“And some things do,” I point out, giving him a look. “Seriously, why are you here?”
“I have business with Violet. Remember?”
“That’s bullshit anyway, but she’s not here. You’ll have to come back later.”
“Is that an invitation?” he laughs.
“Did it sound like one?” My arms cross over my chest and I’m aware it makes my boobs look bigger. As his eyes drop and catch the top of my cleavage, his gaze burns a trail on the ascent back up to my eyes.
Satisfaction paints a smug look on my face and desire burns in the apex of my thighs. As discreetly as possible, I clench my legs together to quell a bit of the ache that’s beginning to throb under his observation.
When our gazes meet, his is crackling. He lifts a single brow. “I damn sure hope that’s an offer to come. If it’s not, we have a problem on our hands.”
“No, you have a problem on your hands,” I say, shrugging. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“It could.”
I’m smart enough to know that at times like this, it’s not always my brain that gets to my mouth first. Logic sometimes isn’t quite as quick as my libido. Knowing that, I don’t respond and instead drop back to my knees and finish picking up the inventory.
Much to my surprise, Ford joins me on the floor. His arm muscles bulge under the sleeves of his shirt as he stretches and reaches for the stacks I created a few minutes ago. I try not to stare, make every effort not to accidentally brush against him or make any sort of physical contact at all. I might combust on the spot.
His next question catches me off guard. “How’s your dad?”
I pause, holding the last few scarves in my hand. “He’s good.” I force a swallow. “Hanging in there.”
“You know, every time I go fishing, I think of that man.” He leans back on his arms, stretching his long le
gs out in front of him. “Remember when we went out to Longs Chapel Road and he got that huge fishing lure stuck in his hand?”
“I forgot about that,” I laugh. “It was so gross. I panicked, do you remember? I was crying and trying to get you to drive him to the emergency room.”
Ford’s laugh melds with mine. “Yeah, and your dad was like, ‘Take me to my brother’s house.’ Your Uncle Larry cut it out with a knife.”
We wince at the same time, remembering the pseudo-operation performed on my uncle’s bathroom countertop.
“He’s lucky he didn’t lose a hand over that,” I point out.
“He took it like a champ. With only a mouthful of whiskey and he didn’t even flinch.”
“I did,” I chuckle.
We look at each other over a spread of boxes, a warmth settling over the room. For a moment, I don’t hate him. For a second in time, we are the kids that fell in love on a random Sunday afternoon at a lake in the middle of the woods. But that is over.
I move to the side to stand up, to put some distance between us, when my hand covers something sharp. Pulling back, I yelp like I’ve been burned. The tip of my middle finger is cherry-red and a little purple dot is in the center.
Ford has my hand in his before I can object. “What did you do?” he asks, twisting my palm in his and examining the offending digit.
“I don’t know . . .” I stammer.
His hand is nearly twice the size of mine. It’s rough, calloused, and I wonder what work he’s been doing to get them that way. As he holds mine in his, I feel my heart drop.
He’s gentle, rubbing his thumb across the injury. It should hurt, should make me jump, but his touch has some kind of calming effect.
“This did it.” Still holding my hand in his, he reaches next to me. His arm brushes against my side, barely slipping against the top of my breast. My nipples peak under my shirt, my core pulling so tightly it’s a struggle to breathe. “See?”
He holds up a pin that was attaching an information sheet to some of the products. I look at it, then back to our interlocked hands.
“We fit like a glove,” he says, twisting them back and forth.