Page 13 of Nailing Studs

He swallowed his bite, looking uncomfortable. “Why would I hate you? And this is delicious.” He took another bite and his eyes slid shut again, a groan coming from somewhere deep in his chest. I had instant fantasies of that mouth of his traversing the length of my body, but I remembered my promise to stay focused and not let these guys fill my head too much. I had plans. No-men-allowed plans.

But I also had hot builders salivating in front of me. For my cake, but still…

“Listen,” Dominic said after swallowing his second mouthful, “I’m sorry about my earlier behavior. I don’t hate you. It's that I have…stuff I’m going through. It’s not you, it’s me.”

We stared at each other a moment, then all three of us burst out laughing.

“‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ Really?” Taylor snorted.

“Watch it,” Dominic warned, an edge to his tone but a softness, too. Another chuckle escaped his lips, brushing over me as if it were silk on my skin.

Taylor was gorgeous when he laughed, but Dom… Maybe because he’d done nothing but glower at me since he’d been here, or maybe because I understood his pain, but seeing him laugh made me want to pumpmy fist in the air and run a victory lap.

“Angel food cake for the win,” I said, cutting a small slice for myself.

For a second, I imagined Grant giving me his warning look, like I probably shouldn’t eat it, because you know—weight gain. But that wasn’t why I’d moved to Fosterman. I’d moved here to start anew, find peace again, find myself—and all this beating myself up simply wouldn’t do.

I ate the slice of cake, judgment from my ex be damned, as the men finished scarfing down their slices.

When they asked if it was okay that they have another, I felt oddly happy. Tabitha was right—the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. For some men, at least.

I licked the last sticky drop of icing off my finger before saying, “Thanks for fixing the sink and doing the evaluation. Should I write you a check now?” In New York, a serviceman would’ve definitely insisted on full payment before leaving.

Taylor took Dominic’s plate and napkin. He threw the paper products in the trash bin and placed the plates in the sink. “I forgot to price the cost of the faucet before coming out here, so I’ll email you a bill for the sink repair tonight.” He gave me a cocky grin. “Besides, I know where you live.”

I was about to say,“Feel free to come whenever you like,” but some blessed, lifesaving rational part of my brain saved me from letting that slip from my lips. “Fair enough,” I said instead, managing to blush only slightly.

“Great cake,” Dom said to me, then to Taylor, “I’ll meet you in the truck.” He turned on his heel and left.

I stared after him, wanting to follow, annoyed that he hadn’t said thank you or a proper goodbye, but also sensing that his abruptness was a cover for something. He’d been hot and cold, smiling at me one minute and fleeing the next.

“Hey.” Taylor’s soft tone caught my attention. “Thank you, from both of us, for the treat.”

We stared at each other. There was no mistaking the attraction, and damn, did he smell good standing there. Like sandalwood or cedarwood or one of those delicious-smelling woods, as though being outside had activated his natural body scent.

“You’re welcome.”

“So, can you fill this top part out and sign right here? This means you acknowledge that we did the service and all that jazz.” He handed me his clipboard, where I jotted down my full name, cell number, and e-mail address.

When Taylor took it back, he added, “Again, it was great meeting you, Kayla. I see why Tabitha always raved about her niece in New York City.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I’ll get you the estimate on the cost for a full renovation tonight when I email you the bill for the faucet. Whatever you decide, whether it’s to sell the house or not, I hope we’ll see you again. If you decide to hire us to do the renovations, no doubt about it—you can trust us to do right by you.”

It was hard not to gulp at his words, so I just held my breath as he walked through the house toward the front door. I was sure he could do right by me. So sure of it, I couldn’t get the thought out of my brain. That was the whole problem.

* * *

Later that night I crawled into bed, listening to the now-familiar chirp of crickets and symphony of frogs, and reveling in a sense of ease and happiness as the cool air drifted through the open window along with the night sounds. Fosterman and the surrounding countryside was beautiful, serene, and being in Tabitha’s house once again had me aware of how much life could offer, and how willing I was to grab ahold of life instead of hide behind expectations. Yeah, sure,I needed to make plans to sell the house in case what I expected turned out to be true—I couldn't afford to fix it up and live here myself—but for now, at least, I was just happy to be here.

As I was about to drift off into sleep, I heard the ping of my phone.

Groggily, I checked the Caller ID, and felt flutters in my belly when the ID showed the text coming from the Fix-It Guys. It was probably from Taylor, but it could be from Dom, too, and I found myself equally excited by either possibility.

Then I saw the text was from Taylor, with an estimate for renovating the house that made my eyes bug out.

I read on, his text being rather lengthy. He specifically made notes about what he’d prioritize and the stages the construction would go through. He emphasized that not everything had to be done at once.

Sadly, even if I only looked at the first four items on his list, I still didn’t have the money to cover it and I couldn’t imagine finding a job anytime soon that would make a major difference. Besides paying for repairs to the house, I’d have to pay property taxes, eat, get a cheap car, and keep using my moderately-priced face cream that I splurged on but couldn’t live without. The writing was on the wall—I couldn’t afford to fix up the place, but someone else could.

I stared at my phone, wondering why Taylor had texted rather than e-mailed me the bid. He’d probably wanted me to see the bid right away, instead of having the quote languish away in my in-box. I worried my lip, knowing when I turned down hiring them, it meant I wouldn’t see Taylor or Dom ever again. My time in Fosterman was limited—a few weeks, tops, I figured, if the house sold as quickly as Taylor had indicated it might.