“You guessed, not me, and when is she going to tell Stephen?”
“Probably a split second before you say ‘I do.’ It would satisfy our sister-in-law’s sense of drama. Picture it. Gender reveal by way of wedding objection.” With Georgie laughing in her ear, Bethany checked the rearview mirror in time to see Wes’s truck turn into the driveway. “Tomorrow night, Georgie. There might even be more to tell by then.”
“Are you sure? I was kind of hoping for right the hell now.”
“One does not simply bandy wine before noon.”
“It’s my pre-wedding week,” Georgie disagreed. “Day drinking is not only allowed, but encouraged. I’ve already got Rosie on the other line awaiting a time and locale.”
“Are you avoiding working on your vows?”
“Yes, of course I am!”
Bethany snorted. “See you tomorrow, nutcase.”
She cut off her sister mid-wail and schooled her features, climbing out of her car at the same time Wes unfolded his lean, muscled body out of his truck. Momentarily forgetting about the professionalism she wanted to present, her traitorous gaze wandered up the worn material of his dusty jeans, taking its time moving over his thick thighs and the old gray T-shirt where it brushed his hard-working zipper.
Come on, she couldn’t help but notice the way those metal teeth strained to keep his package from unwrapping itself.
Men from Long Island wore looser jeans.
He was living here now—shouldn’t he abide by the customary wardrobe?
Annoyed at the steam swirling in her belly, Bethany zoomed her attention to his face with resolve, only to catch his knowing wink. “Here I am, boss,” he said gruffly. “Put me to work.”
She was silent for a full minute.
What body language did a woman display when she got wet? Did she press her thighs together or lick her lips? Do not do any of those things. Stand still. Just let the moisture spread and those intimate muscles coil without any outward reaction.
Bethany cleared her throat and focused on preparing her words. This morning might have moved faster than the speed of light, but she’d had some time to think on the drive to her solo flip. She’d always kind of disregarded Wes’s advances as something of a joke being played at her expense. How many times had he made cracks about her age? Sometimes she believed that he was physically interested in her, and other times she told herself not to be sucked into whatever game he was playing. Still, just in case he was really interested in taking her to bed, she needed to manage his expectations.
“Wes?”
“Yes, Bethany.”
“If you volunteered to help me thinking it might be a nifty little inroad to sleeping together, you can forget it. Even if I wasn’t on a voluntary man hiatus, it wouldn’t be happening.”
Her stomach knitted waiting for his response. Why was she so worried he might disappoint her and renege on his offer to help? They didn’t have the kind of relationship where one could let the other down. They didn’t have a relationship, period.
Wes’s expression hadn’t changed a single iota. And it remained impassive as he used a booted foot to push off his truck. “If we’re going to work together,” he responded slowly, “you’re going to start giving me a little more credit.”
“Um, okay? Let me sift through the sexual innuendoes you’ve been making for a month and find this credit you speak of.”
He sliced a hand through the air between them. “Sex is off the table.”
Bethany reared back, truly awkward sounds sputtering in her throat. “It was never on the table, cowboy.”
His skeptical expression said he thought otherwise, but he wisely refrained from voicing his incorrect opinion out loud. “Look. I’m attracted to you, Bethany. Like hell. Would I like to spend a couple sweaty afternoons with you in the sack finding out if you fuck as well as you fight, yeah. I really would. But I wouldn’t use this job as leverage to make it happen. So like I said, sex is off the table now.”
“This isn’t going to work,” she wheezed.
“Because you want sex on the table?”
“Stop phrasing it like that! It’s sex. Not a placemat.” This was already spiraling out of control. “And this isn’t going to work because of the way you—”
“Get under your skin like an itch you can’t find with two hands? Feeling’s mutual and I can’t do anything about that.” He held out his palm faceup. “Keys?”
“Drop dead.”
Wes was already striding past her. “I only spent a year working construction when I was nineteen, but it was enough to know this. First thing you’re going to want to do is give this flip a name. Personalize it. Make it matter.” He reached the front door, stopped, backed up, then kicked it open while Bethany gaped. “How does War of the Roses sound? Seems appropriate.”
Bethany hustled past Wes into the house, careful not to brush against him. “Now who’s making old-timey film references?”
“I’m not too proud to suck up to the boss . . .”
Wes’s voice trailed off when he stepped into the house beside Bethany.
Their sight adjusted to the lack of light at the same time.
“Shit,” they whispered in unison.
They might as well have been standing outside. Bethany didn’t know where to look first. The dirt caking the walls and floor? The boulder-sized hole in the ceiling, complete with tree branches snaking inside and growing along the exposed beams? Two windows were broken. The drip-drip-drip of water came from down the hallway, which was especially ominous because it hadn’t rained in a week.
“We’re calling it the Doomsday Flip.” She sensed Wes watching her.
“We?”
Bethany hedged. “I don’t think I can . . . well, that is to say, surely one person couldn’t tackle this alone, so . . .”
“Hate to break it to you, darlin’, but I don’t think two people can tackle this one. Not if you want to stick to a reasonable time frame.” He squinted his right eye. “We have a hiring budget?”
There was no mistaking the easing of pressure in her chest when he used the word “we.” “Considering Travis gifted me the house, it’s a pretty healthy budget. We can afford additional labor.” She shifted. “But I want to make the decisions.”
He nodded once. “I’m hearing you, Bethany.”
How was this the same man who talked so bluntly about fucking back in the driveway? Who was Wes Daniels? A crass, innuendo-cracking good ol’ boy? An honorable guy who showed up to raise his niece at a moment’s notice and Zellweger’d in front of his bros? He vacillated too quickly between the opposite sides of himself. God help her if there were more layers to this man. Two was already confusing enough.
Wes produced a pencil from behind his ear and a notebook from his back pocket, flipping it open to the middle. “Let’s talk floor plan. What do you have in mind?”
You would think she’d never set foot inside a house before. Or logged a million hours listening to Stephen and her father talk measurements and layout. The very fundamentals of construction had been her bedtime stories. Now, given a blank canvas for the first time, as soon as she had a burgeoning idea, she discarded it, mentally citing a reason someone wouldn’t like it. Or it wouldn’t be exactly right. How long had she been standing there in silence, staring at the walls and begging them to inspire her?