Mr. Nine: You're welcome to take refuge in my bed.
Magnolia: Oh, truly?
Mr. Nine: Of course. My building is shockingly quiet. The benefit of new construction, I guess.
Magnolia: My best friends are preservation architects. Their entire lives are spent restoring old homes in an effort to minimize new construction.
Mr. Nine: Okay. I'll move.
Magnolia: Easy as that?
Mr. Nine: I told you last night…a salad brought me joy. If living in an old building meant you'd hang out with me, I'd call the movers right now.
Magnolia: Maybe hold off on that for a bit. Okay?
* * *
Mr. Nine: Are you going to tell me your name at any point?
Magnolia: Okay. Wow. You want to use me to forget your ex AND you want to know my name?
Magnolia: Needy much?
Mr. Nine: You are so mean to me.
Mr. Nine: Please don't stop.
Mr. Nine: My name is Rob. In case you were wondering.
Magnolia: I thought you were all about no strings, no baggage, no attachments.
Mr. Nine: You rejected my no strings, no baggage, no attachments deal.
Magnolia: Ah. Right.
Mr. Nine: So…are you going to tell me your name?
Magnolia: Where am I meeting you for lunch?
Mr. Nine: If I answer that, will you tell me your name?
Magnolia: If you don't tell me, I can't meet you so…my name is irrelevant to these proceedings.
Mr. Nine: Yeah. Yeah, I misplayed that hand.
Mr. Nine: Wow. I'm going to take a minute and reevaluate everything I thought I knew about myself and my negotiating skills.
Magnolia: It's Magnolia.
Magnolia: Yes, like the flower.
Mr. Nine: One of the oldest flowers in the world too. Your lineage is 95 million years old.
Magnolia: …how did you know that?
Mr. Nine: Google.
Magnolia: Did Google mention how magnolias appeared before bees?
Mr. Nine: It did and that's fascinating.
Mr. Nine: It makes sense.
Magnolia: How do you figure?
Mr. Nine: You strike me as the type of woman who'd survive in a world that wasn't ready for you.
Mr. Nine: You'd wait for evolution to catch the fuck up to you.
Magnolia: Believe me, I've waited.
Mr. Nine: Meet me at Flour Bakery tomorrow. 1 p.m.
Mr. Nine: No more waiting, Magnolia.
Chapter Ten
My date was less than twelve hours away. Twelve. Hours. Right now, I hated Andy Asani and her tell him you're free Thursday bullshit because that provided me two full nights of overthinking.
My freak-out aside, I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Nine Inches—Rob—in person. A little excited, a little nervous. But I was fine. Cool as could be and ready for a low-key lunch date with a man who couldn't stop talking about his massive cock and its varied talents.
Okay, all right, I couldn't sleep or turn off my damn mind. Or the tile saw across the street.
My evening had started out just fine. I grabbed dinner and went to the Celtics game with my brothers. They paid for the meal and beers at the Garden on account of their performances during the Great Troy Debacle. After the game, I made my way home and took my Boston Terrier Gronk for a long walk before experimenting with five different face masks and tearing apart my closet in search of the Right Outfit. But it was all good. I was good. So good.
But then they turned on the tile saw.
The people across the street, the ones working on the run-down old Cape, didn't understand the social construct of "bedtime." If they did, they were giving it the finger. There was no other explanation for their no sleep till Brooklyn approach to this renovation.
The house stood quiet and vacant throughout the day, only coming alive sometime after I took Gronk out to handle his late-night business. The hammers, nail guns, and power tools were annoying but the tile saw was a different animal altogether. It was too shrill to fade into the blackness of sleep, and the sound seemed to rattle my teeth and scratch at my cerebellum every time I closed my eyes.
And my dog hated it. From his position on the corner of my bed, he was on guard, his little body vibrating with low, furious growls. He let out a few quick barks, warning shots intended to subdue his noisy opponents, and then he looked back at me for approval.
"Strong effort but I don't think they heard you."
