I'm sure the officer is going to call our bluff, and I'll have Kevon chewing me a new one for causing shit on my first day on site, but it doesn't happen.
"I'll be back to check on you two." The off icer gives a jerky nod , then leaves us alone.
I pick up the roller, and, for a few minutes , there's just the sound of her brush sliding across the wall and my roller clattering as I make giant W’ s.
She didn't have to cover for me.
The music blares, and some lame summer dance song comes on. I glance over my shoulder, and she's swaying her hips from side to side, bopping her head to the tune, just chilling when she could have been pouting in a royal little temper tantrum.
"Evan?"
She stops rocking her hips at the sound of my voice and turns slowly, her face gorgeous, but clear of any emotion at all. I miss the glow she got when she was about to lose it.
"I, uh, want to apologize. I lost my temper. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I deserved to get hit with paint. And I deserved to have you throw me to the wolves. I have no idea why you didn't, but thank you. I know you don't want more trouble. And I should be thinking the same way." The words choke and sputter out.
The corner of her mouth lifts in the tiniest trace of a smile. "I've got a pretty shitty temper myself. Don't worry about it. We gotta get through this, and I know you just want this room painted and it looks like crap, but I'm doing my best."
She shrugs her shoulder and one sleeve of her t-shirt slides down. Her shoulder is tan. He r bra strap is red. A nd I stop my brain from going too wild imagining what she'd look like if I peeled that shirt off, unhooked the bra and let it slide down off of her arms.
"Winchester?"
The sound of my name pops me out of my dirty daydream.
"Winch," I say and stick my hand out. "We've never really introduced ourselves, right? Everyone calls me Winch."
She nods and smiles, then grabs my hand and gives me a handshake that would make any hardcore CEO proud.
"Evan. Nice to meet you."
I don't want to let go of he r hand. It feels tiny in mine, and the skin is ridiculously soft. I'm dying to know what those hands would feel like in places I better stop thinking about if I'm going to make it a few more hours with her.
And suddenly I realize the full extent of how stupid I acted. Because I never managed to j ust keep my damn cool, I went from kind of hitting o n her to being a total tool. And now we're at some kind of shaky friend level when the only thing I needed to do was keep things distant.
So much for that plan.
"Winchester." I love the sound of my name from her mouth. "I've never met anyone with Winchester as a first name."
She perches her fine painted ass on the ladder and slides the paint brush along the edge of the ceiling with careful, even strokes.
"My grandparents made their money in illegal arms dealing." I finish the wall I've been work ing on and move to the next one .
I expect the mandatory girly scoff or for her to ask if I'm serious, but instead she says, "My family made most of their startup money during Prohibition."
My lips tug up at the corner s in reaction to what I know other people probably don't notice about her.
"Evan Williams Black Label is my mother's favorite bourbon," I tell her and watch the color slide over her cheekbones and up to the roots of her dark hair.
"Yeah. That." She laughs, a cool, loose sound . "I tell people Evan is a family name, and it is. But it didn't come from my grandma. It actually came from what my dad poured for everyone in the waiting room when I was born."
Swapping family stories is a fucking slippery slope, and I know better. But the words slide out before I can remind myself of all the reasons why I should hold them back.
"It's a good bourbon. My mom always says it's under-appreciated, and she knows her whiskey."
Her smile is warm and smooth as a shot kicked back on a hot night, and it loosens my tongue the same way the drink would.
I tell her a
"I'll be back to check on you two." The off icer gives a jerky nod , then leaves us alone.
I pick up the roller, and, for a few minutes , there's just the sound of her brush sliding across the wall and my roller clattering as I make giant W’ s.
She didn't have to cover for me.
The music blares, and some lame summer dance song comes on. I glance over my shoulder, and she's swaying her hips from side to side, bopping her head to the tune, just chilling when she could have been pouting in a royal little temper tantrum.
"Evan?"
She stops rocking her hips at the sound of my voice and turns slowly, her face gorgeous, but clear of any emotion at all. I miss the glow she got when she was about to lose it.
"I, uh, want to apologize. I lost my temper. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I deserved to get hit with paint. And I deserved to have you throw me to the wolves. I have no idea why you didn't, but thank you. I know you don't want more trouble. And I should be thinking the same way." The words choke and sputter out.
The corner of her mouth lifts in the tiniest trace of a smile. "I've got a pretty shitty temper myself. Don't worry about it. We gotta get through this, and I know you just want this room painted and it looks like crap, but I'm doing my best."
She shrugs her shoulder and one sleeve of her t-shirt slides down. Her shoulder is tan. He r bra strap is red. A nd I stop my brain from going too wild imagining what she'd look like if I peeled that shirt off, unhooked the bra and let it slide down off of her arms.
"Winchester?"
The sound of my name pops me out of my dirty daydream.
"Winch," I say and stick my hand out. "We've never really introduced ourselves, right? Everyone calls me Winch."
She nods and smiles, then grabs my hand and gives me a handshake that would make any hardcore CEO proud.
"Evan. Nice to meet you."
I don't want to let go of he r hand. It feels tiny in mine, and the skin is ridiculously soft. I'm dying to know what those hands would feel like in places I better stop thinking about if I'm going to make it a few more hours with her.
And suddenly I realize the full extent of how stupid I acted. Because I never managed to j ust keep my damn cool, I went from kind of hitting o n her to being a total tool. And now we're at some kind of shaky friend level when the only thing I needed to do was keep things distant.
So much for that plan.
"Winchester." I love the sound of my name from her mouth. "I've never met anyone with Winchester as a first name."
She perches her fine painted ass on the ladder and slides the paint brush along the edge of the ceiling with careful, even strokes.
"My grandparents made their money in illegal arms dealing." I finish the wall I've been work ing on and move to the next one .
I expect the mandatory girly scoff or for her to ask if I'm serious, but instead she says, "My family made most of their startup money during Prohibition."
My lips tug up at the corner s in reaction to what I know other people probably don't notice about her.
"Evan Williams Black Label is my mother's favorite bourbon," I tell her and watch the color slide over her cheekbones and up to the roots of her dark hair.
"Yeah. That." She laughs, a cool, loose sound . "I tell people Evan is a family name, and it is. But it didn't come from my grandma. It actually came from what my dad poured for everyone in the waiting room when I was born."
Swapping family stories is a fucking slippery slope, and I know better. But the words slide out before I can remind myself of all the reasons why I should hold them back.
"It's a good bourbon. My mom always says it's under-appreciated, and she knows her whiskey."
Her smile is warm and smooth as a shot kicked back on a hot night, and it loosens my tongue the same way the drink would.
I tell her a
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