I've Got Summer

F I V E

"I know where you live." I winked at him and turned around just in time for him to mutter, "Fair enough."

I was quick to hold the door open for him, thinking it would be painful for him to carry the monstrous thing for too long, and I walked up to open up the tailgate for him so he could slide it onto the bed with as much ease as when he picked it up from the floor.

Once the saw was secure on his truck, he nodded my way, without saying anything. He'd probably already overworked his tongue with the two sentences he'd said out loud so far. To be fair, it was three, but who was counting?

Not me.

I cleared my throat silently, trying to get rid of the rising tension in there as I walked back inside the shop and found my book on the counter where I left it. Chris followed, the loud thud of his boots making my spine chill. It was something else knowing a big brute of a man was walking behind me, and even more special was it to walk around the counter and face him, a loose strand of his dark brown hair coming out of the sleek pulled back look he was sporting. Probably from all the heavy lifting.

He was strong, without a doubt, and as he reached his arm out to hand me his card, I noticed the muscle in his forearm and imagined it holding around my waist as he pressed me into a wall. Like a willing prisoner inside his bulky cage.

My mouth was suddenly dry as I swiped his card and kept my eyes on the machine that took me ages to learn. I feared that if I looked at him again I'd end up with red cheeks, and I'd reveal my thoughts—though a part of me doubted he'd notice. He seemed as interested as a cactus, and when I'd finished charging him for the overly expensive tool, he barely even met my gaze as I smiled and thanked him for shopping at Bailey's.

Feeling brave, I asked, "Did you get that house to run away from something?"

"Excuse me?" He looked at me as if I'd grown three heads, or just simply caught him off guard with a way too personal question.

"Most visitors out here are running from something," I provided, shrugging, as I leaned my elbows on the counter. "Whether it's a crazy ex, mental health or something else entirely, I never really know before they disappear as quickly as they came."

Chris eyed me carefully, his brows turned down in a deep frown. "I'm not running," he said, his voice deeper. "I like the wilderness." He turned away from me, clearly finished with the conversation, and said, "Thanks," over his shoulder, like the polite gentleman he was.

As I leaned my chin on my hand and watched his bulky body move through my dad's shop, I found myself hoping he wasn't. But then the bell for the door chimed and I straightened up, picking my book back up, and forced myself to stop thinking about the manliness that reeked off him. It wasn't easy, but as soon as I was transported back into that nail-biting battle scene, the tattooed backside of his head was out of sight, out of mind.