“Are you shitting me?” Bobby asks, incredulous. He looks up and down the empty street as though we’re going to get busted any second.

  “Nope. Completely serious,” I say. “Doc took Unc fishing today. Said they’d be gone till mid-afternoon, so we can get it done if we hurry.”

  “Woman, you are something else.” He’s shaking his head, likely thinking I’ve lost my mind, but we get out of his truck and I walk to the back, where he’s already lowering the tailgate. “This is trespassing, you know? And probably some other misdemeanor charges if we’re lucky.”

  “And if we’re not?” I joke, batting my lashes behind my glasses.

  Bobby sighs, resigned. “We’ll be lucky if Hank doesn’t come out with a shotgun and pepper our asses.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.”

  He laughs, and I’m feeling pretty proud of myself. This is a bold move, but I think we can get away with it if we act fast.

  “Tell me where I’m going with this thing,” Bobby says, lifting the heavy concrete edging piece and walking through Unc’s yard.

  “Right here for the first one,” I tell him, pointing. I turned them around when I was here yesterday, but some of them are pretty crumbled, and I figured I’d take advantage of Unc being gone and Bobby having more muscles than I do to get the new pieces in place.

  He quickly moves it into position, wiggling it back and forth to plant it solidly in the dirt.

  “Perfect. Four more before we get busted!”

  He glares at me, that brow telling me ‘I told you so’ loud and clear. I know he’s right, and this is risky. But it’s worth it if Unc’s house is well-kept. The flower bed edging is the first of two jobs and the least serious thing I’m hoping Bobby can help with.

  He makes quick work of it, the new concrete in place in minutes. “Hmm. It looks too new,” I decide and get down on my knees in the yard. Scooping up some dirt from around the bushes, I rub it into the new pieces to blend them in with the old ones.

  Leaning up against the bed of his truck, Bobby laughs. “What are you doing now?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  I glance over my shoulder and catch him looking at my butt, not really seeming to care at all what I’m doing other than kneeling with my ass in the air.

  “Making me lose my fucking mind.” It’s a statement, not a question at all. Somewhere deep inside, the tiniest vixen roars to life, and I wiggle my hips a bit, teasing and seducing him. He groans and plainly reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans, keeping eye contact with me the whole time. “Now what?”

  “Hammer. Nail.”

  He chokes on his tongue. “What?”

  I’m the one grinning cockily now. “We need to fix the steps. What did you think I was talking about?” I ask innocently.

  But he’s way better at this game than I am. “Me hammering away at you, nailing you to the bed, fucking you hard, kissing you soft, and touching every inch of your skin with my tongue.”

  “Oh.” The lamest comeback in the history of comebacks, but it’s all I’ve got because my brain is busy painting mental images in vivid, photographic detail.

  He presses his lips together, but I can see he’s fighting a smile as he grabs the hammer from the toolbox I asked him to bring and the box of nails we bought at the hardware store when we picked up the concrete edging pieces.

  “Right here.” I point at the stair edge, where the nails are working their way loose, making the few steps an unsteady tripping hazard.

  He hammers a few nails in, making the stair treads solid and safe. I grab the vinegar I brought from home and dab a bit on the nails.

  “What’re you doing?” Bobby’s nose is crinkled at the smell.

  “Vinegar makes them rust quickly. That way, they’ll blend in and not look shiny and new and therefore noticeable.”

  Bobby seems surprised by how far I’m going to do this without Unc realizing I’ve done a thing, but that’s key to the plan of his not feeling like I’m overstepping.

  “The side’s gonna need a few screws. Let me grab those and a screwdriver.” He digs around in the toolbox again and comes up with a long-shanked screwdriver. “This might be a bit much, but it’ll do the trick.”

  He’s screwing in the last screw when the door opens and Unc comes out, grumpier than a bear whose hibernation has been disturbed way too early.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. His eyes are bright and sharp today, no hint of glassiness or clouding. Nope, just pure fury there.

  “Uh, hey, Unc. I thought you were going fishing with Doc today?” I say calmly, willing him to calm down too because we are so busted.

