Page 32 of Dirty Fighter

She’s looking up at the top shelf again. It’s too high. This cabin wasn’t built for average-sized women. It was built for generation upon generation of above-average-sized men.

Only the way she’s got her eyes on it…

Yep. And she’s pushing to her toes, long legs extending, fingers straining for the mason jar with the waffle-patterned glass that’s still inches beyond her reach.

I swallow.

Take a breath.

The hem of her T-shirt creeps up.

And up.

I don’t even realize I’ve closed the distance between us until my hands land on her waist, covering that soft, bare stretch of skin. And before that startled little gasp is past her lips, I hoist her up.

She shoots me a questioning look.

Coughing a short laugh, I shake my head. “Just take it. Top shelf on the right. I know you saw it.”

She nods and then reaches overhead, the motion causing her T-shirt to rise even higher, damn it.

Rowan carefully extracts the ancient jar from its shelf and murmurs a quiet, “Okay.”

I lower her gently, keeping my hands loose at her waist as she steadies herself.

It’s time to let go. Time to rub my palms over some gravel in the hopes of overwriting the feel of her skin beneath mine before it’s permanently stored in my memory bank.

But then she’s turning within my hold, peering up at me with soft brown eyes that lock me in place.

The shelves are behind her.

I’m too close, towering over her, but somehow it feels like I’m not close enough.

Shit!

I stuff my hands into my pockets, turning away before that once-coveted eye contact scrambles the signals to my brain any more than it already has.

Rowan darts around me with a quick thank you as she goes to fill her vase at the sink.

Leaving her to her flowers, I head out back through the utility room.

I need some air, some space. I need to go jump in the lake again to cool off.

I need to stop acting like some lovestruck sixteen-year-old kid without the sense to realize this isn’t a fucking game. Even if it was, Rowan and I aren’t playing for the same team… and her coach is a damn cheater.

12

Rowan

Get a grip, girl!

The guy was helping you get a vase. And okay, for a minute, it might have felt an awful lot like the same simmering current of attraction that was there before our parents got together. So what?

I set my flowers on the windowsill above the sink and then give it a few seconds to try and gauge where Jason is going. Not around front. Perfect.

I put my work gloves on and return to the clearing to mow, chastising myself as I take the first pass.

Yes, Jason is probably releasing twice the pheromones of the average guy, but I still didn’t need to lean into it.