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“Ah, sounds serious.”

I dropped the towel onto the bathroom counter next to his electric toothbrush and a bottle of moisturizer I knew was on the pricey side—add that detail to the many incongruities of Waylon Gibbons—then grabbed his face and fused our mouths together.

“This is insane,” I growled. “It’s got to stop.”

“Okay.” He nibbled my bottom lip. “This was it. No more.”

We were terrible liars.

I pushed him away with a huff and tried to think of something to yank us out of this sex haze and back to reality. “My dad hasn’t made any unexpected appearances here, has he?”

“Ouch. Your post-orgasm game needs some work.”

I winced as I straightened my tie and slipped into the hallway. “Sorry. That was bad. I figured you’d mention if you’d seen him. Mom says he’s been his usual crotchety self lately—a little absentminded, but nothing extreme. Apparently, sanding his birdhouse is a new obsession. If he’s not careful, he’s going to turn it into a pile of sawdust.”

“Did he say anything about…”

“My boyfriend?” I guessed. “Thank fuck…no. I told you he wouldn’t remember the conversation.”

“Hmm.” He plucked his jeans off the floor. “Well, I checked with Jed. He gave his permission for me to refinish his deck and even offered to pay for supplies.”

“Gee, that’s big of him.”

“Right?” Waylon chuckled, his abs flexing as he stepped into the denim, one muscular leg at a time. “The point is, I do have a project and if your dad is interested, he’s welcome to help.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Why not?” Waylon countered.

“I don’t want to scare you off, but I can think of a few reasons.” I held up my hand for a visual countdown. “He’s difficult, ornery, stubborn, thinks he knows everything, and has a strict ‘my way or the highway’ creed. And that’s before his memory issues.”

“That bad, huh?”

I sighed heavily. “We’ve always butted heads. Less so now, but I suppose that’s typical for most fathers and sons.”

“You seem to get along well with your son. And I have a good relationship with my dad…and trust me, he’s not perfect.”

I searched my pocket for my keys. I had places to be and if I didn’t check in soon, Shawna might send a patrol car to look for me. Yet I found myself asking, “What’s your father like?”

Waylon smiled. “He’s a solid guy. Quiet, doesn’t say much. Typical logger, you know. Everyone says I look like him.”

“And are you…just like him?” I asked.

“I’m not as tall as my dad, and I’m definitely not as patient,” he replied with a laugh. “I’m greedier, not easily satisfied with hand-me-downs and the status quo. I’m always strategizing my next move, trying to figure out how to make a chunk of dough rather than make what I have last.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being ambitious.”

“Maybe not.” Waylon leaned against the doorjamb, his fingers curled around the knob. “You should go, Chief.”

“Yeah. Have a safe trip.”

At the last second, I slipped a hand at Waylon’s nape and drew him close.

The kiss was rough and frantic and so damn good. I bit his bottom lip and patted his cheek as I stepped away. “See you next week.”

I never did pick up the birdhouses.

CHAPTER 17