Man Hands 1

by Sarina Bowen

  “Hmm. That’s going to bug me. It’s not safe.” He chews his lip. “You know, your fiancé wouldn’t just let that go. He’d probably fix that crack in your kitchen floor too.”

  “In the first place, it’s a rental,” I point out. “And in the second place, you and a real fiancée wouldn’t bother with this house. We’d move into your mansion on the lake.” Duh.

  “No we wouldn’t.” Tom makes a face. “Not there.”

  This makes me gasp. “Don’t you like it? It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s okay.” He avoids my gaze by looking past me at my rental. “This could be a cute little Victorian if someone gave it some care.”

  “I suppose. But I have other things on my mind.”

  Like you.

  He kisses me again or I kiss him and then we part, letting our hands slowly drift apart as violins swell and the scene fades to gray then black.

  Sorry. I got a little melodramatic there. Actually, he kisses me, squeezes my ass and says “I’ll call ya.”

  “Okay,” I say and then hold in a burp. Because that’s real-life romance.

  33 Fucking La La Land

  Tom

  It’s late in the afternoon and I’m sitting in my office waiting for Patricia to Skype me. She’s trying to stay on top of technology, and it’s painful for both of us. When I shut my eyes, I’m back in the thick of New York. Exhaust. Noise. Honking horns. Neon even in the middle of the day. People pissed off and being super verbal about why they’re pissed off. My business trips to New York are sometimes fun, but I prefer the quiet of Michigan.

  An image floats into my mind of a little lake cottage—not in the ’burbs like my mansion, but on the big lake—with a picture window. The front door is painted hunter green. There’s a screened-in porch on one side…

  The fantasy calms me enough that when Patricia finally comes online, I’m ready for her.

  As much as she wants to be “modern,” she really doesn’t know what she’s doing. “Hello? Tom? Tom are you fucking there?” She’s hollering and I am staring at her very large chest where her buttons are holding on for dear life to keep her covered. It would only take one really deep inhale to send those buttons shooting across the room.

  “I’m here, Patricia. You have to angle your screen up.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Adjust your monitor. Up. No, not like…yes! Stop! There you go.”

  “Oh,” she says and then she sits down, so now I can only see her face from the eyes up. Her shaggy, dark eyebrows (Benjamin Moore’s Ashwood Moss) are very expressive though, so it’s fine.

  “I have just offered you a very nice deal and your mind is off in fucking la la land.”

  “Um, what are you talking about? I don’t have an offer from you.”

  “I emailed it to you.” There’s a pause. “Oh. Fuck.” Then I hear clicking. And said email appears in my inbox. “Look, the network has an idea, and I think it’s genius. This is your chance to prove to them that your thrusting butt cheeks aren’t a big deal.”

  Closing my eyes, I have to picture the cottage again to stay calm. Hunter green door. Beach sand on the front porch. Patricia and I have known each other a long time, but I’d hoped we could go another ten years without having a conversation about my bare ass.

  “You’ve had a nice, comfy hiatus, Tom. But it’s time for you to get back to work. And by back to work, I mean you need to leave that shithole town in Michigan and go rescue some historic homes!”

  Patricia doesn’t get paid unless I get paid, so it’s natural that she’d want me back at work. And the idea of knocking down some walls sounds pretty good right now. What I really want to do is knock on Brynn’s door. Maybe hold her up against a wall… Damn it. I’m doing it again. “So they gave the green light to season ten?”

  The eyes take on a furtive look. “Not exactly. But they’re going to. Right now they’re offering you a nice, fat fee for a special. A fucking special! You’ll only be on location for a week. And if that pans out, they’ll hand you a contract for season ten.”

  “What kind of special? Please tell me it doesn’t involve a musical number.” If Patricia has booked me on Dancing with the Stars, I may not be responsible for my actions.

