“Is that what you wanted to tell me? Because it’s not exactly a secret that you like designing boats.” She carried the saw to another expanse of wall, tugging the extension cord behind her.

“No, that was me working out in real time why I find you so easy to talk to, even when you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just don’t trust you.”

And now there was another of those awkward, heavy silences.

She ran the saw a few minutes, suspecting she’d hurt his feelings. That didn’t sit well. She set it aside to pull the sections away.

“What about your Mom? She’s a good listener. Can’t you confide in her?” she asked.

“This is not Mom conversation,” he assured her dryly.

“Why not? Is it about sex?” A bubble of excited laughter rose in her throat. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Now you’re interested in my deep dark secrets? That says more about you than it does about me, you know.”

“It means I smell a reason to mock you.”

“No mocking. If I tell you, it goes in the vault, and we never mention it again. Especially not to my brothers.” He pointed a warning finger at her.

“Five minutes of mocking,” she countered.

“I am trying to repair our relationship, Sophie. I’m offering to be vulnerable. It’s a trust fall.”

“Have my five minutes of mocking started yet? Because I can tell you’re messing with me, saying shit like that.”

“All right, I’ll say it. You can have your fun, then we’ll never mention it again.”

She waited. Rolled her wrist to insist he continued.

“I think women using tools is a very sexy look.”

“Are you still messing with me?” She looked down at her coveralls.

“No. I think it was all those power tool pinup calendars that Dad and Art used to hang.”

“The ones with women in bikinis and leather aprons holding a belt sander? They were sexist and objectifying. The tool manufacturers had to stop making them.”

“As they should. They were completely inappropriate.” His disapproval was deeply insincere. “But they made an impression during my formative years.”

“Why would you tell me this?” She was perplexed. Flattered? No. That would be wrong.

“I knew you would laugh at me. I’m not proud of it.”

“Wait. Are you saying you get turned on when you watch me work? I should take that to HR.”

“I’ve never acted on it. I don’t stand around perving at you.”

“You just did! A minute ago!”

His hammer thwack was followed by the trickling sound of gypsum falling to the floor.

“I’m not ogling. It’s like when you see a pretty woman in a sexy dress. You glance over and think, She looks hot. Then you get on with your day.”

“You think I look hot while I’m using this reciprocating saw?”

“Maybe.”

What was she supposed to do with this information?

“Don’t you enjoy seeing a hot guy doing sweaty work?” he challenged.

“Find me a hot guy. I’ll let you know.”

He gave her a very watch-me look as he replaced his mask and came to take the saw. He gave the cord a rippling snap to bring it with him to his end of the wall. The tool whined and, oh damn, his biceps flexed. His snug Raven’s Cove T-shirt strained across his pecs and shifted across his shoulders. His blue jeans were faded along the top of his thighs and the demin clung to his ass as he bent.

He was undeniably hot as he worked.

He turned off the saw and cocked a brow at her.

“Maybe if you were in a bikini?”

“Budgie smugglers? That’s what does it for you?” He set aside the saw, and his muscles bunched while he pulled away a huge section of drywall. He snapped it in half across his knee so it would fit into the bag.

She swallowed. “I’m more about good posture and legible penmanship.”

“Really,” he challenged pithily.

“No.”

“What then?”

He shouldn’t have to ask. He had been the strongest influence on her sexual interest during her formative years, practically imprinting her to only desire him.

“I don’t know how to get turned on anymore,” she dismissed, taking up the saw. “Nolan was the last guy I slept with. That was four years ago and very forgettable.”

“Sophie.” Logan paused, hammer dangling from his loose grip. “Are you serious?”

“Why is that shocking? Once a slut always a slut?”

“Do not call yourself that. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

She turned on the saw, finding satisfaction in the effort required to push horizontal and vertical lines through the wall, but any toughness she felt in those moments dissipated with the noise when she turned it off. Now she just felt flimsy and transparent again.

“What is the appropriate amount of sex that I should have, Logan? And why would you even care?”

“I don’t care how much sex you have. I mean, I care. I think you should have exactly as much sex as you want and that it should be great every time, but I hope you don’t judge yourself over your own history. I hope you’re not denying yourself so you can punish yourself. You shouldn’t.”