“Did you, uh, build this deck?” I offer lamely, mind racing with how I must be the naughty girl who drops panties and flashes her pierced tits at him.

But then he’s the man who suggested he wouldn’t be quiet while I gave him a blow job. The one who ran away when I questioned it.

I berate myself internally. He’s the man who signs your paychecks, you horny fool.

“Because it’s a really nice deck. The way you worked the hot tub into it? Top tier.”

He settles in across from me, arms slung the length of the hot tub, chin dipped just slightly as he glares at me from beneath his lashes.

This scowl has him looking like a predator.

Not a grumpy rancher.

Not a sweet single dad.

Like someone who has a lot more experience than I do staring me down in an unnerving way.

“I made it, Red.”

Red. It’s not the first time a person has taken to calling me that. Usually it’s regulars at the bar. Usually it’s a casual nickname.

But with Cade, it feels different. I like it. Feels like he has a special name for me.

I’m so lame.

“You did good,” I reply, rolling my lips together and admiring the deck. I’m not lying, it’s a great deck. I just feel like a bumbling idiot bringing it up. It’s probably worse than talking about the weather.

“Would you like a drink?” His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s strained.

Hell yes. A drink would be excellent for this situation. “Sure.”

He shifts and stares down at his lap before stretching one long, muscled arm in my direction, a crystal tumbler held between strong fingers, forearms rippling in the dim light. The veins like an enticing path. My eyes can’t help but wander up to his biceps.

To his chest and the dusting of black hair there.

To that little dip between his collarbones.

The man is a walking, talking wet dream and I’m not even sure he realizes it.

I take the glass from him, trying to ignore the zing of electricity that shoots up my arm when our fingers brush. I drop his glare, focusing on the glass—on not dropping it. “Thanks.”

When I peek up at him, he’s still glaring at me. And I’m not sure what I’ve done to make him mad.

“You’re welcome.”

“What is it?” I take a sip, grateful that I can hide behind the rim of the glass for a minute and try to find my composure.

“Bourbon.”

The sweet burn of it warms my throat, and I lean into that, trying to let it soothe my nerves, the ones that are rioting under his stare.