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“You really need me to remind you?”

He does not. Along with making me relaxed, weed makes me horny as hell. “You must, because I don’t know whatever you mean.”

I bat my eyelashes; he shakes his head.

When he doesn’t bend me over and make me sing like a songbird, I let out a disappointed sigh and smash the joint out on the trunk of a tree, tossing it on a pile of demoed debris before we start up the steps. “So, Pedro the pissant redid the electrical work. He finished today, but the only thing working is one outlet in the kitchen.” I open the door as Molly puts on an obedient show walking calmly beside me. “And he’s not responding to my texts.”

Ford flicks the switch off and on as I shine the flashlight around the nearly empty downstairs, the marker-covered floor making it look like an abandoned warehouse. “Where’s the breaker box?” he asks.

“Utility room.” I lead the way; he takes the flashlight and opens the panel. Every single switch is off except the one for the kitchen. I never checked; I’m an idiot. He flips them all, lights coming on instantly. He grins. “He must have tested the kitchen and not turned the rest on.”

“I could have figured this out. Sorry to waste your time.”

“Never.” He pecks me on the cheek and looks around as we walk into the kitchen. “Comin’ together. Walls look good.”

They do. The small accent wall of wallpaper complements the deep blue paint on the other walls and the exposed beams and boards of the steep, angled roof give an unexpected texture. “Slowly. We painted the wood paneling in the back bedroom too. Plumber comes next. Then cabinets. Then the floors and bathrooms.” I shrug. “Upstairs is a different story. I’m not sure what to do there yet.”

He lifts his chin. “Show me.”

I lead him up the narrow staircase. At the loft, I toss the blanket that’s been around my shoulders on the bed and lean against the wall as he walks in, skeptical look on his face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

He looks at me like it might be worse. I laugh.

Next to Archie’s old mattress on the floor is my nightstand box and an old lamp plugged into a corner. Because I’ve ripped the carpeting out, a very unwelcoming subfloor lies below all of it. “I’m going for homeless chic,” I explain. “The mattress I bought was on back order.”

At the box next to my bed, Ford picks up an Arizona real estate magazine and haphazardly flips through the first couple of pages.

“You really doing this?” he asks, pausing on a page I dog-eared featuring a house on a couple of dusty acres dotted with saguaro cacti outside of Tucson.

“Looks like it.”

He studies me, nods, then exchanges the magazine for a book from the same box, amused expression as he waves it my way. “Eroctopus?” he asks, biting back a smile. On the cover, a woman in a blue, clam-covered bodysuit is wrapped in a mass of octo-arms.

“I’ll have you know, Octoman can give an orgasm without even touching that clam.”

“Oh really?” he asks, playful look in his smiling eyes as he thumbs through it before dropping it back into the box and walking over to me. “How’s he do that?”

I know Ford is trying to coax me into some kind of emotional maturity, but the way the pot is swimming in my veins and the thickness of his voice as he asks that question makes me want to push him onto Archie’s floor mattress and wrap myself around him like a barnacle.

“He says the right things,” I say, dropping my arms from across my chest to my sides. “Telepathically, of course.”

“Of course.” He stops just shy of where I’m standing, noticing for the first time the shirt I’m wearing: his. He puts his hands on my hips, turning me so I’m squarely facing him, lips twitching in an effort to not smile. I slip my fingers under the rigid material of his vest, gripping the straps where the shoulder and chest meet. “You wearing my shirt to bed again?”

“I don’t usually wear a shirt to bed.”

His blue eyes burn like leaves in the fall, making all kinds of delicious feelings coil in me like a too-tight spring.

“Tell me what the octoguy says that gets you all hot and bothered when you’re not wearing my shirt.”

I scoff as he rubs his chin against my jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and it feels like a sexed-grit sheet of sandpaper, sending chills across my skin in its wake. “It doesn’t work if I tell you.” My voice sounds as weak as my legs feel. Mostly because of the ache that’s beginning to throb between them. “And it can happen, I looked it up. A woman in Texas makes herself orgasm on her morning walks.” I give him a challenging look. “I have my doubts.”

“Really?” His hand slips under my shirt and rubs at the line of my hip, and his fingertips run along the top hem of my underwear like a zipper. Warmth radiates from every swirl of his fingerprints, and my pelvis tilts, willing his pants to vanish.

I look.

He’s clothed.