  “A musical number?” she pauses. “Ah. That is a joke. I get it. Don’t quit your day job. No. There’s no music, hot buns. This is another Speed Build—a quick rescue and revamp of an old ski lodge. Here’s the deal—your network’s sister network needs to shoot a reality show there in two weeks’ time. But somebody got their wires crossed, and they didn’t renovate on schedule.” She cackles, then waves a manicured hand past her eyes. “I don’t know how a bunch of overpaid suits could make so many mistakes, honestly. But their dipshittedness is your gain. The network wants to fly you out immediately. You’ll prep the site, make some plans, and renovate everything in a forty-eight-hour continuous roll.”

  It’s weird, but I can feel my pulse jump. I love a challenge. And I’d forgotten how it feels to be given a mission.

  “If the special succeeds, they’re actually prepared to offer you a five-season renewal. It’s unheard of, really.”

  Five years? That’s a long time.

  Wow.

  “Wow,” I say, trying to remain enthusiastic. “But what if the special tanks, and it’s not my fault? What if they put me up against a boxing match on cable? Are you telling me my whole career is hanging on this special?”

  “It’s going to be fine,” she insists. “This opportunity is golden. Also, I want a trip to Italy with my grandchildren, so you are going to sign this contract and hop on a plane to renovate a ski house. Come on, hot buns. Opportunity calls!”

  I’m trying to process all of this. And trying to rein in my desire to argue about 1) the horrible new nickname she’s given me, and 2) the fact that nobody really faxes anymore. “A ski house, huh?” I ask instead. “Where did you say it was?”

  I’m afraid of her answer. I really am. But couldn’t it be in Michigan? Couldn’t reality stars do their thing in a lake cottage? That way Brynn and I could kick back with a glass of wine and some of her balls that’s she’s working on and, I don’t know, watch the sunset?

  But that’s not the answer I get from Patricia. Patricia is a beast. She eats the Easter Bunny for breakfast. Raw. With her bare hands.

  “It’s in Quebec,” she says. “That’s in Canada, in case you’re curious.”

  Something kicks me in the gut. I’m pretty sure it’s Patricia’s boot. I can’t speak, really, so I check the email with the contract.

  I look at the amount offered. Flip through the terms.

  “I’m telling you, Tom, if you don’t agree to this, then they’re going to lose patience. You get that, right? You’ve had this show forever, and there is new blood out there, and I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, but timing matters. The network needs your help on this. This is your chance to remind them you belong on that network.”

  Who am I kidding? Of course I’m going to do the special. I don’t want to give up my career just because the network is being prudish. And if it’s a success, this might help out Brynn. Her fake fiancé’s career comeback could help hers along too.

  And anyway—what else am I going to do? Stay here in Michigan? Hide away in my big empty house? Dream up a cozy little cottage? Ask Brynn to move in with me?

  Now there’s a ridiculous idea. She wouldn’t want me for keeps. Sure the sex is great, but she doesn’t know the real me. It’s not like I’m relationship material. I’m just a man with big hands and a…hammer.

  Fuck it. I need this distraction. And even if I don’t sign on for season ten, I can walk away from it all with my head held high.

  Even better—maybe the whole “special” thing could take the spotlight off Brynn so she can get on with her life.

  That’s the thing that pushes me to decide.

  “When do we start?” I ask.

  34 Brazilian Cheese Puffs Can Fix Everything Except Heartache
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br />   Brynn

  After we return from New York, I get busy planning my future. I don’t have a color-coded weekly planner like Ash does, but that doesn’t matter. I send out another batch of résumés, and I research how to legally change my name. I’m going to give the job search three months, and if it doesn’t work, drastic measures will be called for.

  And then? I wait.

  Waiting sucks.

  A lot.

  But I refuse to become a basket case. So I reward myself for this burst of productivity in two ways. First, I find a recipe for pão de queijo. It calls for tapioca flour, and because that’s a carb—and because I’m me—I have some already.

  Second, I prop up my tablet on the kitchen counter and stream another episode of Mr. Fixit Quick while I work on the cheese-puff dough. In this one, Tom is renovating a barn in Montana. It’s a big job to convert it into a house, but the red structure is adorable. I’m ready to relocate to Montana the moment Tom installs a set of sliding glass doors which open up the home to mountain views.

