by Ann Aguirre
“Wait, sorry, I should’ve asked before manhandling you.” He seemed dead serious, worried that he’d offended.
“It’s fine.” Or it would be if these shivers would stop. I could still feel the imprint of his hands at my waist.
“You’re not as touchy as Avery,” he said as he climbed in. “I haven’t done a single thing right for her in the last month.”
Maybe she’s not the right person for you. But if I said that, it would definitely come from an ulterior motive, because I’d be hard-pressed not to follow with, Maybe you should get naked with me instead. Then I’d die from the startled, awkward silence that followed. At worst, this was pity pizza; at best, it might be better-than-eating-alone pizza.
“Is something bothering her?” I asked, more curious than I cared to admit.
He paused, his expression clouding. “Seems like it, but I can’t get her to tell me.”
Since I wasn’t the confiding type, I understood her reticence. Which sort of pissed me off. I didn’t want to empathize with Avery. “Maybe she’s afraid you’ll think less of her if she whines to you about her problems?”
“I need to tell her that’s not true.” He let out a slow breath, obviously relieved at hearing there might be a simple solution.
“Anyway, there’s nothing to be tetchy about,” I said. “I’m vertically challenged, you helped me out. It’s all good.”
That won me a smile that simultaneously brightened his eyes and crinkled them at the corners. He jogged around the truck and climbed in, stretching his arm across the back of the seats to back out of my driveway. There was essentially no traffic, so we zoomed straight to Pizza Hut. The restaurant was nearly full, mostly families and a few high school students; we were lucky to snag a two-person booth tucked in the corner back near the bathrooms. When I was in high school, it was a huge deal when they installed the tiny salad bar here.
“So what do you like?” he asked, not bothering to open the menu.
You would’ve been the obvious answer, but I hadn’t come back to Sharon to let my first crush swell back into unmanageable proportions. So I replied, “Lots of meat.”
That was apparently the best news he’d had all day. Rob gazed at me as if I’d said he was the sexiest man on earth. “Meat lovers it is. Should we get salad, too?”
I grinned. “Should and will are wildly different. I’m living dangerously tonight.”
“The training wheels are coming off, huh?” He was smiling; the faint sorrow I’d noted at the supermarket seemed to have dissipated.
For a few seconds, I forgot who he was and answered with a flirty glance and a half smile. “Oh, they’ve been off. You have no idea how well I ride these days.”
Shock made him drop his straw as I fought the urge to bang my head on the table. Then he surprised me by laughing softly. “You had me going. Well played, Lauren.”
That’s me, a laugh riot. Send in the clowns. Oh, wait, I’m already here.
CHAPTER TWO
In the end, we were complete maniacs and got both the meat lovers pizza and a pitcher of root beer. I’d never eaten alone with Rob before, but as long as I remembered he had zero awareness of me, everything would be fine. I had two pieces and one glass of soda while he finished everything else. His metabolism must be awesome.
“So what’s next?” I asked, as we split the bill. Or rather, Rob consented to letting me pay a quarter of it since he ate and drank more than I did.
It was more of a general question than a demand he justify his life plan, but he straightened with a hint of tension. “What do you mean?”
“Are you taking me home, or are we headed to the roadhouse to cause some trouble?” That was highly improbable, but when he relaxed and shook his head, I was glad I went to the silly end of the spectrum.
“I was gonna drop you off, then work on my dining room,” he answered.
“Well, obviously. I think I’ll go home and do the same. I could totally get it to be more formal if it just focused a little and stopped watching so much daytime TV.”
That startled a quiet chuckle out of him, and I realized that until earlier today, I’d never really heard Rob laugh. The deep rumble of sound sent a pleasurable shiver through me, and I immediately wanted to make it happen again. At this point, I didn’t even care if that involved dressing up in an actual clown suit, complete with red nose and humungous shoes. In the past, I’d seen him smile, but he was so careful, guarded and tentative in his expressions—for reasons not entirely clear to me.
“I bought a house in December. When you were home before, I was still living with my parents. It’s a fixer-upper, and once I get done, I plan to flip it.”
“That’s when you restore a place, make it awesome, then sell for a profit, right?” I’d watched a few home makeover shows.
“I hope so. Dunno if Sharon is the right place for it, though.”
“Yeah, I imagine the market’s a bit sluggish here.”
“If I can’t sell it, I’ll have a nice place to live. So it’s not a loss.” He sounded faintly defensive, as if he’d explained this before, and with less success.
“Sounds like a good move. Plus you have the satisfaction of remodeling your house exactly the way you want it.”
He nodded, excitement sparking his expression. “I’ve already taken out a wall downstairs, opening up the layout from kitchen to dining room.”
“How much work have you done?”
That question acted on Rob like a key turning in a lock. He opened up with a click, telling me everything he’d done so far and what projects were yet to come. I was impressed by the time he finished his recitation because he’d obviously put a lot of thought and planning into this. Moreover, he didn’t intend to stop until he finished the house properly.
