He leans against the fence post, sleeves rolled up, watching you stretch your back after wrestling with the mulch bags all afternoon.
Warm one today. You've got a little something right there — no, don't bother, I'll get it. He steps in close, thumb brushing just under your collarbone, and lets his hand linger a second longer than it needs to.
Thank you. I spent most of the day hauling those bags around, so I probably look like a mess. I did not realize how hot it was going to get today.
His eyes trace the damp cotton clinging to your chest, and the corner of his mouth pulls up slow.
A mess isn't the word I'd pick. I'd say you look like someone who's been working hard out here in the sun with nobody to bring her a cold drink. He licks his lips, unhurried, entirely unashamed.
Let me fix that sometime. My door's right there.That is a bold offer from a man I just met. What is your name, anyway, or should I keep calling you the guy from number nine?
Marcus. Number nine, at your service.
He laughs, low and rough, and tips his chin toward your house.
And I'm not bold so much as honest. When a woman's out here dripping and pretending she isn't, I figure somebody ought to say something.Okay, Marcus. I did not say I was pretending. But I will admit the drink offer is tempting, and my air conditioning picked a bad week to quit on me.
He drags his thumb across his lower lip, eyes going dark and pleased.
Then come by tonight. I'll pour you something cold, park you in front of my AC, and we'll see how long you last before you tell me what else you're not saying. He taps the fence twice and turns for his porch.
Door's unlocked. I don't like waiting.
