Page 38 of How Dare You

“So, you haven’t always done carpentry?” She runs her fingers along the edge of the chair she’s sitting in. One I built. “I’m surprised.”

Pride wells in my chest. “I always kept it up as a hobby, probably spent more time building furniture in my garage than anything else outside of work.”

We’re getting close to the point where I’ll have to tell her about quitting my job, about Crystal. There’s no shame in the fact that I loved someone, and it didn’t work out, but I can’t imagine how she’ll respond.

She rests her chin in her palm, notebook and pen forgotten. “Why build the house now?”

It takes me a while to figure out how to start, but she waits patiently. “Engineering was the right thing to do. It was steady. Pay was good. The benefits were good. But I liked it less and less every year, and it wore on me.” I take a deep breath. “The last couple years I was in a relationship. She never liked the idea of me quitting, or else I would have done it sooner.” I scan Devon’s face for any sign of her thoughts, but only see the briefest hint of surprise in the widening of her eyes. “Eventually, I’d done the ‘right’ thing for as long as I could, but it didn’t feel right anymore. So, I quit. She called off our engagement the next week, and within a month I had my trailer out here.”

She considers my story for a moment, then smiles. They’re coming so easily to her now, I’m losing count. “So, you come by your do the wrong thing mantra honestly.”

Now I’m smiling too. “I guess you could say that.”

Chapter 17

Day Five

Left early for my run. Be back by 7.

-Dev

Note on the whiteboard, August 25th

Devon

“Doing alright over here, mama?” Rhett leans against the framed wall casually enough to make me wonder how long he’s been standing there.

“Didn’t hear you walking over.” I smile up at him. “Been so focused.” I tap my pencil on my sketchbook where I’ve spent the morning working on the design for his kitchen by hand. I could have stayed behind at the trailer to use his computer and the Wi-Fi, but something about doing it old school with pencil and paper is soothing.

“You’ve been back here three hours already,” my charming, southern companion says. My eyes track his movements as he removes his blue Rangers cap, running calloused fingers through sweat-damp hair before tugging it back on with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Hadn’t noticed,” I say.

His accent is thick, voice low when he responds, “Oh, I think you noticed.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Get back to work, McCoy.”

“Alright,” he laughs. “But you have to eat something eventually. We have iced tea, strawberries, and sandwiches in the fridge in the garage.”

“Sounds good,” I say, getting back to work as he walks away down the hall. It would be easy to spend another three hours in this exact spot. The view from my current office and Rhett’s future bedroom is enviable. It sits on a corner, so one window faces the hill that separates his house from the trailer, scattered with Joshua Trees, sage brush, and smooth, wide rocks. Out the other window, there is nothing but desert for miles and miles. It’ll have an unobstructed view of the sunrise every day. But right now, if I angle my chair just right, I can get a direct eyeline into the kitchen, where Rhett’s corded muscular arms flex as he puts up dry wall.

Definitely working at the house because of the soothing nature of working with pencil and paper. No other reason. And I’m going to the kitchen for iced tea I’m not thirsty for because it’s polite to take what’s offered. Also, no other reason.

Rhett

Not ten minutes after I turn out the lights for the evening, Devon’s rolled over, wrapping her long leg around me, burrowing her face against my chest. It’s been almost a week of her nightly teasing. She’s not even pretending to sleep anymore, and I’m ready to collect on our bet.

“Devon,” I speak into the darkness where her face is nuzzled against my neck. She doesn’t budge. “I know you’re awake.” Still nothing.

I’ve been diligent about keeping my hands polite while she’s sleeping, but the time for being polite has passed. I bring my fingers in a slow path up and down the length of her spine, dipping lower on each pass as I continue to try to draw her out. “Two extra days together. What should we do with those, mama?” Her reactions when I use the pet-name range from excitement she thinks she’s concealed to irritation or indifference, but it’s not enough to make her crack. “Hmm, so you want to let daddy decide?” I swear I feel her heartbeat pick up where it’s pressed against my chest, but I can’t be sure.

I run my fingers down her arm, before tugging lightly on her sleeve. “You know this is my favorite shirt?” Her breathing stays deliberately steady, but I know she’s listening. “I wore it when I was bussing tables in high school. If fifteen-year-old Rhett could see it now, sliding off the shoulder of a leggy blonde goddess…” I let out a low whistle to finish the thought.

Now that I’ve given myself permission to touch her, I can’t stop. With one hand, I’m tracing a line around her arm, tight waist, and up and down her back. With the other, I test my luck, running it along the bare thigh she’s draped low across my shirtless torso. Either these are the tiniest shorts in existence, or she’s only wearing panties. I’m dying to find out.

Her breathing is even, but she presses more tightly into me, imperceptibly enough that she could deny it happened. But I’m locked onto her movements, and she is nuzzling closer to me. Fuck, this is nice. “I like it, you know. Holding you.”

She doesn’t say anything, not that I thought she would. Tender and emotional is not the way to get her attention, so I try something else. “And obviously, you like it too. You’ve been holding onto me every single night since you got here. Today was Sunday, right?” The question was rhetorical, but I still pause in case she decides to speak up. She doesn’t. “That makes this the sixth night in a row you couldn’t keep your hands off me. More than your hands actually. Your entire body is all over me.” I thrust my hips up for emphasis, bringing her even tighter against me and drawing her leg higher up my stomach. The heat of her center presses against my hip through a slip of silky fabric. Those have to be shorts, right?