He grinned cockily. “Lasagna.”
“What?”
“That’s what I want for dinner. Lasagna. With lots of meat and that chunky homemade sauce of yours.”
I blinked, looking at him blankly.
“Our deal,” he reminded me. “You get manual labor. I get food. Your roof is fixed. And I’m hungry for lasagna.”
He leaned down and petted Ripper, who had become my shadow. The scent of clean male sweat and heat-activated deodorant tickled my nose and I discreetly filled my lungs with it.
“I’ll be back around sundown. And Rissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stare at my ass while I’m walking away. It’s objectifying.”
I showed him, though. I stared at his ass the whole way.
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