“I should get going.”

I shake my head free of my inappropriate thoughts, watching as Harley places his empty glass onto the counter, and my heart begins to race as panic dawns on me. My mind works overtime to think of something, anything to get him to stay. I don’t know why, but I don’t want him to leave just yet.

“Can you fix my washing machine?”

Harley offers me a double take, his brow furrowed, and I can tell he’s just as confused by my spluttered question as I am.

“Um, I-I mean, it.” I pause for a moment before I stammer an explanation. “It’s making this really loud clunking noise. I think it’s off-center, and I don’t know how to fix it.” It’s a total lie, of course. It isn’t off-center at all. And even if it was, I know how to fix it. I’ve had that washing machine for years. It was my mother’s and the damn thing goes off-center at least once a week. But Harley doesn’t know that.

“You want me to have a look at it now?”

I nod.

“Murph—” He stops, looking down at his watch. “It’s after midnight.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but I have clothes I need to wash so I can pack for Myrtle Beach in the morning.”

“You mean to tell me you, Alice Murphy, Miss Organization herself, didn’t have your bag packed on Sunday when you found out about the damn bachelor party?” He quirks a dubious brow.

I shake my head, despite his assumption being eerily accurate. Of course I had my bag packed for Myrtle Beach days ago. I’ve repacked it three times since then. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Fine,” he huffs, turning and heading for the laundry, and I follow him with a smug smirk, although right now I hate myself.

I lean against the doorjamb, watching Harley on his knees, his head halfway inside the washing machine drum. I’m immediately captivated by the way his tight jeans pull slightly lower, the band of his boxer briefs showing, as is a sliver of his tan, taut lower back, and I can’t help but smile to myself like the cat that got the cream.

“That should do it,” Harley grunts as his arm yanks at something deep in the machine and, much to my dismay, he’s done far too quickly. But, short of asking him to mow the lawn in the backyard, and paint a recoat of oil over the front porch, there really is no other reason to keep him here. With a forlorn sigh, I watch as he pushes himself up from the floor, finding his feet and brushing his hands over the back of his jeans.

“All good?” he asks, his eyebrows slightly raised as he looks down at me.

I nod, biting down on the inside of my cheek as I rack my brain. I know what I need to do to get him to stay. I need to make a move. In fact, I really should tell him how I’m feeling. The problem is, I keep imagining a million humiliating scenarios in my head, and I’m far too chicken. I simply cannot risk it.