Page 31 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

“Holy walking flannel fantasy.”

David Miller, my favorite co-worker, sounds like he’s choking on his own tongue as he stares open-mouthed across the library.

“Hand me the next book,” I tell him. “And what are you talking about a flannel fantasy?”

“The guy who just walked in.”

I’m standing on a step stool in the nonfiction section and turn to see our boss point in my direction.

“Wait, is that your confidence coach?” David asks.

“I regret sharing anything about my life with you,” I mutter, heat creeping up my spine as Eric, wearing a thick flannel shirt, canvas work pants and a tool belt, saunters through the library.

The heat intensifies as he strides toward us exuding sex appeal, confidence, and enough testosterone to make a gaggle of teenage boys jealous.

No wonder he has all the confidence in the world.

Traffic in the library has been heavy, which is typical for winter. We got about an inch of snow overnight on Sunday, but the real front is supposed to blow through tonight and tomorrow, with up to eight inches forecasted for the foothills where Skylark is nestled.

People are rushing in, stocking up on books and DVDs like they’re essential supplies.

My father is the only person I know who even owns a player, but the library’s collection does a thriving business with the older folks, especially in this weather.

But at the moment I feel caught in my own blizzard of thoughts and emotions.

“Good God, I’m going to need to check out a spicy romance just to continue the vibe.” He fans himself dramatically. “I’m burning up from the inside out at this visual feast.”

“Stop fanning yourself,” I hiss. “You look ridiculous. Besides, you’re in a committed relationship. What would Jasper think?”

“He’d tell me to take some pics.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “So we can enjoy that tool belt together.”

“Giving me the ick, David.” Especially since I have some tool belt fantasies of my own.

“Introduce me—no, don’t introduce me. Walk forward so I can snap a photo, then introduce me.”

“You are acting like an idiot.”

“Me?” His hazel eyes widen as he feigns indignation. “I’m not the one trying to date a guy who looks like a strong wind could blow him across the street when you’ve got Paul Bunyan on the hook.”

“Paul Bunyan is not my type,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Liar,” he whispers, grinning.

My lady parts rise up like a Greek chorus, and I’m horrified to discover they aren’t the only ones. Could that be my heart calling me out as a liar? No, of course not. The thought is so disconcerting that I misjudge the final step of the stool and stumble forward—right into Eric’s path.

Before I can right myself, he’s there. Not with a simple hand on my arm. Oh, no. He grips my waist, steadying me, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of my hips, making my knees go weak .

“How do you move so fast?” I demand, trying to shake him off. “And let me go.”

His thumbs dig a little deeper, and…oh, do I like the pressure. “How do you manage to get through a day without doing bodily harm to yourself?” he counters.

“Touché,” David announces dramatically from behind me.

“Remind me again why you aren’t involved in community theater, Mr. Drama King,” I ask over my shoulder.

“I don’t take direction well.” He reaches around me to extend a hand to Eric. “David Miller. Taylor’s work wife.”

“Eric Anderson. Neighbor,” Eric replies, shaking his hand.

“I know who you are.” David is so breathy it sounds like he’s having an asthma attack. “Firm grip and nice tool belt.”

Eric looks down like he hasn’t even realized it’s strapped on. He clears his throat and shoots me an apologetic glance.

“I’m working a job around the corner. Tony’s is doing some updates, but?—”

“No need for apologies,” David says, cutting him off. “Taylor likes it, too.”

“I don’t need you to speak for me,” I tell David with an eye roll. “But I don’t hate the look.” I shrug when Eric grins. “You’ve got the hips for it.”

He chuckles. “As much I’d love to hear more about how much you like my hips?—”

“Excuse me while I go hyperventilate in the break room,” David says, sauntering off. “Nice to meet you, Eric.”

“Likewise.” David can be a bit extra, but Eric seems to take the innuendos in stride. Another surprise, and definitely a pleasant one.

“I wasn’t admiring your hips.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I was stating a fact.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Any chance you can take an early lunch break?” He leans in a little closer. “I need you.”

My mouth drops open. “You can’t come in here and expect…” I lower my voice to a whisper, “...an afternooner at the drop of a hat. Or tool belt, in this instance.” Get with the program, sweetie, my body commands my brain, already warming at the thought of?—

He throws back his head and laughs, then covers it with a cough.

“Sorry,” he says in a quieter voice, ignoring the patrons who glance in our direction.

“As much as I’d enjoy the lunch break you have in mind, Tinkerbell.

I want your opinion on something.” He traced the edge of my hand with one finger, awareness zinging through me at the light touch.

“Not my tool belt. I already know what you think of that.”

My cheeks flame as I try to hide the shiver that runs down my spine. The best kind of shiver. “Oh my God, you are… ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously masculine and hot, I assume.”

“Also a fact,” I say, blowing out a breath.

His dark eyes flame. “Once again killing me, Tink. I’m about to drag you between the shelves and have my afternoon delight way with you.”

Now there’s an idea that makes my toes curl. Stupid toes. “We can’t?—”

“I know,” he agrees with a small smile. “But can you take lunch? Please.”

