"Can't wait to hear this." Ben crossed his arms—my god, how did anyone get forearms that ropey?—over his chest and rocked back on his heels. For real though, those forearms were straight out of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.
"And as for this one," I said, tipping my head toward Ben. "This is the guy who's flipping the house across the street from me." I caught Rob's steely glare. "I told you about that. Remember?"
"I think so," he murmured, busy sizing Ben up.
If I wasn't truly annoyed about this interruption and my brain's inability to process while Ben's bare forearms and Rob's chest were in the picture, I would've enjoyed this moment. I would've sat back, thrilled that two men were metaphorically fighting over who got to piss the circle around me.
Moments like these didn't happen to me. I was the chubby friend, the weird friend, the friend with the hot (or so I was told) brothers. I was always the friend. Never the one everyone wanted.
"What I didn't tell you is that he's been working through the night and waking the dead with his tile saw," I continued.
Rob's glare softened as he blinked at me. "You should've told me about that. I would've—"
"Nope," I interrupted. "I had it under control."
Rob blinked at me again. "I can't decide if that's infuriating or fucking awesome."
"We're going with awesome," I said, glancing back to Ben.
"I'd say infuriating," Ben murmured.
"You would," I replied. "You've been going hard for the past month but you're doing a shit job of it." I pointed at Ben while catching Rob's eye. "I went across the street in the middle of the night—"
"Infuriating," Rob muttered.
"And politely asked him to suspend the home improvement games for a bit," I continued, ignoring Rob as he tossed his hands up and shook his head.
Ben pivoted to face Rob. "Dude. She unplugged my saw and then yelled at me about how to work on a house for ten minutes," Ben said. "There was nothing polite about it. It was actually very indecent."
"That's how I roll, buddy," I replied. This time, he got the withering glare. "And if you want me to help you with your projects, you'll—"
Rob's chair screeched against the floor as he pushed to his feet. "You're helping him?"
If there was anyone in this bakery who wasn't engrossed in our conversation, they were in it now. Goddamn, I did not want to be the subject of another live-tweeted date.
"Yes," I replied, as calm and even as possible. Even if I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and sit the hell down. "It drives me crazy when virgin flippers do shoddy work and then sell houses that are basically duct-taped together."
"I'm no virgin," Ben announced, tipping his chin up at me.
There was a challenge in that gesture. Something that whispered, Try me.
And those fucking forearms. They demanded attention, a challenge to anyone who spotted them. Just try and get your hand around me, they taunted.
Rob down stared at me, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead and his hands on his lean waist. "Magnolia, I don't—" He stopped himself, shot a sour glimpse at Ben, and then looked back to me.
Holy shit. I was the jam in a Rob-and-Ben sandwich. Not that I wanted a sandwich. Open-faced, sure. Not a panini.
"Yo, Brock," a voice boomed from the other side of the bakery. "Time to roll."
Ben glanced over his shoulder at the crew of firefighters waiting for him. "I'll see you Saturday," he said. Then, facing Rob, he said, "Seems like I'll be seeing you around too."
"Bet on it," Rob replied, smoothing his tie as he settled into his seat.
Ben laughed to himself, nodding, and then hit me with a quick smile. "Saturday."
"Permits," I called as he walked away. Once Ben and the other firefighters filed out of the bakery, I glanced at Rob. "Sorry about that. It was this whole weird thing last night where I went over there and realized he was committing every renovation sin known to building craft and I had to jump in."
I casually omitted all references to my free-boob situation. Just didn't seem relevant.
Rob sat back and clasped his hands in his lap. He smiled at me, a curious, almost amused smile that made me wonder for the second time this afternoon whether I had poppy seeds in my teeth.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He shook his head. "I wanted—I just needed to get over my ex. She really fucked me up and I'm…I don't know what I am."
"What happened?" I asked. "What did she do that traumatized you so much?"
