“Shouldn’t you be working?” he asks intimidatingly.
Mister Asshole’s eyes cut to Tristan. “That’s what I’m doing.” He lifts the power drill in his hand as if that proves a point.
“Clearly,” Tristan responds dryly. “You know it’s illegal to harass coworkers, right? Male or female.”
He lowers the power drill, a scowl forming on his weathered face. “I wasn’t harassing her because she’s a female.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me,” Tristan says. “Didn’t your mother every teach you not to pick on girls?” His fingers stiffen on my back, forcing me to move closer to him. I’m surprised how willingly my body gives in, how much it craves contact from another. “Now apologize to Avery and go away.”
“No way,” Mister Asshole argues. When Tristan stands up straight, towering over him, he adds. “I don’t have to listen to you. You’re a fucking kid for crying out loud.”
Tristan doesn’t utter another word, just crosses his arms and stares him down. His height, stance, and bulging muscles are very threatening and Mister Asshole appears tense.
“Whatever,” Mister Asshole mutters. “Stupid punk kids are a pain in my ass.” Then he stomps back toward the foundation without giving me an apology.
I’ve realized two things the moment the silence sets in: 1) The last time someone helped me, was when Tristan stepped in-between Conner and me in the alleyway. The last time that happened before that was… never. And 2) Even if I’ve always prided myself on being able to take care of my own problems, I think I might actually like the occasional interference from another because right now I feel… lighter.
Turning toward Tristan, I rack my mind for what to say to him. Thank you? You rock? Touch me again?
He beats me to the punch, speaking first. “I wonder how much of our conversation he heard before he cleared his throat. My bet is the whole thing and he shows up tomorrow with a shaved back.”
An uncontrollable grin spreads across my face. “Well, then I guess one good thing came out of that, didn’t it?”
“Just one thing?” he wonders. “Man, I thought I’d get brownie points for putting him in his place.” He waits for me to say something and when I don’t, he pouts. Actually, freaking pouts, the sexiest, most delicious, adorable pout ever. “I know I didn’t get an apology out of him, but I could have easily if violence were allowed on the job.”
“Is that why you did all that? For brownie points?”
He shakes his head. “No, the guy needed to be put in his place. I don’t think he just suffers from a short guy complex, but I think he might be a little sexist.”
“Okay, that remark just got you one more brownie point”—I make a ding sound, like I’m tallying his points up— “which puts you up to four points.”
He slants his head to the side and strands of his hair fall in his eyes. “Where did the other three come from?”
“One for putting Mister Asshole in his place. One for making me cry happy tears. And one for…” I swallow hard, unable to finish. One for Conner.
And just like that, our moment crumbles.
As if Tristan has super powers and senses my deflating mood, he changes the subject for the second time in five minutes. “All right, are you ready to do this?” He nods his head at the rectangular table that has a jagged blade attached to it.
You just earned yourself another brownie point, my friend.
I nod. “Sure, if you are.”
He circles around me and I think he might be leaving to get something but then he steps up and inches me forward by gently pushing his chest against my back.
“What are you doing?” I ask, half in panic and half in a state of holy fucking hell his sweaty body feels amazing. That thought is followed by holy hell, my body is super deprived.
And lonely.
But I know better.
Just step away Avery.
Tristan doesn’t stop steering me forward until my stomach touches the edge of the table. Then he puts an arm down on each side of me, pinning me between them, and tangles his fingers with mine. “I’m teaching you how to cut a board. That way you can get the upper hand over Mister Asshole if he decides to bother you again.” He acts calm, but there’s a slight quiver to his voice.
“Why would that help me get the upper hand?” I struggle to breathe steadily as his warmth seeps through the back of my shirt. I’m tottering between being completely turned on and utterly horrified by my reaction, straight along the lines of being a virgin again.
I wonder if Tristan’s doing it on purpose, if he knows his touch is driving my body crazy. He seems to have that way about him—super confident and dripping with forbidden sexiness. But he also seems nervous right now too, so I’m not certain what to think about the situation and how he really feels. And really, I shouldn’t be thinking anything about the situation. Or him.
What did I just get myself into?
He dips his mouth beside my ear, his breath deliciously hot against my skin. “Because he doesn’t know how to use the table saw.”
Okay, he has to know what he’s doing to me.
“Thanks.” I grip the table for support before my knees buckle out on me. “But can you do me a favor?”
Another warm breath caresses my cheek. “I’ll do anything you want, Avery.” His voice is hoarse like his words are affecting him just as much as they are me.
It nearly kills me to say it, my body protesting in every way imaginable, but I need to get it out and in a light tone. “Can you lay off on the flirting while we do this? Or I might have to take one of your brownie points away.”
He hesitates then leans away. His face is still hovering near one of my most elaborate and meaningful tattoos branded on my back right above the scars. It’s of a half dead, half thriving tree and is the one he wrote about on the cupboard, the tattoo he never got to fully see. Right now, his lips are close enough he could taste the words and I swear he’s going to kiss the ink. Or maybe the collar of my shirt has moved low enough so he can see the tip of my scars.
Fuck, can he see my scars?
“Still doing the no guys thing?” he asks, his voice coming out in a strangled whisper. “Even after all the brownie points I earned?”
I’m panting. Actually fucking panting. And I have to take several breaths before I can speak in an even tone. “Of course. Why would I ever break that awesome rule? Even for brownie points.” I make light of my words even when I feel squeamish inside.