“He actually said that?” I balk.
“Yeah.” She giggles. “He thinks you aren’t the type to do that to get a man’s attention, that you’ll be you no matter what.”
“Did Chris recommend Anthony as some way to set me up?” I scoff, slightly offended.
“No, not at all,” she rushes to assure me. “He uses Anthony for lots of work, and he trusts Anthony to do a good job. But he noticed the way you two looked at each other at the barbeque, so, I think, maybe…”
“Spit it out,” I huff impatiently.
“Well, you’re maybe his type. Although Chris didn’t realize that before he made the introduction.”
“What’s his type?” I demand.
“I just told you, someone who has conviction. He’ll respect that.”
“So Chris wants us to get together?”
“I don’t think he has an opinion either way, but he wants his friend to be happy, and he wants you as my friend to be happy. But I’m guessing since we’re having this conversation you’re open to the idea?” she prompts.
“I’m not searching for a relationship. Been there done that, remember? But I am having trouble figuring him out. That’s why I wanted to know more about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he swings between polite, genuinely nice, and completely distant without any warning. We’ll be getting along fine, and then suddenly he makes an excuse to leave.”
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“Okay, so the other day we had lunch to go over the plans for the house. I liked his ideas, and I think he actually liked some of mine, and things seemed fine. We started talking a little about my job, which he asked about, and then midway through the conversation, he threw some bills on the table and said he’d be in touch. I can’t for the life of me figure out what I said or did to make him react like that.”
“That is strange,” Lisa agrees. “Does he make you uncomfortable?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He’s not angry when he does that, just distant. Haunted almost.”
“Well, Chris seemed to think he might be attracted to you. Maybe he’s uncomfortable mixing business with pleasure? Maybe he wants to get to know you and doesn’t at the same time?” she suggests.
“That’s crossed my mind,” I admit, “but I’m not sure that explains it. I mean, I’m not the type to mix business and pleasure myself. Hell, I’m not even the type to date if you look at my background, but I don’t just freeze up and leave without any explanation.”
“You said he seems haunted when he does that, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the sense I get.”
“I can ask Chris. I’m sure he knows.”
“No, I don’t want him to think we’re gossiping about Anthony, and if there is something in Anthony’s background that causes this reaction, I’m sure he wants to keep it private, so I don’t need to pry. I’ll just try to be more careful about what I say to see what might bother him.”
“Can you work together like that?”
“Lisa, I work with eight-year-olds. I’m sure I can handle a moody single father.”
“I’m sure you can, too.” She laughs. “So, tell me about the plans for the house.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes catching up, and while it isn’t the same as vegging on the couch sipping wine together, it’s exactly what I need to end the day on a good note.
Chapter 6
Anthony
It’s demo day, and even though it’s been nearly three weeks since I’ve seen Jen, I can’t put her out of my mind. Normally, the idea of smashing things puts me at ease, and I look forward to getting out my frustrations. But since Jen is the source of my frustration, I’m not sure demo day will be as satisfying as it usually is.
Jen has the uncanny ability to say what I’m thinking, like she already knows my mind. Only one other person has been able to read me so well, and I'd like to keep it that way, because that type of connection isn't worth the pain you feel when it’s gone. It’s taken years for me to feel nothing as opposed to pain when I think of Katie, and ever since I realized feeling nothing was an option, I chose that over heartache. I’m content with that, or I had been, until Jen came around.
Damn Jen. For years, I’ve managed to avoid feeling intrigued by a woman, keeping my interactions with the opposite sex limited to sex. No strings attached. Jen would fit into that pattern if she only appealed to me physically, but it’s not her body that has me most intrigued. It’s her mind.
The woman is both realist and dreamer, serious yet playful. She’s clever, and she has a slightly wicked tongue that I alternately want to silence with a taste or seek out just to see what she might say. Aside from Katie, who I’ve long imagined conversations with even though she’s gone, I’ve never wondered what a woman would say when she wasn’t with me. And now, when I’m by myself, I don’t just wonder what Jen would say if she were around, I wonder what Katie would say about her.
I think Katie would have liked Jen if they’d had the opportunity to meet. I could see Jen appreciating Katie’s generous nature, and I could see Katie appreciating Jen’s humor. Although Katie would never have baited me the way Jen does, she would have found it hilarious. She would have encouraged it. And I’m not sure what to make of that.
I know what the shrinks would say. Jen reminds me of Katie, so I’m projecting Katie onto her. Only, I don’t think that’s right. They have a few things in common, true, but they also couldn’t be more different, physically and mentally. I don’t look at one and see the other. So why then am I thinking that my dead wife would’ve liked Jen? And does that mean I somehow want Katie’s approval? Worse, does liking Jen mean I’m replacing Katie?
This is exactly why I avoid relationships. It doesn’t just protect my heart from further damage; it protects Katie’s place in it. I do not want that to change, which is why I don’t want to get closer to Jen.
I reluctantly gather my things and make the drive to Jen’s house, pulling up just as the dumpster is being dropped off in the driveway. They’re early, which I take as a good sign. Maybe things will continue to go my way today.