Rob shook his head again. For the first time, I saw inside his weariness, into the bleak blankness where his relationships once lived. I understood his desperation to fill that space at any cost. "I don't want to get into it. Nothing atrocious. Just people who had different expectations and different definitions of loyalty," he said. "But I thought I'd find a hot woman who looked nothing like my ex"—I was inwardly squeeing at that—"and fuck away the memories. Instead, I met you."
End the squeeing.
"Oh, well, I guess I'm sorry about…something," I said, stumbling over each word. "Maybe I should—uh, just—maybe I'll go now."
"No, no, not—no." His entire existence seemed to cringe. "I said that wrong. I meant that I had a very narrow objective."
"Mmhmm."
He tucked a finger under his collar, dragged the fabric away from his neck. I couldn't explain it but I wanted—I wanted to lick him there. "I didn't expect to, you know, feel anything."
"Mmhmm," I repeated.
"I thought my ex had reached in and torn out my heart with a soldering iron and I was incapable of doing anything but slowly bleeding to death."
Again, "Mmhmm."
He looked up at me, his brow wrinkled and his lips pulled up in a slight grin. "But I wanted to beat the shit out of that guy just now."
"And that's a good thing? I wouldn't call that progress, Rob."
He laughed. "It's something. It's a lot more than I've managed in months." He brought his fingers to his temples, his smile faltering. "But you should know I don't share. I can't. Not after what she—no, we're not poisoning this air with that story."
"I'm helping Ben with construction because I don't want him to accidentally take down the power grid in my neighborhood," I said. "Not for any"—those forearms flashed in my mind before I chased them away with an impatient eyeroll—"other reason."
Rob pressed both palms to his eyes and let out a groan. The noise was deep, sexy. "Yeah, it's not you I'm worried about, Magnolia. It's the way that guy looked at you."
He pulled his hands away from his eyes and pushed to his feet. A pang of sadness quivered through my belly when I realized he was leaving. Despite our odd history, I had a soft spot for Rob and all his personal drama. I didn't want to nurse him back to health, but I enjoyed the guy.
Instead of leaving, Rob rounded the table and beckoned toward me. "Stand up," he ordered.
I stood but asked, "Excuse me?" That was how I rolled—I followed directions while arguing about them.
"Just—just come here," Rob said, gripping my elbow. He tugged me closer and slipped a hand up my spine, into my hair. He gazed down at me, his focus locked on my lips. "I don't know whether I should resent you for making me feel again or love you for it." Before I could respond, he continued. "Don't say anything. I already know."
Then he kissed me.
Lips, tongues, hands, heat, sighs—all at once. Everything beyond us dissolved. The bakery, this city, the convoluted premise behind our lunch date. None of it existed when I pressed my hands to his back and urged him closer.
I was certain he hadn't gone looking for it but somewhere between yanking me into his arms and claiming my mouth, he stumbled upon my bleak blankness.
Chapter Thirteen
My date was a disaster.
Ben knew nothing about home improvement. Nothing worth knowing. Still, he wielded his tools with a swagger that suggested otherwise.
"Stop, stop," I yelled, waving my hands to get his attention. He w
as cutting plywood to replace parts of the subfloor in the living room, but even from ten feet away I knew he was doing it wrong.
Ben switched off the saw and pushed his safety goggles to his forehead. "What now?"
I walked over to him, studying the long, narrow strips of plywood on the bench. "What…what are you doing?"
He gave me isn't it obvious hands. "Cutting the flooring, just like you told me to."
I stared at the boards for a long moment. "But why? Given the dimensions of that room, you should only need to cut a few pieces. The rest can be nailed down as is."
Ben glanced between me and the saw bench, his lips pressed together in a scowl. "If you say so," he murmured. "I just thought it would look better if they were all the same size. Fancier, you know?"
I brought my gloved fist to my lips to hold back a laugh. It was better than crying—which was how I wanted to react after taking a hard look at Ben's work—but I didn't want to be cruel.
