At some point over the hour I’d been scouring my house, Shep had lost his shirt. The white tee was draped over the side of his truck instead of on his body like it should’ve been. Holy biceps, Batman. A flush of heat swept through me at the sight of him working: muscles bunching and flexing as he drove his shovel into the dirt, then heaved it into a pile, a faint sheen of sweat making all that muscle glisten under the sinking sun.
