He grins. “I’m here to work, Aly,” he says, his voice so low and sexy it strokes my nether region. “So work me.”
Oh, God, do not think about the way you could ‘work’ him.
Too late.
But he clearly doesn’t want to start anything with me.
“Yeah, okay,” I croak out. “We need to finish Mrs. Henderson’s lawn and then I need to go to the storage shed to get the lawn mower.”
“Okay.” He holds his hand out, and I stare at it.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “See, I was right.”
“About?”
“You’re still not thinking straight. Good thing I showed up when I did.”
He’s probably right. I’m not thinking straight, but how is a girl supposed to keep her wits about her when he’s so goddamn hot, and helpful, and just so…everything.
“Keys,” he says, like I took a good hit to the head, and it’s messing with my memory. I’m about to protest when he says, “I’ve already proven I know how to handle her.” His knuckles brush mine, and a hard quiver moves through me. “I actually think she might like my touch.”
Holy freaking Lord.
She does.
She totally does.
But he’s not talking about me, is he?
Then again, maybe he is.
“Fine.” I plunk the keys into his palm and storm off like I’m pissed off. But I’m not. I’m a completely independent woman who can take care of herself, but secretly likes it when he goes all alpha on me and shows concern. “You are so annoying,” I mumble, which earns me a chuckle.
He slides into the truck beside me and pulls onto the road, already knowing his way to Mrs. Henderson’s. He glances overhead. “I’m not so sure you’re going to be able to mow that lawn after we get the soil spread.”
We.
Is it weird how I like the sound of that?
Yes, of course it is, Alyssa.
“Looks like rain.”
I lean forward, and crinkle my nose. “Yeah, I checked the forecast earlier, and it’s not great.”
“What do you do on rainy days if you can’t work?”
“Sometimes I read, or sketch designs.”
“Really? I’d love to see them, and I still want to see this bucket list of yours.” He casts me a quick glance.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I say, and then slap my hand to my forehead. “I think that came out wrong.”
“I have no problem showing you mine,” he says and taps the steering wheel like he just made the winning touchdown, or maybe in his case since he loves hockey, the winning goal.
“Is it called goals in hockey?” I ask.