"Right, so, this isn't the floor-floor," I said, dropping both hands on the boards. "This is the subfloor. We put this floor down, the subfloor, to keep the actual flooring surface level and steady. In other words, we're going to put something on top of this. Something fancy."
Ben blinked at me for a second before ripping his goggles off his head and chucking them across the room. "I fucking hate this shit," he yelled. "Fucking hate it."
Before meeting Ben this morning, I'd decided I wasn't going to mention anything about our run-in at the bakery. I didn't want to harvest any of those sentiments again and I didn't want to defend myself or Rob. Also, I wasn't sure I wanted to return to the alternative universe where he was sorta-kinda-maybe flirting with me. Without my boob flapping in the wind, I didn't understand the motivation for it at all. And even if he was flirting with me, I didn't have the brain space to juggle two men. If history served as any proof, I barely possessed the skill to juggle a single man.
Instead, I'd slipped into my favorite on-the-job jeans and t-shirt, laced up my boots, and stepped into boss mode. No time was wasted on pleasantries. I rattled off a list of basic tasks for Ben while I set to righting some of the more alarming issues at this property. I didn't ask after his intentions for this remodel or why I'd seen several people here previously, but it was only him on the job now. Nope, I went straight for the electrical panel and then checked the water shut-off, and left Ben to organize the materials and cut some plywood to size.
But now, as I watched him pacing the length of the room with his hands fisted on his hips, it seemed as though I'd made a mistake. There was work to be done, yes, but why was he alone? Why was he doing this? I was especially curious about that given he didn't know screwdriver basics. I'd spent five minutes on righty tighty, lefty loosey.
"Why don't we sit down for a minute?" I gestured toward a large ice chest, the one I'd left near the front door this morning. "I have some drinks and sandwiches. In case you're wondering, I didn't make them. My mother did. I told her I was working on a project today and she dropped by with all this food because she thinks I survive on takeout alone. If you knew her, you'd see that's an issue for her."
Ben stopped pacing but kept his fists on his hips. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, exposing his corded forearms. There was a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt, near his elbow. I couldn't make out the design.
God, those forearms. I needed a fan.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Food. I have food. Let's take a break and eat," I said. "Maybe outside? The snow is gone, it's not raining like the end of days, and I saw a sunbeam or two poking through the clouds on my way over here. In other words, a perfect spring day in New England."
Ben didn't say anything but edged me aside when I tried to collect the ice chest. He hefted it up and followed me into the backyard. The house sat on a deep lot with long-abandoned gardens and overgrown trees. We settled on the edge of the brick patio, in a sun-warmed spot.
I dug into the ice chest, setting the foil-wrapped sandwiches, fruit, and drinks between us. Ben popped the top on a black cherry seltzer and guzzled it down. "God dammit, this is awful. It's like drinking fizzy, fruity hairspray. No, I take that back. It's not even fruity. It's like fruit-inspired." He held out his arm, peered at the can. "Cherry. Huh. It tastes like it was near a single cherry once for five minutes."
"You're disparaging my favorite beverage," I said.
"Maybe you should reevaluate your beverage choices. This is the worst thing I've ever put in my mouth." Then, he demolished a ham and Swiss sandwich in three bites. "That was good," Ben announced with a sigh. "Got another?"
I waved my arm over the spread between us. "I have a dozen more."
"That's what I'm talkin' about," he said, holding each package up to read my mother's precise printing on the foil.
I waited until Ben was halfway through his second sandwich to say anything. He seemed famished, and I needed the time to figure out how I wanted this conversation to go. That was the smartest way forward: knowing where I wanted to go and getting us there.
The only trouble with me and smart ways forward was that I always, always, always fucked it up. But I was working hard at avoiding all manner of fuck up today.
Today, this month, forever.