  But then there’s a plot twist. And I’m not ready.

  Tom is building a deck, which means I get to watch him use a nail gun. The flex of his biceps on each nail makes me a little crazy. There I am in my happy place, stirring cheese into dough and watching my favorite guy nail things (rawr!), when he decides he needs to admire the view, just to make sure they’ve set up the deck correctly.

  “Quality control,” he says to the camera with a smile.

  There’s a time lapse of the sun beginning to set and glow orange. Tom stands at the deck railing, facing that gorgeous sunset. And that’s when Chandra the decorator carries two glasses of champagne onto the deck, handing one to my man.

  And then? She snuggles up to his side and he puts his arm around her, pulling her closer.

  I let out a little shriek of dismay. Of course the camera lingers on them—two gorgeous people together in a gorgeous place. But I can’t take it. I need to stop the video. My hands are sticky with butter and dough, so I lean over and touch pause with my nose. As one does.

  Fucking Chandra. No, really. He is fucking Chandra? She’s his ex?

  Seriously?

  My happy place is less happy than it was a few minutes ago, in spite of being coated with butter and cheese. I plop balls of dough onto a cookie sheet, trying to decide what this means. He’s never said Chandra’s name before. But you don’t snuggle your coworker unless you’re sleeping with her.

  Who am I kidding? He probably sleeps with hordes of women. A gorgeous man working in television could pick up a different girl at every Home Depot in America.

  And why do I care so much?

  When the cheese puffs are in the oven, and the timer is set, I wash my hands and check the video again, in case my hormones got the best of me, and the scene isn’t exactly as I’d first thought.

  Nope. When I rewind, it actually gets worse. Because this time I’m ready, and I get a good look at the macho way he tucks her into his side. I swear he did the same thing with me just two nights ago, as we walked up Seventh Avenue.

  And I freaking loved it.

  Fuck.

  I check the timer, because it’s obvious that eating a dozen or so cheese puffs is the only thing that will make me feel better. Wait—there’s something else. I text Sadie and Ash.

  Me: Does anyone want to discuss thirty seconds of video and cheer me up? Where are you guys?

  Ash: Working on a listing.

  Sadie: Busy cleaning the girls’ bedroom. Sorry!

  Me: I have Brazilian cheese puffs and wine. They’re still warm. (The cheese puffs, not the wine.)

  Ash: I’ll be there in five.

  Sadie: Don’t eat them all without me!

  “I’m sorry, honey. But that was definitely a cuddle,” Ash says pragmatically.

  “Although I didn’t see a butt grab,” Sadie points out.

  “Maybe you can’t grab butts in prime time,” I venture.

  “Let’s Google her,” Ash says, reaching for her phone.

  “No!” I yell. “Don’t. Really. I don’t want to know. She looks five years younger than me, and forty pounds lighter.” Plus, Tom and I once agreed not to Google each other.

  Ash puts her phone away without a word and then tops up my glass of wine.

  Just after we’ve eaten the last of the balls, my phone rings. And when I see that it’s Tom, I get a crazy little smile on my face. I know this because Ash and Sadie point and laugh.

  “Hush, bitches,” I insist as I answer. “Hello?”

  “Hi,” he says, his voice a low scrape.

  I feel tingles just from that one word. “Hiiiii,” I sigh into the phone, while Ash and Sadie clap their hands over their mouths to keep from laughing at me. I march into the kitchen for a little privacy.

  “I have news. I wanted to tell them in person, but it looks like I’m jumping on a flight tonight.”

  “Them?” I ask, confused.

  “You,” he says quickly. “And your boobs. I was just thinking about your boobs. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I say. Now my nipples are tingling. And then I realize that he just said he was flying away. “Where are you going?”

  “Quebec. The network wants me to shoot a special.”

  “That’s great!” I say, even though I really don’t mean it. I thought we had a few more weeks to be fake-engaged together. I was really looking forward to it.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “Not quite as good as being naked with you.”

