What Happens at the Lake Read Online Vi Keeland

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Chick Lit, Contemporary Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
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That last part was clearly sarcasm. “It’s because I told you I had a breakdown, isn’t it? You’re afraid if you’re not nice, you might come home and find me rocking on the lawn or something.”

His lip twitched again. “Does the reason matter?”

I thought about it, then shrugged. “Not really. Hanging the two pieces I managed to put up took me six hours. I’ve been trying not to think about how long the ceiling would take.”

Fox nodded. “Eight o’clock work?”

“I’ll have coffee waiting.”

“I like whole-wheat toast too.”

I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He walked toward the door, opened the screen, and kept walking—across the lawn and in through his front door. The man really needed to learn how to say goodbye.

CHAPTER 6

* * *

Piña Colada

Fox

She smelled like damn summer.

And it pissed me off.

Plus, I was tired from a shitty night’s sleep. I’d tossed and turned thinking about Little Miss Home Improvement wearing nothing but a pair of denim short overalls and work boots—no shirt, no socks, definitely no bra or underwear. I probably could’ve put myself out of my misery with a quick jerkoff, but I’d refused to give in and do that while thinking about the annoying damn neighbor. So instead I’d stared at the ceiling, angrily flipping from left to right every five minutes.

Josie hopped down from the last two steps on the ladder. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“No? So this is what? Your idea of a sparkling personality? I asked if your coffee was okay, and you grunted at me.”

“That wasn’t a grunt. That was a yes.”

Josie made a short, deep noise that sounded like a pig.

I arched a brow. “Is that supposed to be me?”

She made the sound again, this time adding some monkeylike arm movements and jumping around. “Gronk.”

“Cute.”

She jumped again. “Gronk. Gronk.”

I tried not to react, but she was just too damn adorable.

Josie pointed at my face. “There it is again. The elusive Mr. Grumpy Pants smile. It’s kind of…dare I say…nice.” She made an exaggerated gasping sound and covered her mouth. “Oh no. I hope it’s not too painful.”

“Alright, wiseass. I get the point. How about you take your oinking ass out front and grab one of the small two by fours I left on the porch? I’ll show you how to make an easy support to hold up the drywall while it gets screwed into the ceiling.”

Josie strutted to the door. The woman was wearing a white tank top and long, pale pink, flowy skirt to do construction. It looked like she was going on a picnic date, rather than hanging sheetrock—though the tank top hugged her in all the right places, and there was something about her collarbone that I couldn’t drag my eyes away from. Porter was damn lucky she didn’t work for me, or I might make her getup our official company uniform. I had a feeling the outfit might make an appearance in my late-night fantasies this evening, rather than the overalls. She bent to pick up the wood out front, and the top of her tank gaped open, giving me a clear view down her shirt. I forced my head in the other direction, though my eyes managed to slant and continue looking.

“Jesus Christ,” I grumbled to myself. “I need to get the fuck out of here.”

She returned with a foot-long block of wood and held it out to me. “Here you go.”

I shook my head. “Not me. You. Grab the screw gun and climb up that ladder.”

“Okay!” She was a little too chipper this early in the morning for my liking. Once she was at the top, she looked down. “What now?”

I pointed. “Now you take that two by four and screw it to that stud. About three quarters of an inch from the bottom of that joist.”

“What’s a joist?”

“It’s the horizontal beam at the top of the wall. You’re going to hang the two by four parallel to that joist so you can rest the sheetrock on it while you screw it into the ceiling.”

“Oh! Smart. Okay.” She did what I instructed then moved the ladder around the room, putting up the other two by fours. When she was done, she jumped down from the ladder and clapped her hands together. “Now what?”

“Now you go make me another cup of coffee and some whole-wheat toast, and I’ll get the sheetrock hung on the ceiling.”

“What? No. I’ll do it.”

“You’re not going to be able to hold a fifty-pound piece of sheetrock over your head with one hand while you screw it in with the other.”

“How do you know?”

I looked her up and down. “Because you’re five foot nothing with a fancy manicure.”

“What do my nails have to do with anything?”

“If you did any kind of physical labor, they wouldn’t look like that. Hell, I bet you don’t even do dishes.”



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