style="font-size:15px;"> They weren’t very far along on their fort, however, when there was a knock on the door that made her heart sink. There was only one person who could be on the other side of that door, and despite how much she needed his help, she wasn’t looking forward to seeing the handsome Mr. McNeal again, especially not after her dream from the night before. Zach jumped up, his head grazing the blanket that made the fort roof. “I’ll get it!” he shouted, diving between the two chairs.
She listened to his quick footsteps and the squeak of the front door. When she heard the deep rumble of Brock McNeal’s voice as he spoke to Zach, her face flushed. She steeled herself for a long day of pretending not to notice how attracted she was to him.
And how attracted he is to you, a little voice inside her added. Her mind drifted back to what hid in the bottom of her box of pajamas. She quelled all that immediately. Sure, she’d seen the way he had looked her over when she’d opened the door the previous night, but she had also seen the way his face fell when Zach and Carter joined her. She knew what that look meant, and it was enough to make her even more sure that she would keep her distance from this man.
If he wasn’t interested in a woman with kids, well, it just made things that much easier. She took a deep breath, glanced down to make sure her shirt was more modest than yesterday and began trying to extricate herself from the tiny fort.
* * *
BROCK FOLLOWED THE young boy into the home formerly owned by his old neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, where he had played dozens of times as a kid. The house had a slightly dilapidated look about it, as if nobody had taken the time to keep it in good working order, but it was still clean and homey, the wallpaper and fixtures exactly as they had been twenty years before, and likely twenty years before that.
Though it was outdated and a little the worse for wear, it was of solid construction, a good home. He imagined there wouldn’t be too much to do to get it up to snuff; hopefully the land was in a similar state and not too far gone to seed.
In the living room, the lovely woman of the evening before was crawling out of what was clearly a makeshift fort, her curly hair a messy tangle that hid half her face, her splendidly curved butt shown off in lovely detail.
How did she manage to make climbing out of a blanket fort sexy?
If he’d been out of sight, he would have smacked himself in the forehead to dislodge these wayward thoughts. It was clear to him that he’d need to help her as quickly as possible, and then keep his distance from this woman from then on out. If she got his heart pumping doing something so innocent, he needed to do everything in his power to protect himself.
She straightened up, looking even more deliciously tousled, and nodded to him with a small smile. “Thank you for coming, Mr. McNeal. I wasn’t expecting you this early. I was just going to make some pancakes for the boys. Would you like some?”
Brock knew he should take the chance to get working while she was busy elsewhere, to ensure that he could concentrate on the manual labor without her nearby, but the thought of missing out on pancakes was disheartening. His ma was happy to make eggs and bacon but had never been one for pancakes—too sweet for a good start to the day, she’d always said. He forced himself to shake his head. “No, thanks, I already ate. I’ll just get started on whatever you need me to do, if you don’t mind.”
Her mouth thinned a little and her cheeks blushed a light shade of pink. He realized that she really hadn’t expected him yet, and she wasn’t sure where he should start. She seemed to be at a loss for a moment.
Not that it was surprising she hadn’t anticipated his early arrival. He’d woken at dawn, itching to get over there—to get started on all the work that needed to be done, he’d told himself. After all, two weeks wasn’t much time, and he didn’t want to leave his new neighbor in the lurch after he’d gone. So he’d headed over right after eating, without noticing exactly how early it was.
Brock decided that just because there was so much to do didn’t mean there wasn’t time for pancakes. “Actually, pancakes sound great. After all, there’s probably enough work around here to burn off four breakfasts, I’m sure. And while you’re at it, I’ll take a look around to see what all there is to do, if that’s all right?”
She nodded, looking relieved, and he immediately felt like he’d made the right choice. Plus, he would get to eat pancakes. That was a win-win.
“I’ll go get them started. Please make yourself at home, Mr. McNeal.”
“Call me Brock,” he answered before she disappeared into the kitchen.
The moment she was gone, he looked around the room and started creating an inventory of everything that would need to be done to get the house in shape. Besides two warped window frames and the very faded wallpaper, the living room at least appeared in decent condition.
“Would you like to come in our fort?” one of the boys asked suddenly, poking his head out between two boxes.
Brock had forgotten he wasn’t alone in the room. He gave the kid a small smile. “No, thanks,” he said, not sure if there was anything else he was supposed to say.
It had been a long while since he’d spoken to anyone under the legal drinking age.
The other boy, identical to his brother, crawled out of the fort and moved to stand right next to Brock. Brock waited, wondering what the little boy was thinking. Finally, he spoke. “I’m Carter.”
Brock nodded, wishing the child wasn’t quite so close. He wasn’t used to children and their lack of understanding about personal space. “Hi. I’m Brock,” he answered.
Carter kept staring, as if waiting for Brock to say more, but he couldn’t think of what else he should say.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked.
“I’m trying to figure out what we need to do to get this place fixed up,” Brock answered.
Carter looked around the room. “Like what?”
Brock felt slightly relieved that the large hazel eyes were no longer staring at him in that intense way. He pointed out the windows, explaining about the frames.
“Momma tried to open those when we got here and couldn’t,” Carter commented. “What else is wrong?”
Brock shrugged. “I don’t know. I just got here.”
With that, Carter was off, pointing out every problem he had noticed since they’d moved there. Some, like the faint scratches on the wood floor from furniture being moved around, didn’t concern Brock, but there were others that he added to the mental list he was making.
Soon, Brock and Carter had moved into the room the boys were sharing and Brock was examining the large wooden bunk bed the boys would use once, as Carter explained, it didn’t wobble anymore. “Momma says the Wilson boys must have been pretty rowdy to break such a big piece of furniture,” Carter said as Brock pulled on the top bunk and watched it sway precariously. Brock smiled, remembering exactly how “rowdy” the Wilson boys were. They had gotten Brock into quite a bit of trouble more than once when he was a kid.
Carter continued talking, as if he had no plans to stop anytime soon. “But it was free, so she said she would fix it and then we won’t have to sleep on the floor no more.”
“Anymore,”