“It’s a little complicated to live there sometimes,” he said with a sigh. “With power tools and dust everywhere, I can’t get Avery to set foot inside. She says she’ll judge the results once I’m finished.”
“I bet it’s not that bad.” I mostly said that for the silent satisfaction of disagreeing with his girlfriend.
“You want to see it?” His invitation came as a surprising bonus.
“Sure. I’ll be able to visualize what you were saying better.”
“Sweet.” Rob studied the bill with a faint frown, likely trying to figure out the tip. So I plucked it from his fingers, skimmed the total and dropped four singles.
“You paid way more for dinner,” I said, as if that were why.
“Thanks.” Fortunately he let it drop.
Rob waited for me to precede him, a polite gesture that only made me like him more. Which I definitely didn’t need—I was already hauling around the weight of an old crush. If he insisted on being sweet and considerate, I didn’t know how I’d deal. As before, he settled me in his truck before he got into the driver’s seat, then instead of heading to Dover Road, he drove across town to the west side.
His house was on the outskirts of Sharon, off the highway instead of in a neighborhood like mine. The driveway was a quarter of a mile long, and the house was nestled in a small clearing with snowy trees framing it on either side. Everything was too wintry for me to judge the landscaping, but I liked what I saw of the side-gabled bungalow, from the deep eaves to the tall, stately chimney, and especially the front porch with its slender columns. It wasn’t huge, but definitely big enough for a porch swing.
“Watch your step,” he said as he got me out of the truck.
I could seriously get used to Rob touching me. My pulse fluttered as his hands lingered long enough to make sure I wouldn’t pitch face-first into the pile of dirty snow he’d shoveled to the sides of his driveway. It was impossible to restrain a smile, though, and he answered it with an unguarded friendliness I’d rarely seen. When he was goofing around with
his teammates, he unlocked like this, but seldom with anyone else.
He went ahead to open the door, then he stepped back so I could come in. A flick of his wrist turned the overhead light on, and I saw what Avery might complain about. Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, and there were tools everywhere, along with plastic sheeting. Raw beams showed through the wall he’d knocked down, and his kitchen had only a subfloor, while the hardwoods in the living and dining room needed refinishing. But I saw potential in the chaos; I spun in a slow circle. He’d already done a lot, considering it had only been a few months since he bought the place.
“It’s a mess,” he said, seeming slightly crestfallen, as if he’d expected there to be more tangible progress.
“No, I can envision how it’ll eventually look. What’s next in the dining room?”
He studied me for a few seconds, likely checking that I wasn’t feigning interest. Then he started a monologue on moldings, sparkling with enthusiasm for the project. He told me all about eighty versus a hundred grit sandpaper, that you could use a putty knife to work in tight corners, and how important it was to start with paper that fit the wood. I had zero experience with home repair, but he made it seem appealing. Of course, that could be his general hotness talking.
When he finally lost steam, he wore a chagrined look. “But you probably didn’t want to hear all of that. Sorry for boring you.”
“I did or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“You’re a strange girl.” He shook his head, smiling.
“I pride myself on it.” Moving a few paces toward the kitchen, I grinned at Rob. “So basically, when you said you didn’t feel like cooking, you meant heating soup on that hot plate.”
His kitchen was wrecked—no stove, ancient refrigerator, subflooring and all of the cabinets had been torn off. I’d be surprised if he had running water in there. Plastic draped the cupboards, giving the room a serial-killer vibe. But before my dad left, we’d had enough contractors in the house for me to understand this was par for the course.
“Pretty much. Though don’t underestimate the hot plate. You can do a lot in a wok.”
Smiling up at him, I teased, “Tell me more.”
“You’re making fun of me.” The warmth drained from his expression, and I didn’t understand until that moment how it felt to have Rob shine for me until the light went out.
“I am not. I’m seriously impressed you can cook anything on a hot plate.”
“It’s not that big a deal.” He was tentative, and I wondered if he’d always been this unsure of himself.
To the best of my recollection, Rob had never been a talker. He didn’t lead when he hung out with his sports buddies, and he didn’t say much when they joked around. That left me with little to go on, no sense of his ordinary self. Maybe he was always like this?
“Stop trying to decide what amazes me.” I poked him in the side. “I also gasp in awe over monkeys riding bicycles and parrots cussing in Portuguese.”
“Who doesn’t?” But his eyes had lightened, a faint smile playing at the corners of his truly kissable mouth, perfectly shaped in a manly bow.
If I didn’t say something, fast, the next words out of his mouth would be, I’ll run you home. “If you want, I can help with the sanding. That’s low-skill work, right?”
Rob stared at me. “It’s Saturday night. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
I wasn’t dressed for manual labor, but I didn’t want to leave. This had all the earmarks of a scenario I’d dreamt up multiple times in high school. Silently, I chided myself, He has a girlfriend. Be cool. You can be friends with Rob. It’s not a huge thing.
“Debatable. My mom’s out, so I’d just be watching cable.”
“If you say so.” He sounded skeptical, but he got the sandpaper and showed me how to use it like a pro.
I shrugged out of my jacket and glanced down at my sweater. “Do you have anything I could put over this?”