“Sure,” I answer because there’s no point in denying how much I like that he’s sought me out. “Let me grab my purse and jacket.” I turn back when Eric doesn’t immediately follow. “Come with me.” I glance toward the front where Don is still scowling at us. “We’ll walk out the back.”

One corner of his mouth curves up. “Sneaking me out like I’m your dirty little secret?”

“You are my dirty little secret,” I confirm, and to my surprise, an emotion that looks suspiciously like disappointment flashes in his gaze before he can cover it. At least I think that’s what it was.

“Lead the way, my captain,” he says, giving a little salute with two fingers.

He doesn’t say anything about my comment, and I wonder if I’ve misread him. Isn’t that what we are to each other? Maybe not dirty, but he has more reasons than I do to keep the physical aspect secret.

I grab my stuff, then tell David I’ll be back in an hour.

“Okay,” he says, holding up his phone so the camera lens is aimed at Eric. “I’m just checking my social media feed.”

I’m pretty sure he’s taking more pictures of Eric.

“Why did that dude keep snapping photos of me?” Eric asks as we head out the back door.

“He’s a hockey fan.” I cough to cover a laugh as I pull on my mittens. “So where are we heading, and why do you need a tool belt for the trip?” I nudge his arm. “Be honest, was that just to drive the library patrons wild with lust?”

His eyes go even darker than normal. “You’re the only person I want to drive wild.” Mission accomplished, I think, as he places a hand on the small of my back. “For the record, I usually leave my tool belt in the truck at night, but maybe I’ll bring it the next time I stop over.”

I don’t bother to mask my laugh this time. “Not sure seeing your saucy dangles with a tool belt is going to do it for me.”

We’ve reached his truck, and he opens the passenger side door—something he always does, which is kind of old-fashioned and sweet. Before I can get in, he steps closer, pressing me against cold metal. “For the record, my tool belt is never dangly when you’re around.”

I press my mittened hands to his chest, the heat of his body warming me in all the right places. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“It’s more frustrating as hell, but sure, take it as a compliment.”

Glad to know I’m not the only one affected by whatever this is between us. “To be honest,” I say as he pulls away from the curb. “ I wouldn’t be upset if this was part of a truck hookup master plan.”

His grin goes from devastating to lethal in two seconds flat. “Tempting but too cold.” He leans across the console and kisses my cheek. “Despite how hot I make you.”

“Ego much?” I counter, even though he’s right. I’m about to add, “We’ll have to save the truck hookup for spring,” except we won’t—because what’s between us will be over, and he’ll be gone. My stomach clenches at the idea of that, and my stupid heart does the same.

“I want to show you a house,” he says as he turns into an established neighborhood at the edge of downtown.

I try to hide my surprise that he read my thoughts. “You’re buying a house in Skylark?”

I don’t examine the excitement that flutters through me as the truck rolls down the quiet street. Even the bare branches of the nearby trees seem to be leaning in like they’re waiting for his answer.

“For my sister,” he says. “Rhett asked if she’d consider moving here after rehab. It would be easier if she had a place to land. A home of her own. I don’t want her to rely on a guy she’s dating to put a roof over her head—or Rhett’s. Ever again.”

“So you’re going to do it for them,” I murmur, and feel my heart swell. What he’s doing is so generous and thoughtful, and I shouldn’t let it affect me this way. I swallow against the warmth building in my chest. The heat of attraction is potentially manageable, but this feels way more troublesome.

“Maybe. I have the money for it, but I don’t want to be heavy-handed or force her into something.

I’m also not sure she’ll agree if I give it to her.

She’s proud, and I respect that. I’m thinking of a rent-to-own type arrangement.

” He runs a hand through his hair like he’s uncomfortable with what this potential plan reveals about how much he cares .

“Before I go any further, I want your opinion. I need to know if it’s a house she’d like.”

Why does it make me feel so special that my opinion matters to him? It feels like he’s trusting me with a part of himself he doesn’t often let into the light—the part that wants good things for the people he loves. And damn if that doesn’t make me want to be one of them.

“I don’t know your sister, but?—”

“You’re a chick,” he says, with an almost nervous-looking hand flip. “Chicks know what other chicks like.”

“I feel like I should be offended that you’re calling me a chick.”

“Woman. Yes, Tinkerbell. You’re a woman. I’m well aware of that. This is it,” he says, pulling into the driveway of a house a few blocks from downtown.

It’s an older home, probably built in the early nineteen hundreds, a style known as a Denver Square.

The siding is a deep blue color, faded in some spots, with white trim and shutters that also need a coat of fresh paint, but it’s adorable.

The house is a mix of classic charm and untapped potential, and it does something funny to my insides.

I might not know Eric’s sister, but I can almost picture her in the front window, a cup of coffee in hand.

Or maybe it’s me I’m picturing in this perfect house.

The wide front porch practically begs for a pair of rocking chairs—just the thing for reading on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

It’s solid, unpretentious, a little rough around the edges and built to last. Just like Eric.

Which is precisely why he might have the power to break my heart.