Tastes Like Candy

Seventeen

Seventeen

Candy

"Well, nothing's rotten," Duke said. He was crouched down on the floor, examining the now-exposed floorboards they'd unearthed beneath the carpet.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Duke bore an eerie resemblance to the late great John Wayne. It wasn't exact, and sometimes people didn't even see it, but in certain lights, at certain angles, it was uncanny. Now was one of those times, as he tipped his head back to regard Candy. Like always, it sent a little ripple across his skin; like looking at a movie come to life. "Well, we'll have to refinish them."

"So we will." He made a mental checkmark beside Floors in his checklist and resumed his inspection.

It was amazing how quickly you could take a place apart. They'd been at it for about three hours, and the dumpster outside now held the furniture, the torn-up carpet, and the demo'd bathroom tile and fixtures. Candy ached from carrying and hauling, a good ache. He had sweat sliding beneath his clothes and when he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, he felt the grit of dirt.

He was having a blast.

The last two weeks had been insane. Dealing with the bank, coming to an offer with Chester, accelerated closing, some zoning bullshit with the city. It was in the midst of all this drama that he realized just how much he wanted Odell's for himself. No longer simply a business move, but a personal one.

Michelle had seemed to know that, reassuring him that it would all work out, petting his hair like he was a dog....which he loved. There were lots of things about their arrangement he was loving.

Finally, Odell's was theirs, and it was demo day. It felt more like Christmas morning.

"What are we doing with all of this?" Cowboy asked, claw end of a hammer stuck in the wall paneling.

"Ripping it out."

"Yeah."

"Toilets?" someone called.

"Trash!" Candy called back.

"For real?"

"For real."

Michelle sat on the edge of the bar, since the stools were gone, legs crossed, booted foot swinging through the air, the physical tension contrasting with the calmness of her voice as she talked on the phone. "Yes, but we'll be needing six sinks, and not three. Yes. No, I have someone to install them. No. Yes." She bit her lip and looked like she tried not to sigh. "That would be lovely. Yes. Thank you." She disconnected and rolled her eyes. "After he got past the fact that I have a 'really weird accent,' he says he can move up the delivery date."

"Good."

She slipped her phone away and then really looked at him, smiling. "You're filthy."

"I think we established that this morning."

"I mean, you're covered in actual dirt."

He plucked the short sleeve of his shirt and rubbed it along his chin; it came away brown with grime. "Ew."

She giggled. This chick – she actually giggled, and it was cute as hell. It was turning him into the sort of shameless idiot who would do just about anything to make her do it. "The man with a reputation for knocking people's teeth out says 'ew'?"

"When necessary."

He was struck by the urge to spread her legs and belly up to the bar between them. So he did, hands latched on her thighs, belt buckle kissing the edge of the bar. She tightened around his hips, a quick squeeze, pure reflex, he figured. Her hands landed on his chest, and her head tipped back, eyes going soft. It was growing so easy between them, these freefalling rushes of sexual energy.