  “Did. Got tired so I came home to take a nap and got woken up by some fool hammerin’ away on my porch. What the fuck are you doing?” he repeats, getting louder.

  Bobby steps forward, putting himself between me and Unc’s ire, trying to ease the situation. “No big deal, Hank. No need to yell at Willow. She just asked me to fix up these steps so they don’t walk away from the house.”

  He gestures with the screwdriver, and before I know what’s happening, Unc grabs the screwdriver out of Bobby’s hand by the flathead end and chunks it into the yard, where it lands blade down in the dirt, buried to the handle.

  “Don’t need no help,” he hollers, pointing at Bobby in accusation. Pointing to his own chest, he barks, “I can do it myself.”

  Behind me, I’m sure eyes are peeking out of every window with how loud Unc’s being. I’d expected him to be mad if he found out I was helping like this. That’s why I was trying to be sneaky about it, but I hadn’t expected anything close to . . . this.

  I’ve never seen him like this.

  I’m shocked and hurt at Unc’s reaction, and Bobby is holding me protectively behind his back like he’s scared Unc is going to charge us. I’m ashamed to admit that I shrink behind Bobby a little, letting him take the brunt of it on his broad shoulders.

  “Shit,” Unc hisses, holding his hand up, and blood drips down onto the porch.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, my concern for him overriding everything else. I step out from my hiding spot and run up the steps to grab Unc’s hand. He tries to fight me, still mad as a hornet, but I glare at him. “Let me see it.”

  With a pissed off sigh, he opens his fist. A gash stretches across his palm from the meat by his thumb toward his ring finger. He immediately closes his hand again, holding it over his head. “Damn screwdriver got me.”

  He glares at Bobby as though it’s his fault when none of it is. Bobby is here because I asked him to be, doing work when I told him it would be fine, and Unc is the one who had a tantrum and grabbed the screwdriver.

  All business and not allowing for any argument, I push Unc’s shoulders, turning him around. “Inside. Let’s get a towel, then you’re going for stitches.”

  He relents on the towel, but when I shove him back toward the door, he refuses and plops himself down in a kitchen chair. “Don’t need no stitches. It’ll scab up in a couple of days.”

  “And in the meantime, you’ll be dripping God knows what into the whole town’s beer. Nope. Stitches, bandages, and sterile dressing, or I’ll call Chief Gibson if you even step one cranky foot in the bar. I’ll report you myself for health violations.”

  Unc isn’t moving, not swayed by my argument in the slightest. Probably because he counts Chief Gibson as a friend and trusts that he won’t shut him down. Bad thing is, I fear he’s right, which leaves me stuck on how to get Unc to go for the care he needs. Bobby steps up to the plate, backing my play.

  “You catch anything this morning?” he asks like they’re just shooting the breeze.

  Unc grunts and Bobby snorts. “How many and how big?”

  Narrow blue eyes meet dark ones in a battle of wills. I’m honestly not sure which of these men will come out on top. Bobby’s got youth on his side, and size for sure. But Unc has old-fashioned iron will.

  “Couple each, not more than a pound or two. Catch-n-releasers.”

  Bobby nods. “You scrub up before you took a nap, old man? Not just rinse off at the creek, but wash up good and proper like you’re eating dinner at your mama’s table?”

  Unc doesn’t say a word, but he glares at Bobby for a long minute. “Fine. Don’t want no creek funk infection. Probably lose a damn hand and it’d be your fault, Tannen.”

  I have no idea what happened, but Unc is walking outside and heading for his truck.

  “We’ll take you,” I say, hurrying alongside him.

  “The hell you will. I can go get somebody to sew up my hand by myself, just like I could’ve fixed those stairs myself.” The accusation stings, but I have my doubts. If he could’ve, he would’ve already. Right?

  “I was trying to help,” I argue. I’ve already figured out that apologizing doesn’t work with Unc.

  “Hmph.” With that, he gets in his truck and leaves me and Bobby standing in the front yard.

