Free Montana Actually by Fiona Lowe

along her skin, colliding with her own frustrations at her inability to control her loose libido. She crossed her arms over her aching breasts, which were sobbing at the loss of all that delicious contact with him.
    “A bit of manual labor above you, Josh?”
    His shoulders squared and he looked affronted. “No. But I’m certain that’s what you want to think.”
    His words jabbed at her. Oh God, he was right. She didn’t know what was worse—the fact that he was so accurately insightful or how small it made her feel. She was deliberately picking a fight with him so she could call him arrogant. It was so much safer to feel a heap of righteous indignation about him instead of the jitters that too easily tipped into overwhelming attraction.
    An attraction that was so very hard to fight.
    He tilted his head as if he’d recognized her acknowledgment that his assessment was correct. “You’re not in my way, and where I come from if you start a job, you finish it. Plus”—he swung his leg up onto the coffee table—“I can’t possibly do it because I have a bruised foot.”
    He didn’t add “which is your fault,” but it was clearly implied. A double dose of guilt slugged her. “Fine, I’ll hang the last two doors.”
    The tension left his face. “Great.”
    As she prepared to fit the door, she could feel his eyes on her. Another flash of heat burst through her, flaming her face and drenching her hands. The screws in her palm slipped to the floor, rolling everywhere. “Crap.”
    “I wouldn’t have picked you for being a klutz, but things are adding up. First the paint, then the door and now this.”
    I’m only clumsy around you.
She ground her teeth.
“Perhaps if you didn’t watch my every move as if you were expecting me to mess up any moment.”
    His expression was all innocence and he opened his hands outward as if he were being wrongly accused. “Hey, I’m just sitting here icing my foot like you told me.”
    She mumbled, “Yeah, right,” and collected the screws before starting over. As she turned on the drill, she saw him flinch. Desperate to move the conversation away from her lust-induced lack of coordination she asked, “Does the sound give you goose bumps?”
    “I did time in orthopedics.”
    She recalled her time in the OR. “I was totally fascinated the first time I saw an orthopedic surgical set up.” She laughed. “It looked just like my father’s workshop with its mallet, screws, saws and bone chisels.” She drilled in the next screw. “Did you decide orthopedics wasn’t for you?”
    “Something like that.” He readjusted the ice pack. “Thanks for taking care of the doors so quickly.”
    Had he just changed the subject? “No problem.”
    “I’ve made a list of other things that need attention.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “The rail in my closet is loose, the light bulbs in the bedroom need replacing and I need hooks put into the walls so I can hang some pictures.”
    All of it was really minor stuff that tenants usually just fixed themselves. “You don’t need my permission to do any of that. Just check for a stud before hanging anything heavy.”
    “I’m pretty busy, so it would really help me out if you did it.”
    He gave her a beguiling smile that deepened the dimple in his chin and bracketed his lips in sensual lines. Lips she’d come so close to kissing.
    Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in . . .
She worked at blocking the effects of his unfamiliar but devastating smile by focusing on logic. He was on an afternoon off and, granted, he was nursing a slightly bruised foot that was her fault, but he could hardly call himself busy. And that smile was completely different from the repertoire of smiles he drew on when he was with her. They mostly ranged from tight and tense to irritated.
    He used that smile when he flirted with you at the diner. When he wanted coffee.
    She smelled a rat. A rat who’d made her feel guilty