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I don’t want Paul to leave and I can tell my dad—in his own, pig-headed way—doesn’t want him to leave either, but he would never come right out and say it. He’s too proud for that. But he’s also a different person when Paul’s around. Lively, younger, he smiles more, glares less. If it were up to my parents they’d have him move in.
“I don’t know why he has to leave at all,” my dad says.
“I’m sure he needs to get back to his job and his life.”
“I don’t see why. It’s not as if he has to work.”
“Why not?”
“He sold that construction company of his for several million and made a killing on investments. He wouldn’t have to work another day in his life if he didn’t want to, but the guy likes to get his hands dirty.”
I nearly choke on the hamburger I just took a bite of. Paul’s worth several million? How did I not know that?
Then it hits me. Dude, I just slept with a millionaire. Seems like I should be more
excited about that part; it’s just one more thing to brag to my friends about at gatherings. While everyone else is telling their wild tales, I’m always the one who shrugs and says, “not much,” when they ask what I’ve been up to.
Also, what girl doesn’t want a guy with some ambition—as well as one who doesn’t live with his parents and “forgets” to bring his wallet on dates? Yet, I’m mostly just excited about the man I slept with. Not his money.
I shake my head and take a deep breath to clear my mind. Suddenly the food in my stomach feels like a ball of lead. “If you’re so upset about it, convince him to stay,” I tell my dad.
“Believe me, I’m trying, but I couldn’t convince him to stay the first time and I doubt I can this time. What he needs is to fall in love and settle down with someone. Plant some roots.”
I couldn’t agree more.
5
I don’t have a car. Well, I did, but ended up selling it for a few hundred dollars. I was lucky to get that much. It was an old Datsun that was literally held together with duct tape. At least the doors and windows were. Some things had to be sacrificed to get my apartment. Gas and insurance were expenses I just couldn’t afford.
Normally Emily gives me a ride home from school, but she had somewhere she needed to be so I’m taking the bus. It’s about an hour trek across town when it would only take ten minutes by car, if that. At least the weirdos riding with me are entertaining.
As I’m walking out to the parking lot, I see a tank-sized pickup truck with a lumber rack taking up two spaces in the lot made for eco-friendly subcompacts. Paul is standing next to it with a fist full of lilies. This contrast of soft and hard is almost jarring to the eye. My heart jumps around in my chest. I should not be this happy to see a man who’s going to bounce out of my life just as fast as he swept in.
“What are you doing here?” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of keeping my shit together.
He hands me the lilies, our fingers grazing as I take them. His hands are the only thing even remotely aged about him. They are calloused and scarred from a lifetime of hard work, building things, and putting them together, making sure everything fits just right. But it’s exactly those “flaws” that make them sexy as hell.
He kisses me lightly on the mouth, then follows up with a peck on the nose. When we separate, people are watching us. They probably thought he was my dad before that kiss, but since Paul doesn’t seem to mind what people think, I sure as shit don’t either.
“I want to spend some time with you out of the bedroom.” He nudges my shoulder playfully. “Until later, that is.”
A swarm of pterodactyls rises up in my stomach. I’m beyond butterflies at this point. At least I have the promise of another night with him. I’ll take what I can get.
He opens the passenger side door, and I get in. It’s an older pickup with the black paint chipped and peeling. The interior is ripped up and dirty and smells like gasoline and burned oil. The floorboards are covered in chunks of dried cement and drywall dust. The whole thing just oozes testosterone. He could afford any vehicle he wanted, according to my dad, yet he sticks with tried and true. I find it so endearing that I can’t help but look at him adoringly with a stupid smile on my face.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise.”
He drives with one hand loose on the steering wheel and the other dangling out the open window. There’s something arousing about a confident driver. Or maybe I’m just really horny. Doesn’t seem to matter what Paul does; it’s all a turn on for me.
He heads for the freeway. On our way we drive through one of oldest neighborhoods in town. There are a lot of Victorian homes in this area, their paint salt-bleached and flaking off from the harsh winds coming off the Pacific. On a cliff overlooking the ocean like a stern nanny, is a gothic Victorian home I’ve always been obsessed with my entire life. As a girl I thought it looked like a giant dollhouse painted white with pink gingerbread trim. The colors leave something to be desired, but it’s impossible not to see the beauty beyond that.
“That’s my dream house,” I tell him, pointing to it.
His gaze follows my pointed finger. He raises his brows. “Really? Looks like a place someone was probably murdered in.”
I laugh. It really is in bad shape. It has been vacant more often than not. I imagine the previous owners who’d bought it had done so with the hopes of fixing it up to its former Gone with the Wind glory, but once they realized the staggering amount of work that would need to go into it, the for sale signs were back up in the yard again.
