates before blowing out a breath. “At least half a year. Maybe more.”
I leap to my feet, staring down at him. “You’ve been around here this whole time?”
“Until you and Trek came home, yes. Foster needed—wanted some help.” He leaves it at that, but I can infer. August was here for Foster because I wasn’t. But I wasn’t because of the very man in front of me.