Gronk kept on with his snarling and panting while I sat back against my pillows and dragged a hand through my hair. The hair I was waking up an hour early to properly blow dry tomorrow. But tomorrow was already today and my look-hot-to-meet-Mr.-Nine plans were slipping through my fingers like sand.
It seemed like I was turning this date with Mr. Nine into a huge ordeal. I wasn't. I'd already reconciled the fact he wasn't interested in anything beyond the ins and outs, and in doing so, I'd freed myself from much of the usual apprehension with which I regarded dating. He wasn't a potential husband, so I didn't need to polish up my potential wife routine. For once, I could save the self-doubt in favor of being completely, unapologetically myself…with beautifully blown-out hair and flawless skin. And I was eager to meet him. He was fun and self-deprecating in messages and I wanted to believe it would be the same in person.
I wanted to like him and I wanted him to like me too. Was that wrong? No. It couldn't be. If I was going to have mostly meaningless sex, I wanted some mutual admiration between the involved parties.
As the saw chewed through another piece of stone, I grabbed my phone off the side table and scrolled through my messages. Part of me wanted to delegate the noise issue to someone else. My brothers would drive up here and have a few words with my neighbors if I asked them, but I wasn't in the habit of unloading my issues on Ash or Linden. They went hard at the brawny, bossy big brother routine, and as much as I enjoyed bearing that cross, I called upon them only when I needed that brawn to unearth boulders in the backyard.
For a moment, I thought about texting Mr. Nine to complain about my night. I didn't do it and not because I didn't want to bother him with my whining. No, I was concerned he'd offer a distraction and some help falling asleep, and I was concerned I'd accept.
I was concerned he'd aim those sweet, sweet words at me again and I'd melt like sugar on his silver tongue. I'd walk back every one of my vows to have real, face-to-face conversations with this man before trying out his hardware. I was inclined to believe I'd enjoy it too, but that would fade when it was over and I'd regret yet another one of my decisions involving men.
And my hair was unwashed, my legs were prickly, and my dog would anxiety-pee all over the place if a guy showed up at two in the morning. No matter how great Mr. Nine seemed, he wasn't hanging with all that.
The tile saw screamed again, tightening my shoulders. I fucking hated that sound. I intentionally avoided my properties while stonework was underway. I'd take the jackhammer to the tile saw any day of the week.
I tossed off the blankets, jumped out of bed, and gestured for Gronk to settle down. "I'll be right back," I told him, stepping into my around-the-house-and-sometimes-outside moccasins. "Be good. No barks."
He huffed about that and then turned in a circle for a solid minute before flopping down with a grunt.
I pulled a long cardigan over my shoulders, dropped my phone in the pocket of my sleep shorts, and headed for the front door. It was a mild night, living all the way up to the old adage about spring coming in like a lion and slipping out like a lamb. I didn't stop to think about what I'd say, instead marching through my yard, across the street, and up to the old Cape's open front door.
Utility lights hung from the exposed studs and beams. Construction materials cluttered the floor. The offending tile saw was stationed near the kitchen. Or, the space that used to be the kitchen. This house was skin and bones, and barely that. Walls, windows, wiring—all gone.
There was a man operati
ng the saw, his profile shielded by a hooded sweatshirt, but I ignored him in favor of yanking the saw's power cord from its hookup at the generator.
"What the fuck?" he yelled, whirling toward me.
"I could ask you the same thing," I replied, giving him what the hell is wrong with you hands. "It's two in the morning, bro. Why the fuck are you cutting tile right now? Do you have any idea how loud it is?"
"I'm half deaf because it's so fucking loud." He shoved his hood back and gestured toward his ears but then shook his head once, his eyes flaring wide. There was no heat there, all horror. That was what I got for leaving the house in jammies. "Yeah, it's, um, I mean, yes. I know it's loud."
"First of all, you should be wearing earplugs or noise-canceling headphones," I said, waving at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his glare toward the ceiling. "And where the hell are your safety goggles? My dude, if a chip of stone flies off that wheel and into your eye, being half deaf will be a quarter of your problems."
"And second of all?" he prompted, still staring at the ceiling.
