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He reached in and pulled out a large chocolate chip cookie.
Her mouth watered as the scent of the sweet milk chocolate confection hit her.
“These were your favorite,” he said, holding it out to her.
She hesitated a moment before giving in. “You’re evil.” She took the cookie, taking a large bite and doing her best not to moan at the sugary party in her mouth.
He watched her, studying her mouth as she chewed.
The jerk was flirting with her.
And worse, she was letting him—and liking it.
She swallowed and held up the index finger of her non-cookie hand. “One wall, Connor.”
He saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”
He poured paint into a fresh tray—thankfully, she’d gotten disposable liners—grabbed a brush, and climbed the ladder with the can, giving her a view of his perfect, shorts-clad ass.
She took a sip of her iced coffee and took her time eating her cookie, savoring both the pastry and the view.
Chapter Five
Connor drove the speed limit to Emma’s house, trying his best to exude a calm aloofness he didn’t feel. At least not according to his heart, which beat like he’d run a marathon.
Abby sat in the seat next to him, a potted hydrangea in her lap, fidgeting with the hem of a short blue and white sundress. A sundress much like the style she’d worn when they dated. With its short length, it barely hit mid-thigh and revealed miles of long legs, ending with a pair of flip-flops because of her ankle injury.
How was he going to make it through the night without embarrassing himself with a hard-on? He’d been halfway there since picking her up.
“Thanks for bringing me this ankle brace,” Abby said. “My mom was going to drop one off for me later, but you beat her to it.”
“No problem. You’ll still need to ice and elevate it a few times a day, but it will help stabilize it.”
“Enough to climb a ladder?” she asked.
He cast her a sideways glance. “Not funny. Besides, with the painting done, there should be minimal ladder climbing necessary.”
“We’ll see,” she said in a sweet tone he remembered meant she’d do whatever she damn well pleased.
Connor parked in the driveway of Emma and Jason’s house. The seventy-five-year-old, four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath
Victorian home was dark gray and accented with pink trim. A wide set of stairs led up to a wraparound porch. A large picture window spanned the front of the right side of the house, with a bay window off one of the upstairs rooms.
It was a traditional home with a lot of history, which made it a wet dream for someone in the home renovation business. Jason had shared changes Emma wanted to make, and together the brothers kicked around a few ideas.
“This house is huge,” Abby said.
“It was Emma’s grandparents’. After her grandma passed away earlier this year, Emma’s mom gave the house to her.”
“Oh, right—I heard Anna is engaged to the mayor.”
“They moved into John’s house a few weeks ago.”
“A house is some gift.”
Connor turned off the truck and reached into the back seat for the pie he’d bought. He may have come from a dysfunctional family, but his mom had taught him to never show up empty-handed.
Moving quickly to the passenger side, he helped Abby down, his fingers grazing hers as he closed the door.
