It was ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. Why is this man unnerving me so much? Surely, I’ve seen grown men chop their own wood before. I mean…not in person but on the internet and stuff.
And obviously, most fathers’ eyes light up when their children come running into their office to surprise them with a picnic lunch. That doesn’t make Max special. That doesn’t make him sexier than all the other single dads who look stupid hot in suits.
It makes him average. Max Fletcher is an average human.
Which is why it’s good I’m out here in the garage working on more charcuterie boards. It’s not the most exciting Friday night activity, but I need the distraction, and my vibrator is still in a time-out for misbehaving last week.
If only this smoky wood aroma didn’t remind me of Max.
Ugh. Now I’m sweating. Yes, I’m working with a flame so that could be the cause of it, but there is air-conditioning in here and a strong evening breeze coming in through the window I opened for ventilation. I’m afraid this sweat dripping down my chest has a lot more to do with the fire I feel for Max than the flamethrower in my hands. I wonder what his tongue would think of the under-boob sweat I’m currently rocking?
“What’s on fire?” a voice yells, causing me to jump out of my skin as I nearly drop my flamethrower on the concrete.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim, quickly recovering my grip on the dangerous tool. I bend over to shut the gas off and wait for the flame to go down. I place the long, hot tool on the sawhorse that’s holding my charcuterie board and push my safety goggles up on my head.
I turn around and have to remind myself to breathe because seconds ago, I was falling deep into yet another Zaddy fantasy. And now that fantasy is standing right in front of me.
I drink in the sight of a barefoot Max in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His broad frame stretches the white fabric as his pecs rise with each intake of breath. My fingers itch to run through his sandy hair that looks soft and rumpled on top of his head. It’s my favorite look on him. Even better than the hot, tailored suit and side-swept hair. He looks like he was enjoying a quiet Friday night until I ruined it. I glance at the clock and see it’s almost ten, so I suspect Everly is in bed already.
“Nothing is on fire, I promise,” I reply, pressing a hand to my heart that’s still racing from the shock of his presence.
Max’s indigo eyes seem to darken under the fluorescent lights as his gaze drops down my body. Honestly, I didn’t expect anyone to see me like this. I’m sure I look like a hot mess. My hair is in a low messy ponytail stuffed under a backward John Deere hat that has seen better days. I’m wearing a black sports tank and yoga shorts with my old Doc Martens boots, and I have this tan leather apron that my dad gave me years back to help protect my clothes when I work.
At least the apron is hiding the under-boob sweat.
Max seems at a loss for words as he opens his mouth and struggles to speak. Finally, he stammers, “Um…good. I just smelled something, so I wanted to check.”
I gesture to my charred board. “Yeah, sorry. I was just doing some burning on this piece I’m working on. I opened a window and thought that would help. I can take this outside, though.”
“No, no,” Max rushes out, holding his hand up. “It’s fine. I was just…worried.”
I rub my lips together, ignoring the intensity of his eyes. “Sorry.”
“I said it’s fine, Cassandra.” He breaks eye contact and stares down at the floor by my feet. “I’ve seen a lot of tools in my life, but this one is new.”
I laugh and move to pick it up. He walks over to inspect it, and the scent of his cologne mixing with the smell of charred wood has my legs feeling like they could give out at any second.
I swallow the thickness in my throat. “It’s a weed burner. I use it to torch the wood and give the grain pattern more pop. I saw you had a regular torch in here, but it takes forever with those tiny things. This big guy gets the job done much quicker.”
His brows flicker slightly at my last comment as the corners of his mouth turn down. He runs a hand over the charred wood.
“Careful, it might still be hot.”
He pulls his hand back, rubbing black ash between his fingers before sliding them into his pocket. “You really love doing this, don’t you?”
“It’s my therapy,” I answer honestly, and he turns curious eyes to me, his gaze roving over my face, probably covered in sweat and soot.
“What do you need therapy for?” His question is gentle and different from the way he’s pried into my personal life before.