  “What just happened?” I ask, not really expecting Bobby to answer as I nervously nibble at my bottom lip, looking down the road where Unc’s blue truck disappeared around the corner. “I was trying to help,” I say again, quieter this time.

  Suddenly, I find myself buried against Bobby’s chest, and tears are running hotly down my face, soaking into his shirt. He rubs my back soothingly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Hank’s got a streak of pride a mile wide, and we rubbed up against it a little too much. That’s all.”

  “You think he’s going to be okay?” This time, I do need him to answer, to reassure me that Unc’s hand is going to get stitched up and he’ll be good as new.

  “Of course. Hell, if we hadn’t been here, he probably would’ve super glued it shut and kept on with business. He’s tough like that.”

  I’d like to believe that. Except Bobby doesn’t know that there’s more to it. No one does.

  Pulling myself together, I swipe at my eyes behind my glasses and snort very ungracefully.

  “He’ll be okay, and he’ll get over it. At least until he shows up to work and sees what you did to his office,” he deadpans. “It’s all over then.”

  There’s a beat of silence and I realize he’s kidding. Sort of.

  “Oh, God, he’s going to kill me!” I wail, but through the last bit of tears, I’m laughing in shock, knowing it’s true. He is going to be so pissed. “How in the hell can he be mad that people want to do nice things for him?”

  “Some people don’t get it, sweetheart. But he’ll come around.”

  Bobby makes one last check on the stairs to be sure they’re solid and stable while I text Doc to let him know we got busted and that stitches were required.

  Doc: Tannen? Or you?

  I laugh, amused that Doc assumes Unc did something to us.

  Me: Unc. Sliced his hand on a screwdriver.

  Doc: He went for stitches? Didn’t glue it up?

  What is it with these guys? Glue is not an appropriate treatment for gashes and never has been. A second later, another text pops up . . .

  Doc: On it. You tried.

  I did. I tried so hard to do something nice, and Unc yelled and stomped and cussed his way around like a drunk, wayward sailor who got off at the wrong shore for leave.

  But I’m nervous about his being at the hospital alone. Maybe I should go over there too? Sit with Doc and make sure that Unc gets home okay and eats some dinner? He said he came home and took a nap. Was it because they left early to catch the prime fishing hours or because he overdid it today?

  My brain whirls and swirls. It’s not until Bobby puts his hands on my shoulders and bends down nose to nose with me that it stops. My brain quiets and I stare into his eyes. Deep, dark onyx unblinkingly stares back at me, steady and supportive.

  “I know what you need. Get in the truck. I’m taking this date over.”

  “Because I messed up so royally?” I say softly.

  “No, because Katelyn was wrong. You need to relax and have some fun, and while I might not be able to get us in at the resort with zero notice, I do know a spot that’s perfect. Leave it to me, sweetheart.”

  I do, because as much as I hate to admit it, it’s nice to have someone take care of me for a change. It’s a relief to simply sit back in the cushioned seat of Bobby’s truck and see where he takes me.

  “Keep ’em closed.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the desire to open them. We’ve been going for what seems like forever, first stopping by my place where Bobby quickly ran inside by himself to emerge with my camera bag before heading here. Wherever here is. The truck bumps along, and without knowing when to brace, my butt flies out of the seat a bit. “Whoo!” I scream, a little scared but a little . . . exhilarated?

  Is that what this feeling is? And is it because of the wild ride across the field or because of the man at my side?

  Both. Definitely both.

  We come to a stop, and Bobby says, “Okay, you can open now.”

  I open my eyes and look around to find a pond sunk into a low point in the rolling green pasture. On the far side, a few cows laze about on the bank, drinking and lying down in the surprisingly not-brown water. It’s not Caribbean blue or anything, but it does look fresher than I’d expect for what’s likely rain runoff and collection.

  “A pond?” I ask, not sure why we’re here, though the scenery is pretty and my finger does itch to take a few pictures of those cows who are now mooing at the interruption of their afternoon dip.

