“You good to walk?” TJ asked, tugging off his gloves as Rory carefully rolled her robe back down over her thigh.
“I’m good,” she said, even though her leg was throbbing in time with her heartbeat.
Good pain. Purposeful pain.
He handed her a bottle of water and gave her that grin. The lazy, boyish one that felt like a warm hoodie and a bad idea wrapped in the same sentence.
“Still judging me for being a mover?” he asked.
She blinked. “I—wait, okay are you really a mover or are you not?”
He snorted. “Sweetheart, that’s my mom’s furniture store. I help her when her back acts up, not because I’m trying to make a career out of slingin’ dining tables.”
“So you work here?” she asked, eyeing the clean-lined shop around them.
He arched a brow. “No, this is MINE.”
Rory’s mouth opened, then