I sign the paperwork for the dumpster and walk the perimeter of the house again while I wait for Jen, who currently has the only key. About ten minutes later, she pulls up and bounds toward the front door, her full breasts swaying gently with each step. She’s wearing another pair of workout pants, jet black like her hair, and a shirt that slides off one shoulder, with her hair pulled haphazardly behind her head in a ponytail. She’s somehow dressed for labor and sexy at the same time, and I feel my cock start to swell as she gets nearer. I resign myself to the fact that my luck ran out with the timely delivery of the dumpster and rise to greet her, hoping the evidence of her effect on me stays hidden by the thick denim of my jeans.
“I’m not late, am I?” she asks.
“No, I just like to be early.” I step back from the door so she can unlock it then hold out my hand.
“What?” She frowns.
“The key.” I curl my fingers, encouraging her to drop the keys in my palm.
“You want me to give you my key?” She smiles, a mischievous glint in her eye. Shit.
“No, I want to put the key in the lockbox so the crew has access to the property when they need it.” I hold up a lockbox for her to see.
“Oh.” She starts, and I inwardly wince at my tone. It’s not her fault my mind is mixed up, not intentionally anyway, and I need to stop treating her like it is. She glances at my hand and drops the key into it. “Okay.”
I put the key in the lockbox and attach it to the front door then grab my tools and follow her inside. The place actually looks smaller than it did before with all the furniture gone, and I briefly hope we’ll be able to take out the kitchen wall completely to make the main room feel bigger. But even if we can only open it up a bit instead of removing it entirely, that will be a big improvement.
“Feels smaller now somehow, doesn’t
it?” Jen looks at me over her shoulder on her way to the wall in question, and I briefly freeze, wondering just how the hell she seems to read my mind.
“Yeah.” I cough, setting my tools down on the floor, noticing for the first time that Jen has her own bag. “What did you bring?”
She bends over, giving me a view of the spectacular round ass that’s been on my mind for weeks, and pulls out a pair of work gloves. “Hammer, crowbar, the usual,” she rattles as she pulls on the gloves, which of course are a soft pink. I try not to roll my eyes. Pink gloves? Of course, she looks adorable in them.
“We’re taking this wall out first, right?” She claps her hands together and hops up and down.
“Yes.” I can barely contain the smile that plays at my lips, but I plow ahead to cover it up. “But first things first. I need to turn off the power. If you have safety glasses, put them on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I leave her rummaging around in her bag while I turn off the power and come back to find her decked out in a pink hard hat and safety glasses to match her gloves. Shit, the girl who doesn’t mind getting dirty has to coordinate her construction outfit? How do those things even go together? This does not bode well. Maybe I gave her too much credit over lunch a few weeks ago. I stifle a groan, realizing this is going to be an even longer day than I first anticipated.
“I didn’t take you for a pink girl,” I grumble.
“Purple, actually, but the feminine color selection was limited to pink.”
“Huh?” I’m at a loss for words.
“Any time a traditionally male item is made for women, it’s pink. Not purple or blue or orange. Pink. As if that’s the only color we like. It’s frustrating,” she rants.
“Why is that frustrating? It’s gear, not a fashion statement.”
“Anything can be a fashion statement,” she scolds me.
“Even construction gear?”
“Especially that.” She smiles coyly. I snort. “Pink offends you?” she asks.
“It’s pink,” I say by way of an answer. “And we’re at a construction site. Safety equipment is safety equipment. Who cares what color it is?”
“I do. I look good in pink.”
I let out another snort to cover the fact that I agree with her. She does look good in pink. She also looks good in those black leggings. “What about black?” I blurt without thinking and immediately regret it. It will only invite conversation I don’t want.
“What about it?”
“Nothing.” I pull on my safety glasses.
“No tell me.” She turns to face me. “What about black?”
“It’s just that you’re wearing it right now. Seems to me most women like black, not other colors.” I shrug.
She glances down at herself, biting her lip. “I don’t think black is actually a color,” she concludes.
“What color is your hair then?” I frown.
“Black, duh.”
“Duh? Shouldn’t a teacher have a better response than duh?”
She bites her lip again and narrows her eyes. “Okay, smartass, I get your point. But there’s no black on the rainbow. Black is a shade, not a color.”
Dammit, she’s cute when she’s defensive, and that’s a problem. I need to backtrack, now. “I’m not arguing with you.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I was asking a question. Are you going to assume everything I say is a challenge?” Please yes, so I can see you riled up. Wait, no. Bad idea.
She looks me over. “Maybe.”
“Why?” Why did I ask that? I don’t care.
“Habit.” She shrugs.
“Whatever.” Good. Move on. Don’t get more involved than you have to.
I grab my sledgehammer and walk over to the offending wall. I start banging away. She grabs a hammer and does the same.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Same as you. Taking the wall down.”
“I’m…” I start to say. “Fine, you work this section.” I point to a part of the wall. “And I’ll do this one. We’ll meet in the middle. Don’t poke through to the other side.”