"Second of all, it's bad form to do loud repairs at night. Not only does it violate local building codes, but it also makes your neighbors very unhappy." My corner of the world was landscape architecture, but I worked shoulder to shoulder with interior designers, general contractors, specialized tradespeople, and preservation architects. I knew the basics—and then some—when it came to building houses. "Save drywalling, painting, plumbing, and finishes for late-night work."
"Great, thank you," he said. Still staring at the damn ceiling. "I'll get right on it. Can I assume that's all the advice you have for me? Or do you plan to continue shouting at me?"
I peered at him, confused. If it wasn't the middle of the night and I wasn't annoyed as hell, I would've handled this with more finesse. Unfortunately, I was all out of finesse. "Is something wrong with you?"
He ran a hand down his face as he shook his head. "Nope. Nothing. Nothing at all."
"You're a terrible liar," I said. Not an ounce of finesse.
"Undoubtedly," he mumbled to the ceiling. "But—uh—if that's all—"
"It's not," I interrupted. "The blade on your saw is wrong for the stone you're working with and, most importantly, where the hell are you putting this tile? Please tell me you're not laying it straight on the subfloor. You need cement board between the subfloor and the tile. It's bad enough you're keeping me up but you're not even doing a decent job at this renovation."
"This is what I get. Penance. This is how it's gonna be for me. All kinds of penance," he whispered at the ceiling. "Can we start over? Don't answer that. We're starting over." He shot me a quick glance. "Hi. I'm Bennett. Bennett Brock. Call me Ben."
"Hi, Ben. I'm Magnolia."
"It's nice to meet you, Magnolia." He waved his hand toward me. "Since we've started over and now we're having a neighborly conversation, it's only right for me to tell you that your shirt is—um—malfunctioning."
"My what?"
Glancing down, I found that my baggy tank top was fulfilling a small fraction of its duty to clothe my upper body. My left boob was escaping out the arm hole and my right nipple was peeking out over the top. It was tit city up in here and Ben was seeing it all.
"Oh, this is fuckin' bananas," I muttered, tucking the girls away and clasping my cardigan shut. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't come over here to flash you."
"But you did come over to give me a lesson in home renovation?" He met my gaze but looked away quickly. The boy was probably traumatized by my peep show. I didn't blame him.
"Listen," I said, gesturing toward him. "You can't be running a tile saw at two in the morning. It's obscene. Knock that shit off before someone calls the city and you're fined for violating the terms of your building permits." I pivoted toward the front door, careful to keep my sweater shut. "Where are your permits? They should be displayed."
Ben scratched the back of his neck. "Um, which permits would those be?"
"Are you kidding me right now?" I shouted. "Dude, you have to get your show under control."
Ben's gaze swept over the building materials as he nodded. "Since you seem knowledgeable," he started, "can I ask where you'd suggest I begin with that?"
"Not in the middle of the night, no," I replied. "I have a place to be tomorrow and I don't want to be a bedhead-zombie-disaster for that. Okay?"
"Right, sure," he murmured, his gaze still on anything but me.
I should've turned around and gone home then. I didn't. I stayed there, in the middle of this skin-and-bones house, and stared at Ben. When I blinked a few times, I was able to see a man rather than a physical manifestation of my annoyances.
He was all the things. Every last one of them. Tall, broad, scruffy. Thick, wavy, dark hair. A curious scar wrinkling his cheek and a scowly smirk on his lips. His hands were huge and his eyes like midnight. His thighs were wrapped in well-worn denim and they looked strong enough to crack rocks.
And I'd shown him about seventy-five percent of my breasts while yelling about the basics of building craft.
Oh my god. This is my real life.
"Yeah, so, okay," I mumbled.
At the same time, he said, "Here's the deal. Nights are the only time I have. I'm working days right now. Twelve to twelve, most weekdays."
"That explains part of this madness," I murmured. "Got it."
"Yeah," he replied, nodding. "I'm off Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Maybe you could come over this weekend and tell me what I don't know."
