She continues tracing her hand along the grooves, memorizing any trouble spots, and grins. “Nook.” She gestures to the grand expanse of bookcases. “Crannies.” She thumbs at the railing. “There’s like seventy years of grime in these. It will be worth it, though.”

“Always seems to be.”

“You learn quick,” she quips, but her eyes flash with something extra that shoots straight to my groin.

“I aim to please,” I say, definitely not talking about home renovation, and stifling a groan at how ridiculous I sound. I’m basically panting after her.

She clears her throat and pulls off her mask completely, tossing it to the ground. “So. Are you free for dinner?”

“Sure,” I say.

She steps closer. “Pizza and beer?”

My stomach rumbles and she laughs, pressing forward to place a soft kiss on my mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you have any more work here tonight?”

“Nah.” I hook her by the belt loops and tug her closer. “We’re all ready for the painters to start tomorrow. My place or yours?”

She rests her hands on my chest. “I need to check on the chicks. Do you mind coming to mine?”

“Not at all.”

“Should we drive one car? Conserve gas?”

I stand still, forcing myself to be cool. Quick. Channel someone smooth. The coolest person I know is Daniel. Don’t channel her dad! “Are you offering to drive me back tomorrow morning?”

Because, yes.

She smirks. She’s so much better at this than I am. “Or you can drive me. I’m not one to presume.”

“I have to stop at my place and shower and change,” I say. “I’m covered in drywall dust.”

“I could come with and supervise.”

Jesus.

I pretend to think it over. “But then you won’t have clean clothes.”

She purses her lips, her eyes twinkling. “You’re right. Then I’ll need to shower again at my place.”

She loves me. That’s the only explanation. “And I’ll have to supervise that. To make sure you’re being safe.”

“Conserve gas to waste water?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” I draw her close enough that my words are a whisper against her pink lips. “That water won’t be wasted.”

The next morning, I’m late to work. Well, not late, exactly, but I’m not early, and Shelby is one hundred percent the reason why. My best efforts to beat the camera crew were fumbled when my insatiable girlfriend accosted me at the coffee pot and insisted I take her against the countertop.

The things I suffer through for her. Some might even call me a saint. Canonized and blessed in the glory of Shelby’s breasts.

Somewhere, eighteen-year-old Cameron blacks out completely.

I pull up to the curb in front of the Caroline Street house, behind a large landscaping trailer.

“I didn’t know we were at the point of landscaping,” Shelby says, impressed.