Page 7 of Emerson

A picture!

Dillon Montgomery sent me a picture of him in bed. No shirt. Just sheets and abs.

Sheets. And. Abs.

And said…

Does Not Exist: you mean you haven’t snuck in to hide cameras in here yet?

The man is certifiable. I should file a restraining order against him. I should leave work early and drive my ass to the cabin to tell him what I think about that picture in person.

“Can you at least rinse my color out first?” Sue says, blinking up at me. I stop snapping the scissors in the air like a deranged villain and realize I may have been muttering out loud.

“Of course, babe. Color out and then I go neuter the bastard.”

“I thought you said you were going to lick him to show him whose boss?”

Did I say that?

“Oh, Sue, honey, I would never lick a six foot four, muscley tank of a man who wears holey jeans and work boots like I wear platforms and mascara. Please.”

Needless to say, the day drags on. By the time I get in my car, I’m all but vibrating with the need to leave.

By the time I make it up to the cabin and park, I realize Dillon never actually texted me about whether the cabin was ready for me to start helping. It’s too late now. His truck is here, and I’m already halfway up the creaky steps.

The adrenaline that’s been carrying me through since the moment I looked at my phone and saw that picture fuels my entrance. The door sweeps open, picking up sawdust and vibes as it bangs against the wall.

Dillon is kneeling in what I can now tell is a short hallway across the cabin, and the bastard doesn’t even flinch.

Mood? Killed.

Vibe? Dead.

Boner? Ugh.

“You sent me an unsolicited sheet pic.”

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Not a look, not a sound, not an exaggerated eye roll or threat to throw me down the mountain. Nothing.

I force my eyebrows not to frown and roll my own eyes instead, closing the door with much less force than I used to open it. It smells like a workshop here. Just wood and more wood with a zingy little undertone of man sweat. Or maybe that’s just my imagination running wild from looking at the white shirt clinging to Dillon’s broad back.

“Dill?” I ask, stopping a few feet into the space that’s starting to take form for the living room. His silence is a needle to my ego. It’s deflating as we speak, leaving me a sad and confused dummy with my hands on my hips. “Really?”

Dillon nods his head, once. Twice. By the third time, I’m seething. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. It was a joke. Though I would like it on record that I did not ask for the picture. And I wasn’t spying or stalking you yesterday. Zane was checking out that particular bush. It was very dry looking. Dry looking bushes could totally be a fire hazard, and he was just being a proactive firemale. Fireman? Whatever. You should consider watering your shrubbery.” Nothing. My eye is starting to twitch.

“Dillon!”

It’s then his head turns, he sees me…and I see the ear bud in his ear.

His eyes widen slightly at me standing here, anxiously pissed off.

Boner? God. Fuck. Yeah, what is with that?