I snorted out a laugh. "As long as you promise to stop using power tools in the middle of the night, sure."
Ben's gaze slid over me, slowly at first, as if he didn't know what he'd find if he looked at me for more than a second. But he didn't glance away this time. "It's a deal. How about Saturday?"
Before I could reply, a wide, ugly yawn hit me. It was all gurgly throat noises and watery eyes, and a grossly unhinged jaw. Ben watched the whole thing, staring at me with an eyebrow arched and that scowly smirk frozen in place.
"Sorry about that," I murmured, pressing my fist to my mouth to keep another yawn at bay. It was par for the tit-city course but I was trying to reclaim some dignity here. "Yeah. Saturday. Awesome. I'll see you then." I pointed at him. "Stay away from the tools, Bennett Brock. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, that smirk transforming into a smile. "Understood. I won't touch anything until I see you on Saturday."
With a nod, I headed back toward my house. Exhaustion hit me hard as I locked the door and made my way into the bedroom. Gronk was pacing the edge of my bed. "It's all good," I told him. "You can chill now."
He responded by flopping on his back, paws up.
"Graceful as always," I murmured as I kicked off my mocs. "I'll introduce you to the guy behind all the noise this weekend. He's a special one." His big hands flashed in my mind. What a treasure. "Real special."
Gronk rolled over to face me, cocked his head, and let out a soft whine.
"Don't worry about the noisy neighbor boy," I said, patting the bed beside me. Gronk army-crawled there and nestled his head against my palm. "You'll always be my main man."
Chapter Eleven
My date was running late. Eleven minutes, to be exact.
But it wasn't a date. Not like my other dates. This was a meeting between two people considering a physical relationship, but that sounded too much like a call girl interview so I slotted this event into the date category for the sake of simplicity.
Regardless of the date/not-a-date quagmire, I was working hard at staying calm about Mr. Nine's tardiness. Working hard didn't mean I was succeeding. Every few minutes, I checked my phone and twisted in my seat to glance at the bakery's front door. I thought about switching seats to give me a better view of the door but I knew Mr. Nine Inches would walk in while I was rearranging myself and I didn't need to increase the awkward quotient.
We all knew he'd show up while I was in that strange half-standing, half-si
tting position, my ass out and my hands filled with nonsense. He'd be there, staring at me in horror as he realized the full extent of my hot mess, and I'd have to turtle up under the table.
I threw good sense to the wind and did it anyway.
I was strategic about this move, relocating my phone and bag before the seat swivel. It was fast, and a glance at the door told me I'd avoided meeting Mr. Nine ass first. The women seated beside me, the ones in puffer vests with matching aqua-lidded MacBooks, watched as if I was busy fishing bits of tortilla chips out of my bra and eating them.
Not that I hadn't done that, but their judgy faces were wholly unnecessary this afternoon.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I studied the entrance again. At this vantage point, I'd be able to spy Mr. Nine on the street. That plan suffered from one fatal flaw in that I didn't know what he looked like. His profile had a few photos, but they were of the baseball-cap-and-sunglasses and snowboarding-helmet-and-sunglasses varieties.
Basically, I knew he was a human man with a big cock who favored sunglasses. The other details remained to be seen.
I checked my phone again and found a text from Andy.
Andy: Are you having sex with him after lunch? How does that work? What's the protocol there? Do you go back to work after? Or are you done for the day at that point?
Magnolia: Irrelevant. This is a getting to know you lunch, not a getting naked lunch.
Andy: Did you shave your legs?
Magnolia: It's spring. I shave my legs any day I plan on wearing a dress without leggings.
Andy: So, yes.
Magnolia: Yes.
Andy: So, you've entertained the idea of fucking him today.
Magnolia: Entertained? Sure. I've also entertained getting my nipples pierced and a tramp stamp of a rubber plant.
Andy: Wait, a rubber plant?
Magnolia: It's a type of succulent.
Andy: Only slightly less odd, but okay.
Magnolia: You're one to talk. You have a tattoo of Harry Potter motorboating your boobs.
The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating Page 6
