Gray meets my eye for just a moment, and the line that forms in the middle of his brow gives away his knowledge that there has never been a time in the history of his existence that my brother has been short on things to talk about. In truth, Hunter had forced me out as soon as I was done eating, citing something about “doing God’s work.” I’d made a mental note to invite Pastor Brown by his place the next time I knew he’d taken home a townie.
“I’m just replacing your beam,” Gray says. “Did an inspector even sign off on this barn addition? It’s cracked all over and doesn’t seem super stable.”
“Did an inspector sign off on your trying to change it by yourself? You’re going to get a brain injury and then you’ll forget the New York Liberty altogether.”
I motion for him to sling the rope over the beam beside it, then drop down the side so I can hold it like a pulley from the ground. Gray climbs back up to the top of the ladder, finagling with the long board to draw it parallel to the cracked one. My stomach flutters as his sweater lifts, exposing a thin slice of hardened abdomen.
“Oh my God, I feel so unsafe right now,” I mutter as I watch the beams.
“Well, it would probably help if you stood back so that if something falls you don’t get cracked in the head and die.” He says the words through gritted teeth, a vein in the side of his neck throbbing as he struggles to position the board just right and retrieve a drill from his belt.
“No way.” I shake my head. “This was a carefully calculated decision. I want the beam to hit me square in the forehead so that I go out with one blow. I don’t want it to just, like, knock my ear or shoulder or something. I’d prefer to be completely dead, instead of just wishing I was dead.”
Gray glances down at me with an eyebrow raised, and I shrug and shove my hands in my pockets as I step out of the way of the death beam.
He grunts and fixes it in place, finally getting things perfect so he can drill it down to support the old beam. His muscles strain against the knit of his sweater, and I note how a drop of sweat has beaded at his temple. Fuck, he looks strong.
When he’s on the ground and in his element, he’s got that smooth city slicker thing going on with the nice clothes and the fancy cologne and the slicked back hair. Up there, though, he’s transformed. He looks, in part, like the country boy I remember loving when I was growing up. All rough and tumble with the possibility of straw being stuck in his hair at any given moment.
But there’s also something I haven’t yet come to know about him, something I missed in all these years apart. He’s focused, precise. He looks capable in a way that’s different from the men here in town. They can track animals and skin them and act like barbarians when they’re on a hunt to prove their masculinity. Gray doesn’t do all that; instead, he exudes it with each controlled drill, with each strong push of the beam.
My core tightens in so much, I’m positively quivering. There’s a heartbeat between my thighs, hammering so hard it’s sending goosebumps rippling across my skin. I cross my legs even as I stand and watch him.
Gray climbs down and slides his ladder over to the other side of the beam. He motions for me to hand him my side of the rope. I hold my hand out with the piece, worried I’m going to shake like a leaf in the hand off. He grasps it tight, looking right back up at the beam and giving the rope a sharp tug to haul it into an even line. He hands the end back to me, and when his thick, calloused fingers graze mine, I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
He starts back up the ladder. When he reaches the top, Gray drills down the piece and slaps the wood. He stares at his handiwork for a moment before nodding slightly.
“We’ll have to trim the end,” he tells me. “Get it flush with the other wood. But otherwise, I think you’ve got yourself a solid roof. Not a bad half hour.”
He climbs down the ladder. At the bottom, he pauses again, glancing up at the beams. He shakes his head and crosses his arms.
“I’m surprised by how good that felt,” he says quietly. “Building something. Fixing something.”
“If you liked that, I could put you to work on my broken toilet upstairs or the crooked step on the porch.”
My voice surprises me, its trademark sarcasm sounding forced and wrong during what feels like a reverent moment. Gray turns back to look at me then, his chocolate eyes wide and vulnerable. No, not just vulnerable—there’s also an unexpected spark in them. A hunger.
The expression sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through my body, drawing my nipples out into firm peaks that must be pressing against my sweater.
I could put you to work onme, Gray.
I can’t believe I’m even allowing myself to think that thought, but I lean into it anyway, allowing myself ten seconds of fantasy about how those strong hands and smooth abs might feel against my palms.
“Is it weird that I can’t remember the last time I felt so proud of myself?”
I swallow hard, reminding myself that we’re having a friendly conversation and I shouldn’t be stripping him down in the back of my mind.
“You?” I ask. “You mean, there weren’t many opportunities for pride between the NBA team you coach or the profile on you inSports Illustratedor what’s-her-name the swimsuit model I heard you dated a while ago?”
I remember her damn name. Nastya Melnyk. I might have thrown out the issue ofPeoplethat featured their vacation on a yacht, telling my sports-loving guests at the inn that we must have been skipped in the mail cycle.
Gray sighs and runs a hand through the back of his hair. His eyes have gone distant, and the corners of his mouth are turned down.
“It’s a fucking struggle to pull all that off. Maybe the biggest shock of my life was leaving Little Haven, where I was basically a god. When I got to New York, I found out I was a small fish in a Noah’s Flood-sized pond. For once, it just feels good to fix something and do it by myself. It feels good to build something that’s all my own, and not worry about the rat race.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t call yourself a Little Haven god,” I interject, a bare smile quirking up one corner of my lips. “You were, like, a minor celebrity at best. Probably on par with that police horse who saved Ruth Ann Bowden from that fire in her bookshop.”
“Is that so?” Gray turns to me again, his frown giving way for his own small smirk.