“It does have a bit of American Horror Story curb appeal,” I admit. “But I love it. It’s different from all the other houses around it and that view … I could stare out those windows and be content for the rest of my life.”
“Those old homes have good bones. Old things aren’t always useless,” he says, winking at me. He reaches over to where my hands rests on the seat and wraps his fingers with mine. I look at our intertwined hands, again, the contrast of hard and soft. His tan hands against my pale ones. It’s so comfortable and effortless, it feels as if we’re old pros at this whole being together thing.
We chat easily as we drive down the freeway, and even when we’re not talking, I feel completely content next to him just staring out the window and listening to the low growl of the diesel motor. We’ve been in the truck for half an hour when he pulls off into a town that is so small it has one exit. If you blink, you’ll miss it. The entire town consists of a motel, gas station, Denny’s restaurant, and a furniture store.
I doubt he took me out of town to eat at a run-down diner, and he has plenty of fuel. So that leaves the motel and the furniture store. Since my apartment gives us plenty of space to hook up without getting caught, my only conclusion is that he’s looking for furniture and my heart lifts because it possibly means he’s moving back to town.
He parks right outside the furniture store and we walk inside. It smells like pine and varnish. Everything is hard, heavy woods, handmade. I’m stunned at how beautifully crafted everything is. Ikea, eat your heart out.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Just looking.”
He takes my hand and we wander through the store. We stop in each department: kitchen, rugs, dining room, living room, and he asks my opinion on different pieces that he likes. It’s all beautiful to me, but I tend to like the more weathered, beachy items better.
Eventually we end up at the back of the store. We go through a door and I’m not sure we’re supposed to be back here, but when the man carving wood at a saw table looks up, he smiles and says, “Paul! Hey man, I haven’t seen you in years.” He takes off his protective glasses and reaches out his hand for Paul to shake. He’s a hippy-looking older guy in his fifties, a Big Lebowski type with long dreadlocks, wearing tie-dye. “Did you finally move back?”
Paul looks at me then back at his friend, ignoring the question. “How’s it been going? The place looks great.”
“Same old thing every day.” His friend looks at me and smiles. “And who’s this goddess on your arm?”
“This is Rachael, my …” he hesitates a moment and I think he’s about to introduce me as his best friend’s daughter, but he utterly stuns me and says, “My girlfriend.”
I blink away the shock on my face. Girlfriend. Really? Did I miss something? Don’t get me wrong, I love the sound of it, but it kind of comes out of nowhere and I’m trying to figure out if he meant it, or if it was just easier to introduce me that way rather than explain our unique situation.
“Finally!” his friend says, shaking my hand. “I thought this guy was a terminal bachelor. Nice to see he’s calming down in his old age. So what can I help you with?”
“Well, Rachael has terrible taste in furniture—what little of it she has.”
I roll my eyes. What little furniture I have was all I could afford—and I worked really hard at figuring out the instructions and putting it al
l together with a tiny Allen wrench by myself, thank you very much. I may have spent a total of two-hundred dollars on my furniture in my apartment. These homemade beauties are definitely not in my price range.
I look up at Paul, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“I’m buying you furniture.”
I know he can afford it, but why? Because we had sex? It feels like a strange gift.
“She seems to like the drift wood pieces best,” Paul tells his friend.
“Good choice. I think I can help with that,” the man says.
Paul is relentless. I keep telling him no, it’s too much, but he’s not having any of it. He refuses to leave the store without buying me an entire bedroom set including headboard, bedside tables and lamps, and a dresser. He tries not to let me see the price tag, but I sneak a peek at the receipt while he’s helping to load it in the back of the delivery truck and it’s in the thousands.
I want to tell him he doesn’t have to buy my affection, or whatever else he’s getting from me, but we are having such a good time and I love being around him. I’m afraid that bringing up money will put a damper on things.
I thank him profusely and we head back toward home. I thought we were going back to my apartment but he’s not done spoiling me yet. We have a couple hours to kill before the delivery truck makes it to my apartment, and he’s dragging me around to clothing stores to fill up my new dresser. He’s so stubborn, and I’m kind of having a Pretty Woman moment in the store trying on all these clothes while he waits outside of the dressing room to give his opinion. Thankfully he manages not to make me feel like a call girl. Instead, I just feel special. It comes as no surprise that he likes the skimpy items best. Honestly, I do too.
While we’re out he insists on buying me proper school supplies rather than all the crumpled notebooks and chewed up pens and pencils he saw on my kitchen counter the first time he was over. It really is too much. I tell him so several times, but he pretends to be old and hard of hearing. Eventually, I just go with it because it’s easier than arguing with him.
