Home > Floored (Frenched #3)(13)

Floored (Frenched #3)(13)
Author: Melanie Harlow

Stop it. No thinking about his pistol.

“Not at this point. Walker’s waiting on a warrant.”

“God, it seems like you shouldn’t need one for that, if you know stolen stuff is moving in and out of there.”

Mmm. Moving in and out.

“Yeah. It’s a little more complicated than that. Anyway, we’re getting closer.”

“OK.” Yes, get closer. But first get naked. As if God heard my prurient thoughts and wanted to cool me down, a few raindrops splattered from the clouds above onto our table. “Uh oh. Are you ready? Maybe we should go.” I sniffed. “Smells like a storm, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He picked up his empty cup. “I need to make a stop. I’ll meet you at your house.”

Coco was right—Charlie was handy with a drill. And chivalrous too. He’d stopped at a hardware store and bought one for me, and he wouldn’t accept the check I wrote to pay him back. He got right to work and had the first set of shades up in about twenty minutes. Rain pounded against the glass and the occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, adding to the tension inside me. Sometimes he’d ask me to hold something in place, or bring him this or that, but mostly I just watched, admiring the easy way he handled the task.

Confession: I also admired his butt in his jeans.

His upper body was nice too—wide shoulders, thick biceps, muscular chest. He’d taken off his sweater to reveal a fitted t-shirt, and I liked how clean and white it was. No yellowed armpits. Standing behind him, I had this urge to lift up the shirt and run my hands over his skin. Was it warm? What if I pressed up close behind him? Moved my palms around to his stomach? I bet his abs were rock solid. Then I could slide my hands down the front of his jeans, make him hard. He’d drop that drill and—

“Erin!”

“What?” Swiftly I raised my gaze from his butt, chagrined to find him staring at me over one shoulder. The power flickered.

“I said your name like five times.”

Heat flushed my chest beneath my sweatshirt. “Sorry. I was—“ Fantasizing about you again. “Thinking about something.”

He grinned. “I can see that. But if you can tear your eyes away from my ass, I need that other bracket. This drill doesn’t have a battery pack, so I need to get this done in case you lose power. Although I’d be happy to take a break from this activity if you’ve got another one in mind.”

“No. Just finish, please.” Flustered, I rummaged around in the mess on the floor, hunting for the piece he needed. God, had I really been so obvious? I had to shut that down. After handing him the bracket, I backed away, busying myself with collecting the trash. Think about something else. Don’t look at him. When the floor was picked up, I got out the broom and swept up the dust from the drill as the power continued to brown occasionally. I hoped it wouldn’t go out altogether.

“I still have one more shade to put up after this one,” he said. “Why don’t you wait until the entire job is done before you sweep?”

“I don’t mind.” I moved briskly, avoiding his eyes. “I like cleaning up. I like things clean.”

He laughed. “Of course you do.”

I stopped sweeping and looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, don’t get worked up. You’re the one who said it. I just meant that I could tell you’re a girl who likes things clean.”

When he said things, I had the feeling he wasn’t talking about floors and toilets. He thinks I’m totally vanilla. “I meant, I like my house to be clean.”

“And it is,” he said with finality.

Frowning at his back, I ignored him while he finished hanging the second shade and moved on to the third, unloading the dishwasher, hand washing the wine glasses from last night, and putting on a load of laundry. Part of me wanted to demand to know what he’d really meant, but the rest of me counseled restraint. He might have meant nothing. “Do you need my help anymore? If not, I’m going upstairs for a few minutes.”

“Go ahead.” He didn’t even turn around. “I should be done in about twenty.”

Upstairs, I took a quick shower, making sure to lock and double check the door, although if Charlie Dwyer had appeared at the curtain in Achilles armor, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down even in his jeans and t-shirt, which pissed me off.

“Fucking Charlie Dwyer,” I muttered, giving in to my urge to swear. “Fuck you for being hot.”

I had this irksome feeling that he thought of me as some virginal goody-two-shoes who liked her floors swept, her spice rack alphabetized, and her handcuffs pink.

Confession: My spice rack is alphabetized. But I like knowing exactly where everything is. Who wouldn’t? That’s helpful, right?

Still.

He probably went home and laughed at me last night. He cracked open a beer, had a pizza and a threesome, and went to bed thoroughly amused at my pitifully pristine little existence.

I wanted him to know I wasn’t what he thought, but how the hell do you announce to someone that you might have a clean kitchen but you’ve got a dirty mind?

If I was a bombshell like Coco, I’d have said it right out loud. Probably while pinning him to my immaculate floor with my high heel on his chest. If I was Mia, I would have found some coy, adorable way to make it known. Like maybe I’d leave a shopping list on the counter that said floor polish, laundry detergent, nipple clamps.

   
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