Free Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) by Ruth Clampett Page B

gaze skims the living room before settling on the pile of sealed boxes. He silently follows me as I walk toward the kitchen. We’re halfway through the dining room when he stops in his tracks.
    I turn toward him. “What?”
    “You didn’t tell me that you’re moving. When will you be out? Do I need to get out too?”
    He looks a little frantic, his eyes wide and searching.
    “I’m not moving. Well, not until the divorce is final and that takes a while. Why do you think I am?”
    He waves his arm across the room. “Why? This place is almost empty, other than the moving boxes in the living room.”
    “Those aren’t moving boxes. That’s furniture my brother’s girlfriend made me buy from Ikea.”
    He rubs his forehead like he can’t compute what I’m saying. I guess it does look pretty crazy to someone wandering in here the first time with no warning.
    “But if you’re not moving, where’s the rest of your furniture?” he asks.
    “Mike took it. Most of it was his.”
    His lips tighten and his face gets red. “What do you mean, he took it? What kind of an asshole leaves you in this situation?”
    I’m taken back at how angry he is, but I’ve got to admit that I like it. It’s hot.
    “A Mike asshole,” I reply. “But in fairness, I told him to take it.”
    “And what about the stuff in the living room?”
    “What about it?”
    “When are you putting it together?”
    I shrug. “I have no idea. Frankly I’m not very inspired lately. This must be what depression feels like.”
    He gives me a concerned look, and then turns and starts walking to the door.
    “Hey, where you going?” I ask.
    “To get my tools. Ikea furniture won’t do you a damn bit of good if it stays in the box.”
    I smile. “I guess you’re right.” I could tell him that I have my own tools and can take care of assembling the furniture, but he seems so pleased with himself that I keep my mouth shut.
    He leaves the front door cracked open and returns a few minutes later with a toolbox. The sight is about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Joe is a real man and he’s going to tighten all my screws.
    My chest feels hot and I unbutton the top two buttons on my Henley T-shirt.
    After he sets down his toolbox, I hand him his coffee. He takes several long sips before handing it back. Next thing I know he’s carefully laying out various tools from hex wrenches, to screwdrivers and a mat knife. He grabs the knife and slowly cuts open the first box.
    “Shall I grab my tools and join in? I’m an Ikea master, you know, and you’ve inspired me.”
    “Sure, the more the merrier.” He looks up at me and winks.
    I grin back. “Okay.”
    When all the parts of the table are out, I get a kick out of how meticulous his approach is. While I dive in and start screwing in the legs, he carefully reads the instructions first and follows it to the letter. I’ve finished three legs by the time he gets one attached.
    I step back with my hands on my hips. “Look at that, we made a table!” I tease as we stand it upright and move it to the dining room.
    “Looking good, and in record time,” he remarks.
    I want to point out that if the assembly had been a race, I would’ve beat him by a mile, but decide I’m better keeping my mouth shut. Instead I show my appreciation.
    “I’m going to have to make you dinner now,” I say.
    “Do you cook?” he asks with a hopeful look.
    “Sort of. If you have low expectations, then my cooking should be tolerable.”
    He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re one-a-kind, Trisha.”
    “Hopefully in a good way.”
    “Definitely.”
    When we’ve finished screwing the squatty legs into the couch base and putting it into position, I turn to him. “Wanna take a break? How about a beer?”
    He nods.
    When I come back from the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out wide and his head leaning against the sofa’s back. I have an image of myself straddling him, and I run my cold beer