  “A spring-fed pond,” Bobby corrects, emphasizing the spring-fed part. “That means it’s clean enough to swim in.” He smiles and reaches into the back seat, pulling up my camera bag and handing it to me carefully. “I grabbed you a suit, and yes, that means I went through your dresser drawers. If you’re mad, get over it now or I’ll have to start calling you Hank.”

  The message is loud and clear. He’s doing something nice for me, offering a distraction from the disaster today has been, and I shouldn’t argue about it like my stubborn uncle.

  When Bobby had stopped at my little cabin and told me to stay put while he grabbed something, I’d given in easily. He’d come out with my camera bag, and I’d figured we were doing the wildflower pictures at the cemetery today.

  But this might be better. It might be a lot better. Even if the worry about Unc is still sharp in my belly.

  I mime zipping my lip.

  “Good girl. I’ll step out so you can change, and I’ll meet you over there.” He points to a spot on the bank by a big flat rock.

  He opens his door and grabs a moving blanket out of the back, shaking it out as he goes. I’m dumbstruck as I watch him stride toward the water and spread the blanket out. He glances back at me, and though the sun glints off the windshield, I feel like he knows I’m watching him.

  He reaches behind his neck, pulling his T-shirt over his head in one swoop.

  “Oh, my God,” I mutter to nobody.

  Bobby is thick and muscled, tanned with a slight line along his arms that says he must work with his shirt off at least sometimes. A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, pulling together into a thin line that disappears into his jeans. Which is exactly where his hands are now, undoing the button and zipper. He leaves them sagging open to reach down and pull his boots and socks off. Staring directly at the truck, or at me—I’m not sure which—he pushes his jeans over his ass and down his thighs.

  The man has no shame. But he has zero reason to. Standing in just black boxer briefs, he looks like hot sex and wicked sin.

  And mine.

  There’s a hunger deep inside me that’s thrilled this man wants me and wants me to want him.

  There’s an even bigger thrill that he doesn’t want casual and throw-away but is being remarkably and unusually clear in his desire for something deeper and more meaningful.

  I feel like I won the lottery with him. Not just any old lottery, either, but the Powerball. And against all my usual instincts to share and take care of others, I want to revel in him, keeping him all to myself like a stingy bitch.

  He winks at me and takes off, running barefoot through the dirt toward the water. He splashes in up to his thighs then dives under the surface expertly, coming up further out with a whip of his hair that sends water droplets flying. The cows moo their displeasure, but Bobby calls out, “Come on, Willow! Get in with me!”

  Oh, I’m in. I’m in deep, way over my head and treading water.

  I awkwardly maneuver around in the truck to change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into the bikini Bobby tucked into my camera bag. I own two suits, and of course, he brought the smaller of the two. It’s basically four triangles, one for each boob, one for my front, and one for my butt, all held together with strings that tie on my hips and at the center of my back. I make sure everything’s tucked in appropriately and send a quick prayer of thanks that I had the foresight to shave my bikini area so it doesn’t look like a Sasquatch bush escaping from behind the black fabric. I slip my tennis shoes back on but leave them untied so I can kick them off on the blanket, along with my glasses.

  My walk to the water is nowhere near as confident as Bobby’s swaggered one, but he watches me approach all the same. His eyes follow my every move, roaming and tracing my curves as I get closer. I get the sense that he’s memorizing me.

  Barefoot, I wade into the water. It’s just this side of cool, a perfect contrast to the hot day, and goosebumps break out along my skin. Bobby swims closer and stands in front of me.

  “You are stunning. I want to kiss every inch of your skin, tease at these goosebumps with my fingertips, and feel your body against mine,” he says softly, grit and gravel in his voice.

  “Okay,” I say breathlessly.

  I want that too. All of that, please.

  In my brain, Ilene’s bell goes off. Ding! I’m ready.

  “Close your eyes for me again,” he orders, and they slip shut of their own accord.

  I feel his arms surround me, scooping me up until my legs are over one ropey forearm and his other is wrapped around my back. I try to wrap my arms around his neck to keep my balance, but before I can, I’m flying through the air.