"Let's talk about this place," I said, pointing toward the house and gardens with my seltzer. "Not that you've asked for my opinion on the landscaping but I'd build some rock features in here to break up the flat space and restore habitats for pollinators and other local species. Something to add a bit of depth and regrow the moss and lichen populations. They don't survive well in suburban lawns. I'd also prioritize drought-tolerant plantings. Hosta, sedum, chokeberry. Inkberry, maybe some American holly. If you added forsythia along the side of the property, you'd create a natural privacy fence from the street. Those are just a few ideas but they are more efficient but also require far less maintenance than your current setup. That might be something to consider if you don't want to spend your weekends working in your yard."
"Haven't asked my opinion on the landscaping," he murmured. "Sweetheart, I don't think I've asked your opinion on a damn thing but that hasn't stopped you yet."
I regarded him. "Shall I take my opinions—and my sandwiches—and go?"
"Don't even think about moving that fine ass of yours," he replied. "Sit right there and mouth off about all the things I'm doing wrong."
"It's not mouthing off when it's accurate."
"And that fizzy water, the kind that had a nightmare about cherries, is disgusting." He arched a brow. "We'll survive this disagreement."
"All right. Fine. How did you decide on this property? What are you looking to do with it?"
He stared at me as he tipped back another sip. "What am I looking to do with it?" he repeated, the words tinted with bitterness. "Get rid of it and get some of my money back. That's all I want. I'm not looking for a side hustle here."
"Then…why did you buy it?" I asked.
His gaze skated down my body and back up again. He winced, looked away. Staring into the yard, he asked, "What's going on with you and the suit?"
"We're talking about the house," I said.
"He seemed like a douchebag," Ben continued, glancing back at me. "Why would you be interested in a douchebag?"
It was fascinating how Ben seemed to toggle through attitudes when it pleased him. Impatient and angry when faced with remodeling issues. Arrogant and brash when faced with Rob. Friendly and decent when faced with my breasts.
"Not that it's any of your business but he's not a douchebag," I said. "And just so you know, defaulting to the argument that he's a douche because he wears a suit to work is as unimaginative as you can get. If you have a point worth making, I'll listen. Otherwise, save it for someone who appreciates low-hanging insults."
Ignoring me, Ben continued, "You should get outta that situation real fast."
"Thanks for the tip," I murmured.
"I'll give you more than the tip,
honey," he replied. "A whole fuckin' lot more. And you'll enjoy it more than anything that douchebag has for you."
My lips parted as a furious blush climbed up my neck and over my face. "I can help you here or you can say that shit," I countered. "But not both."
"I never asked for your help."
"That's funny," I replied. "It's really funny because you invited me into this hot mess when you decided to run the tile saw in the middle of the motherfucking night, dude." Ben shrugged that off as he balled the foil in his palm. "You can have my help or you can have the city and county inspectors knocking on your door." I turned an exaggerated glare toward the house. "Oh, wait. You don't have a door right now because you thought it was a brilliant idea to rip the doorframe off. I guess the inspectors will have to climb in through the damn window when they come to shut you down."
He shrugged. "Whatever."
"You know what's even more funny? You'd rather say rude things and make unwelcome advances than have my help. If you're the kind of person who enjoys making women uncomfortable, then, yeah, I'll be going now." He pitched the foil ball across the yard. "Fucking hilarious, Ben. I knew you were a lot of talk but I didn't realize it was this kind."
Without looking in my direction, he said, "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did." He glanced to the side, swore under his breath. "Not all of it."
I stood, crossed the yard to retrieve the foil, and stalked back to the patio. "Then what are you trying to do?"
"I—" He stopped himself, let his shoulders drop. "I don't know. I can't deal with anything right now and everything about this house makes me crazy and I don't know what your regular voice sounds like because you're always fucking yelling at me."
"Like I said"—I gestured toward him with more graciousness than I felt—"you can say that shit or I can go."
"I'd tell you to get the fuck out but I'm sure you're a skilled multitasker."
"While that's true," I conceded, "we're focused on fixing up this house so I don't have to listen to tile saws all night."
The Magnolia Chronicles Page 8
