Free The Boat Builder's Bed by Kris Pearson

wouldn’t ask.
    Heart racing, she turned back and picked up the sign he’d mended.
    As she stepped back into the studio she said, “Mom lives too far away.” Would that stall any questions from him? She changed the subject adroitly. “Where did you get your uniform?”  
    Rafe glanced down at the black waiter-style apron he’d worn for the occasion. He’d bought it for a joke, but had been pleased enough to have it protecting his trousers once his barman’s job got busy.
    “Saw a display of them at the liquor store.”
    “Very smart. You absolutely looked the part. I’d like to offer to pay you for all the lovely champagne—”
    “You can forget about that.”
    “—but right now it’s way beyond my budget.”
    “It was a ‘good luck’ gift, Sophie. You won’t be paying for it.”
    “You’re very generous. Too generous. It gave my opening a lot more class. Thank you.”
    She sighed with resignation and turned to survey the studio. The sofa throws were rumpled, someone had looped the lengths of display fabric back to make more room, and the glowing timber floor was scattered with crumbs from the snacks and nibbles. Empty glasses garnished every level surface.
    “What a mess,” she added, inspecting the floor and then releasing the fabrics so they hung straight again. “Let me just grab the remains of the food. I’ll come in early tomorrow and sort everything else out.”
    She stuffed the snack-platters and their wilting lettuce leaves and kebab-sticks into a garbage bag and secured the top while Rafe removed his apron.  
    Then she hurried into the washroom and came out carrying her pink and silver crash helmet.
    “What’s that girly thing?” he teased.
    “It matches my Vespa.” She sent him a challenging look that told him he’d be pushing his luck if he commented further in that vein.
    “You’ve got a little Italian stallion?”  
    “If you insist. I love it. It’s cheap to run and I can squeak it into Mrs. Ferris’s garage beside her car.”
    “All that throbbing power between your legs?”  
    “Not as much power as you have between yours.”
    He raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering if she was talking dirty. She waited a couple of beats, and added “I saw a crash helmet in your bedroom. I doubt you’re buzzing around on a scooter.”
    She enjoyed the guilty grin that spread across his gorgeous face. So he had at least one weakness...
    “A Ducati Multistrada. Until the garages are finished up by the road I lock the Jag in the boatyard overnight and use the bike to get to the house and back again next morning. You don’t leave a car like that sitting unprotected on a cliff-top.”  
    “And what about the bike at night?”
    “Locked inside the shipping container, along with a lot of my other stuff. Not ideal, but it works.” He bundled up the apron, grabbed the remaining unopened bottle of Moet by its neck, and pulled the studio door open.
    Sophie felt the prickle of desire wash through her as she moved past him. She could easily picture him in motor cycle leathers—a big rangy man in black, carving through traffic as though he owned the road. Owned the world.  
    A drift of his earthy cologne reached her and she closed her eyes for a moment to savor his scent. Combined with the freshly-laundered cotton of his shirt and his clean skin and the faint bouquet of good champagne he smelled wonderful. Everything about him invited her closer, but she knew closer could lead only to disaster.  
    She stood for a moment looking back at her new venture, hoping fervently for even a fraction of the success Rafe had achieved. Then watched as Rafe pulled the door shut and gave it a joggle to check it had locked.
    They walked as far as his nearby car, now returned to showroom condition.
    “I can picture you on something fast,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But why the Jag? You should have an Italian car like a Ferarri or a Lamborghini.”
    Rafe compressed his lips and avoided