I wait for him to make a joke about me blowing him off, but it doesn't happen. Good. I tell myself I’m glad.
“However,” I continue. “The community garden always needs volunteers. It's not the best idea I have, but—”
“If you don't mind getting your hands dirty,” he interrupts. “I have a suggestion.”
“You do?”
“Julian is renovating his house, and he’s running a little behind. Helping a friend, that’s supposed to make me a better person, right? I thought I'd go over and pitch in. Want to join me?”
I try to picture the elegant, suave Damien Cardenas with a screwdriver in his hand. My imagination is not that good. “Have you ever done anything like this?” I ask him. “Do you know how to use a power tool?”
Okay, fine. I admit I’m deliberately baiting him. I want him to murmur something about how good he is with his hands. How he’s never had any complaints about his power tool, and since I appear to have forgotten, would I like a reminder?
Once again, he doesn’t react to the innuendo. Not at all. “Oh, no,” he admits cheerfully. “I’m completely clueless. Julian knows what he's doing, more or less, and I’m going to be manual labor. As long as I get back with my fingers and toes intact, I consider it a win.”
God, he can be so charming. The wry, self-deprecating note in his voice. The ready acknowledgment that he doesn't know what he's doing. It's so maddeningly attractive that I want to strangle him.
Admit it. You want to go over. You want to see them again. Both of them. You want to see Julian and Damien with their shirts off, dripping with sweat, reaching for you, closing the distance between our bodies. . .
I slam the door shut on that train of thought. “It’s a good thing I’m reasonably handy then,” I tease. “Someone has to keep you from getting into trouble.”
He laughs. “Yes, Julian mentioned that you renovated your house. Are you in, then?”
They discussed me? Pleasure fills me, followed rapidly by curiosity. Why were they talking about me? What did they discuss, and what does it mean?
“Yes. Yes, I’m in.”