Calling It by Jen Doyle Page A

another pretty face?”
    She meant nothing more to him than a challenge, she reminded herself. It was all just a game and she had yet to be conquered. But that did nothing to stop her from wanting him; from wishing she had enough time to get him, foolish as that may be.
    She stepped back. Pretending that his touch hadn’t affected her in the least, she said, “The face is fine, but what I really need is the brute strength.” She gave his arm the most sisterly punch she could manage—pausing only briefly to appreciate the rock-hard biceps—and then started walking again, not looking back to see if he’d follow. “There’s a lot more work to do. Is Wash still here?”
    “Christ, woman,” he muttered, catching up to her with no problem thanks to his long stride. “You sure know how to wound a guy.”
    As though he cared.
    “Wash had to leave,” Nate continued, as unwounded as could be. “And anyway, it’s just for a couple of days. I’ll be back Sunday. Feel free to make a list.”
    Relief washed over her even as she told herself that nothing was actually changing, she would just be that much more attached when he left. Then she almost laughed out loud. Several days ago, Nate Hawkins was just a guy on TV, and, um, maybe about twenty pictures that were plastered on the back of the door in her bedroom at her parents’ house. Now, here she was, shoulder to shoulder—okay, her shoulder to his chest—with him saying he’d be back and helping out again in a few days.
    Despite her insisting that he didn’t need to stay, he spent the rest of the day with her in the library packing and moving the rest of the books; dismantling damaged shelves; cleaning, prepping and then helping her paint. By the middle of the afternoon, it was looking so beautiful that Dorie almost cried.
    Her vision. Her library.
    “You’re doing a great job here, you know,” Nate said from the other side of the room, where he was wrapping paintbrushes with plastic.
    She smiled and ducked her head down, embarrassed that the compliment almost made her cry. More embarrassed that she’d let on how much it meant to her to make something of this little corner of the world. She’d told him all about growing up in the noisy, crowded house spilling over with sports gear and Hot Wheels and how hard it had been to get a word in edgewise, much less have someone actually pay attention to—or be able to afford—something she wanted. So when her brothers would go down to the local Y to play basketball, Dorie would go to the library instead. Every time she walked in the librarians had put aside a stack of books they thought she might like. Even now as a fully grown adult, the armchair in the corner of the teen room felt as much home to her as the house her parents still lived in.
    “I’m going to have big, comfy chairs just like that one everywhere ,” Dorie said, gathering the stray supplies from the corners of the room and bringing everything over to the pile Nate had made. “I’m going to make this a place where people can’t wait to be.”
    “That’s what the basketball court was like for me,” Nate said, sitting back against one of the undamaged bookshelves and stretching his legs out.
    Oh, no . It was one thing to work together all day; another entirely to settle in.
    But as if he could sense her urge to bolt, he just reached up for her hand and tugged it so she had no choice but to sit down next to him as he went on, “Ella and Jules had me playing Fairy Tale with them as far back as I can remember. I was so psyched when I got promoted from Coachman to Prince. I think I was eight or nine before I realized that they wanted nothing to do with sports and I could make my escape.”
    “Escape?” she echoed faintly as she stared down at his hand still holding hers. As she held herself still when he gently caressed the skin at the base of her thumb. It was either that, or shudder herself into a pile of goo.
    Sharing childhood memories wasn’t