Though I hadn’t meant to draw attention to my boobs, he followed my gaze, and if I weren’t crazy, his gaze lingered for a beat too long, then a flush colored his cheeks, creeping toward his ears. Relatively few guys my age could be embarrassed by that; the vast majority were shameless. I loved that Rob wasn’t. There was a solid goodness about him that reminded me of Nadia, though not in a Single White Female sort of way.
“Sure, let me get you a work shirt.”
Once I had plaid flannel, his favorite thing, apparently, I went into the kitchen to swap shirts. Rob didn’t expect that, so when I came around the corner rolling up the sleeves, his eyes widened. “You could wear that as a dress,” he blurted.
“I suspect I’d be cold.”
“Do you want me to turn on some music?”
“Good idea.”
“What do you like?” That was the second time he’d asked me that tonight, more than any guy I’d ever dated, truth be told.
“Surprise me.”
He clicked his iPod into a dock safely stashed on a high shelf. The dining room had a hutch built into the wall, and I could picture how it would look once he refinished it, gleaming with age and care. It was the perfect place for a woman to display her fancy dishes. Not that I had any, but I admired beautiful craftsmanship. Rob fiddled with his music player, then Blue October popped from the speakers. I’d heard “Hate Me” before, but it wasn’t the kind of song I associated with Rob. If anyone had asked, I would’ve guessed uncomplicated country, maybe Garth Brooks or Shania Twain.
“I like this,” I said. “Sad, though. Do you have ‘Sound of Pulling Heaven Down’?”
He nodded. “It’s next in the playlist.”
I looked forward to learning what Rob listened to, left to his own devices. And he said Avery’s never been here, so you’re learning something about him she doesn’t know. After pulling off my boots, I got to work, sanding as Rob had showed me. It was hard on my back and knees, but there was an odd satisfaction in smoothing away the damage from years of neglect.
After working for a while in silence, I said, “There are deeper scratches here and they’re not coming off.”
Rob stopped what he was doing and knelt beside me to examine the baseboard. “Normally you sand with the grain, but you can go across at a forty-five-degree angle to work those down. We’ll go over the whole thing with a finer grit paper later anyway.”
We? Mentally I questioned the pronoun but I wasn’t silly enough to do it out loud. That would only make him tighten up again and if he let me, I’d definitely help out another time. Though I could build a website from the ground up in my sleep, I was unclear on what he meant—a ninety-degree angle was a full corner, so...
“Like this?”
“Almost.” He put his hands over mine and adjusted my strokes. His palms were big and rough, completely covering my fingers. Until just then, I didn’t realize how much I liked big guys; in Michigan, I’d mostly dated lean, pretty ones, though that was a kind interpretation of my social life. I specialized in partying and in hookups, not relationships. My mom’s misery biased me early on against the wisdom of letting a guy matter deep down.
“Okay, I’ve got it.” My arms actually hurt from the pressure, however. Bonus, helping Rob might tone my biceps. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” He retreated to his corner to work, and the iPod cycled through five more songs, an eclectic mix of David Gray, Josh Ritter, a band I’d never heard of—Good Old War—along with Snow Patrol, and most surprising of all, Enya. When she came on, singing about the evening star, my head jerked up and I stared at Rob. Never in a thousand years would I have credited this; I wondered if his football buddies knew.
He met my look with a sheepish shrug. “Her voice is haunting.”
I didn’t disagree, even if my tastes ranged more toward top forty. “I’m not a music snob, dude.
In fact, I’ve lost all credit with most of my friends because, if it comes on the radio, nine times out of ten, I like it, even if critics say it’s terrible.”
“Miley Cyrus?” he challenged.
“Hey, ‘Wrecking Ball’ rocks. And I’ve been known to scrub my bathtub to ‘Party in the U.S.A.’” I wasn’t ashamed of liking popular tunes, so his grin didn’t bother me.
“Ke$ha?”
“Not my fave, but I don’t hate her. The duet with Pitbull is catchy, even if it doesn’t make any sense.”
As we sanded, he asked about random artists until I disclosed that there were only three pop songs I’d shut off: “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, “Barbra Streisand” by Duck Sauce and “Loca People” by Sak Noel. Otherwise, I didn’t have elevated tastes or think some bands were cooler or more important than others.
“For some reason, I thought you’d be more like Nadia. She’s into stuff that hasn’t been discovered yet.”
“Are you calling her a hipster?”
Rob lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “If the chunky ankle boot fits...”
Given my best friend’s penchant for indie music and microbrewed beer, he wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t let him get off scot-free. “Like you should talk. I never heard of Good Old War until you played that song.”
“‘Looking for Shelter’? It’s a good one. And actually, Nadia was listening to them before she left for college. So—”
“You disclaim any credit for finding them. Suspicious.” I pretended to narrow my eyes, studying him in mock assessment. “I bet you could dig up indie bands if you tried.”
“Luckily I don’t have to. Nadia sends me emails with playlists she’s made, stuff she thinks I’ll like. She gets it right half the time.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He tilted his head. “Why would you?”
