I snort. “Yeah. I kinda like your little notes.” I lower my voice. “They tell me you’re thinking about me.”
He swallows and looks away. “I am. All the time. But Wednesday feels so far away, and I guess I thought texting might make it worse.”
There are those mixed signals again. Except I know he’s being honest. He plans on this ending, and he’s thinking about me all the time. Which makes me, what? A fun diversion? I feel like I’m more than that when we message back and forth. Like he’s open to us becoming more. “You make me crazy. You know that?”
The corner of his mouth hitches up in a crooked grin. “I’ve barely gotten started, Freckles.”
A hot shiver rolls down my spine. “So many promises, so little follow-through.”
“What are you two talking about?” Smithy asks, propping his elbows on the bar across from us and resting his chin on his hands.
“Sex,” I answer, giving him my biggest smile. I feel more than see Kace stiffen beside me. And, okay, somebody isn’t comfortable with our little fling becoming public information.
Smithy’s eyes go wide. “Are you telling her about that girl you’re talking to?” He turns his head in my direction and stage-whispers, “Take my advice. If you want him to clam up about her so he’ll stop talking, suggest she’s . . . unattractive.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the thoughts scrambling my brain. I dismiss Smithy implying my competition isn’t pretty—that’s subjective, and really, what Smithy thinks is irrelevant. But it’s the other part that gets me. Kace has told Smithy about the other woman he’s seeing, yet he clearly doesn’t want Smithy to know he’s also kind of seeing me.
Someone down the bar calls for a drink, and Smithy straightens. “Duty calls.”
When I turn to Kace, he’s squeezing the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this ‘dating around’ thing. It’s brutal.”
I jab my elbow into his side—hard.
“Ouch!” He scoots away from me and rubs his injury.
“You don’t get to complain to the girl you’re messing around with that it’s so challenging to be seeing someone else at the same time. Dick move, Matthews.”
He blows out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just . . . it’s really easy to talk to you.”
That helps a little, and part of me wants him to talk. I have questions. Is she nice? Would your mom like her? Have you texted her today? Do you tell her she should never lower her standards or that you can’t stop thinking about her? What does she have that I don’t? “No. I don’t think I want to know anything, actually.”
“I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just trying to be honest.”
“I know.” I reach for my drink and take a sip. I’m fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.
He studies me for a long beat then pushes off his stool. “We were going to start painting at seven tomorrow—unless you have plans tonight and that’s too early?”
I laugh. Right, because in Kace’s mind, I spend every Friday night partying and every Saturday sleeping it off. “No plans.”
He nods and points to the back of the bar, where my brother is scowling at a pool table. I’ve been lost in my pity party and didn’t even notice he was there. “I’ve gotta go talk to Dean. We had our foreman convince a client to reconfigure her kitchen mid-install, and your brother’s ready to fire him. I’d rather not lose one of my sharpest employees, so I need to smooth some feathers. I’ll see you in the morning.”* * *Drinking alone sucks, but I don’t leave. Every once in a while, I look over my shoulder to check on Kace, but I must’ve missed him pulling out his phone, because I’m surprised when I have a notification about a new message from him.
GoodHands69: Sorry. I’ve just been busy. I’m doing some big renovations on top of work and my daughter and . . . it’s just been a busy week, and I guess I have a lot on my mind.My cheeks heat. He’s been extra busy because he’s preparing the pool house for me, and instead of being grateful, I’m whining about him not messaging me.
ItsyBitsy123: When you put it that way, I’m thinking I owe you. Want to find a dark closet somewhere so I can show you just how grateful I am?I sneak a peek over my shoulder to see Kace staring at his phone, but instead of meeting my gaze or coming over, instead of showing me any of that dirty-talking man who had me against the wall this morning, his fingers teasing between my thighs, he stands and heads for the door. The ass doesn’t say a word—just lifts his hand to wave goodbye, then leaves.
Am I supposed to follow him? Does he want me or not?