Page 579 of Summer Heat
As I continue to knock, I’m reminded of the one guy who’d managed to make it through a record three dates with me. In the end, he’d called me “overbearingly over-analytical” and “unable to let go of the little things” before never calling me again.
If I could help it, I would. My own mother used to tell me I was a constant irritation the entire time I was growing up. But…I just don’t see how other people—normal people—manage to see a problem right in front of them and not need to do something about it.
For me, if something seems broken, I can’t stop thinking about it until I at least have a plan to fix it. If I can’t come up with a plan, I can’t stop thinking. If I can’t stop thinking, I can’t sleep.
If only my brain had an on/off switch.
Thankfully for my aching knuckles, the door finally swings open.
And just like that, all those overabundant thoughts in my head are wiped out completely.
As Jason towers in the doorway with his six-foot-plus frame shirtless as usual, hair disheveled from sleep, and chiseled expression visibly on edge, the only thing my brain registers is: He has green eyes.
No. Just no. Noticing the color of the man’s eyes is not allowed.
I avert my gaze.
Which ends up being a colossal tactical error because now, I’m looking at his broad, perfectly sculpted chest. It’s somehow bigger than I remember. His shoulders, too. And don’t even get me started on his arms.
I’m unable to look away.
Until, that is, I hear him make a brisk, grumpy sound that sounds hoarse with fatigue…and something else I can’t put my finger on.
I risk looking back up at his face to find his attention focused on what I’m wearing.
I look down to make sure my pajama shirt is fully buttoned. It is. Whew. But hell, I forgot to put on shorts again. Good thing my shirt is long enough that he’ll never know.
“It’s fucking three a.m., Summer, what do you need?”
Good question. I’m mortified to discover I’m suddenly drawing a blank.
Another long second of total silence passes and I’m actually starting to worry that I might be having a stroke. It’s like I’m physically unable to find words, any words to utter out loud.
At least I’m not staring at his chest or arms anymore. Go me. It’s a small victory, but a hard-fought one, if I’m being perfectly honest about it.
“I…uh…” Forget the stroke, it’s possible I’m suffering from brain damage.
Jason leans in a bit, as if he’s hoping being a bit closer will help me use my words.
It has the exact opposite effect.
At my second failed attempt at coherent, multi-syllable words, Jason simply sighs and steps back into his loft. “Come inside, it’s cold out there.”
He leads me into his living room and drops tiredly into a dark leather chair.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the couch across from him.
To his credit, he doesn’t even look surprised when I forego the sofa and just drop to my butt on the floor where I stand.
“Okay, out with it. What’s wrong?” he asks gruffly, though in a voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.
Seriously, just say something. Anything.
“Equipment!” The word bursts out of me like a Hail Mary pass. Followed by enough words for an actual sentence. “Some of the equipment we received were—”
“Hang on,” he interrupts me, his words curt, almost rough. “You woke me up at three a.m. for something that you and I both know can only be handled on site?”
“Um…yes?” I respond in question form, knowing he’s not buying it.
