Fix Her Up (The Fix Book 1) by Carey Heywood

Author:Carey Heywood [Heywood, Carey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carey Heywood LLC
Published: 2017-05-23T18:30:00+00:00

12

Noah

After finally kissing her, leaving Finley last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I wanted to take her home and to my bed. As much as I want her, I would have been happy just sleeping beside her. The only reason I did leave her was because she said we could talk this morning.

I park in front of her house, a place that feels more like home at this point than my own. By the time I make it to the front door, she’s opening it.

“Good morning,” I murmur, wanting to kiss her again but wanting her to slam the door in my face even less.

“Hey. Come on in,” she replies, her tone uncertain.

Each time I enter her home the magnitude of the changes we’ve made strikes me. The bulk of the renovation to her first floor is complete. It’s taken three months of working almost every night and on the weekends. All that’s left is to finish furnishing and decorating.

Upstairs, the walls are up and primed, plus the floors are down. We need to do some more painting and install her hall bath.

We’ve done so much, part of me is scared she doesn’t need me anymore. She can paint on her own and leave the hall bath until she can hire someone or, after helping on the master, try to tackle it on her own.

If she doesn’t kick me out it’s because she wants more than my ability to swing a hammer.

“I made some muffins,” Finley offers, gesturing toward her kitchen.

With a nod, I catalog her stance, her expression and her tone. I’m on edge waiting to see what she’ll say, but she’s cool as a cucumber.

She twists, her movements smooth as she walks away from me. I follow her.

“About last night,” I start.

She looks over her shoulder at me, her hazel eyes weary and shakes her head. “I need more coffee first.”

Her putting off our conversation for coffee is both infuriating and endearing. This isn’t the first Saturday morning I’ve been over here this early. Her coffee first demand isn’t new.

“Of course.”

We move together well in her kitchen, reminding me that this isn’t our first dance. I’m hyperaware of her body in relation to mine. Her dark chocolate locks are pulled up in a ponytail and she wears loose track pants and a snug tank.

The material of the straps on the back of her shirt coming up in a t-shape, and the thick straps of an exercise bra visible on either side of it. There’s something about the small vision of creamy skin exposed between each strap that makes me unable to look away.

My eyes glide over her skin in ways I wish my hands could.

Her hands hug her coffee mug as she walks into her den. I follow with a mug of my own and a plate of muffins. When she sits I pause. Her couch is a sectional and could easily seat seven adults. Do I sit next to her or give her space?

Patting the cushion to her right, she answers my unspoken question.

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