  Now my everything is tingling. “It’s a good sign that the network wants you back, though.” That had been the point of our fake engagement, anyway. Is he done with me so soon?

  “We’ll see,” he says. “They’re in a bind, and this is my chance to help them out. The pay is pretty great too. We’ll have to celebrate when I get back in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’d love to celebrate with you.” Anytime. Anyhow. I’ve got it bad.

  “Is that right?” His voice gets all low and sexy. “How do you think we should celebrate?”

  “Chocolate and sex,” I whisper.

  “Mmm,” he groans into my ear. “I’ll bring truffles and my dick.”

  We both giggle. But when my laughter dies out, I’m craving him, and he’s still getting on a plane.

  Damn it.

  “Take care of yourself,” I tell him.

  “You too,” he whispers.

  We hang up, and he heads off to pack for Quebec.

  I have to make another batch of Brazilian balls just to cheer myself up.

  35 Weave Your Magic

  Tom

  On the plane to Quebec, I’m full of enthusiasm. It feels great to get back to work, and I can’t wait to see my team. Note to self—brooding alone at home for several months was bad for the soul. Brynn had made it all better, of course.

  Only my relationship with her wasn’t real.

  My job, on the other hand, is very real. I rent a Land Rover at the airport in Montreal and drive into the mountains. When I stop at a McDonald’s, everyone speaks only French. I buy a “hamburger avec fromage” and it tastes better than usual because I ordered it in a different language.

  Now, a guy could get seriously spoiled by Brynn’s cooking. But I have to put that right out of my mind, because this is my life—a different rental truck in every town. Fast food on the way to the site. Teasing Larry, my master electrician, about his facial hair.

  I can do this. No fear.

  It helps that when I roll up to the old ski resort they want me to renovate, it’s beautiful. The long lodge is nestled into a stand of pines. There’re two big stone fireplaces, one at either end of the structure. I like this building immediately. It has gravitas.

  When I go inside, I can already see what needs to be done. The rooms are dark because the lower level has been chopped into too many rooms. I’m going to open it up to let the space breathe. Changing the envelope of the house would take too long, but I can enlarge a few crucial wi
ndows and still meet my deadline.

  “Hey, Burt!” I yell to my carpentry assistant who’s already measuring the grand staircase. “Get over here! Let’s talk window framing.”

  “Dude!” The younger man gallops toward me and then wraps me in a big, back-slapping man hug. “That’s the greeting I get? I’ve missed your big grumpy self. And now I need details about this fiancée of yours. Way to break the internet, dude. A sex tape? It’s always the quiet ones.” He’s grinning like a Jack-o’-lantern.

  “We will not be discussing that,” I growl.

  “Sure thing, hot buns.” He cracks up.

  “Have you been talking to Patricia?”

  “Maybe!” He giggles. “Seriously, though. Where is this girl? I have to meet the one who said yes instead of no.”

  She didn’t, though. It’s not real. “She’s in Michigan. Working,” I mumble. Until this second, the lie hasn’t been much of a hardship. I don’t have any family to let down when Brynn and I “break up.” But I like Burt and the other guys on my crew. I could confide in them, but then things would get messy. And, anyway, the lie will be over soon enough.

  Down the road, when Burt consoles me with beer over my new breakup—the way he did when Chandra let me down—it won’t even be hard to act sad.

  In the meantime, I have a lodge to renovate. “Does this place need our help, or what?” I say, looking around. “This is going to be very gratifying.”

  “I know, right? It’s time to weave your magic, boss man. Right now it gives off a moldering dump vibe. But you’ll bring the sparkledust. By the time we’re done, I’ll never want to leave.”

  That’s the goal, and I’m good at my job. Just over a week from now there’ll be honeyed rays of sunlight streaming in this room, where now there’s only dimness. A picture window with comfortable furniture. I can tell that two or three of the pines outside will have to go. The trees are great, but the people who live here—or stay here a while, because this is for some kind of reality show—will sit down on the sofa and cast their gazes at the mountains out the window. They’ll linger in this room and feel happy.