“I’ve done this before, you know.”
“I’m sure you have. But now we have a plan to work together,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too clipped.
We work in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, tearing down the wall in small pieces. “Most people assume I’m in over my head,” she says, more to the wall than to me.
I stop swinging and look at her. “I thought we established that I don’t,” I respond carefully.
“I don’t just mean this.” She gestures to the house. “Getting my first degree, getting my second, naming my daughter, raising my daughter. Most people assume I can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“They think I’ve made one bad decision after another most of my life. They don’t think I’ve grown out of it.” She twirls the hammer in her hand.
Yeah, I’ve been there myself. Marrying my high school sweetheart at eighteen, skipping college to go into business for my dad. No one stopped to think that I was marrying Katie because I loved her, not because she was pregnant. No one stopped to think that I wanted to work for my dad all along. Not even my dad thought that for the first few years, but he was too kind to say it. People assumed my decisions were bad just because it wasn’t what they would have done, even when I knew they were the right choices for me.
I close the distance between us and put my hand on her arm. She looks up. “So, prove them wrong.”
My words seem to take a minute to register, but once they do, the relief in her eyes is so genuine I actually feel my heart skip. I drop my hand like I’ve been burned. That was too close. I cannot let myself connect with her, even if we have something to connect over. I cannot let myself start to see her as anything other than a client. Picking up my sledgehammer I swing at the wall again. We work in silence for a few minutes, but it’s still uncomfortable. Dammit.
“Daughter?” I ask.
“Sawyer.”
“Tom?” I take another swing.
Jen’s mouth drops open. “How did you know?”
I glance sideways at her, briefly, knowing that my answer is going to lead to yet another connection I’m not ready to make but that appears inevitable. “Wes was almost Finn.”
“Huck,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
“Why Wes?”
I don’t know why she doesn’t ask about Finn, but I’m grateful she doesn’t. We’re already in territory that makes me uncomfortable, and I want to move on as quickly as possible. “I liked the idea of a name that could be formal or informal. Kind of a family tradition.” I shrug.
“Wesley or Weston?” she quizzes.
“My son is not named after a direction on a map,” I scoff.
“Okay, sorry.” She laughs, and the tension in the room finally dissipates. I take another swing at the wall.
Chapter 7
Jen
My gut tells me not to ask about the back story on Finn. The way Anthony’s shoulders tense when he talks about it is a clear signal to back off, so much so that I’m surprised he said anything at all. Clearly the admission I got was as far as he was willing to go, and I’m grateful he’s at least taken that step, so I won’t push it. But now I really want to understand the numb look in his eyes. I really want to understand him.
Not gonna lie that has me more than a little scared, because the only other guy I’ve ever wanted to understand inside and out ended up breaking my heart, and I’m not looking to go through that again. But as the layers that make up the man working next to me peel away, I find that I like what I see more and more, and become less afraid of the pull I feel toward him.
“I never thought of names as having a formal and informal version before,” I venture, trying to continue the conversation without delving too deep into a sensitive subject. “Mine does I guess, although I’ve always thought of it as more an old and young version.”
“Old and young?” He looks at me cautiously.
“Yeah.” I swing my hammer and hit the wall with a satisfying thud. “Jennifer sounds like an adult, and Jenny sounds like a kid. I’d like to think I fall somewhere in the middle.”
He almost smiles then. “I can see that.”
“Really?” I drop my hand to my side. “I just made that up.”
He shrugs. “It still fits.”
“How?”
He looks at me then, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Well, you’re covered in pink, like a princess or something, and you treat this flip as a big adventure, like a kid would. But you aren’t afraid to do what you want no matter what other people say, and you’re confident in yourself, like an adult.” He quickly turns back to the wall, pulling away chunks of debris to expose the inside, while I stand frozen, staring at him. That’s possibly the most perfect description of my personality that I’ve ever heard, a realization that feels safe and hazardous at the same time.
“Good news,” he concludes. “It’s not load bearing. You can do whatever you want in here.”
I snap back to the present and look at space before me, partially open with the wall half down, and start to envision what it will look like when it’s open completely. But something about that doesn’t feel totally right anymore.
“Don’t freak out, but I’m having second thoughts,” I say. “I know open concept will make things look bigger, and that’s important to me, but having something here like that window opening and wood beam we talked about would retain the character. I’m a little torn.”
A smile pulls at the corner of his lip, like he approves of my confusion. “Losing this wall just means we’d lose a character element in this spot. We can put one in somewhere else. Maybe the island is a different color cabinet or covered in brick to match the fireplace. Or maybe we put glass with an iron overlay in some of the upper cabinets to match the built-ins in the other room.”
Okay, I hadn’t thought of those options, and they’re good. Either would give me the best of both worlds, so to speak, without compromising the open feel. “Remove the wall, add glass in some of the upper cabinets, and paint it all white so it matches, even the built-ins and the brick on the fireplace. Brighten it up a bit.”
Totally Inevitable Intent Page 5
