He nods, impressed. “Wow. That’s awesome. What kind of books do you write?”
I take another bite. The great thing about being single forever is that you don’t have to worry about looking like a gross slob who talks with their mouth full. “I write about a private investigator who tracks down cheating bastards and makes them pay.”
His eyebrow quirks. “I guess you won’t be writing the next great romance novel any time soon?”
I snort. “Never in a million years. Romance is stupid.”
Six
By the timewe’re home from lunch I’m struggling with my brain to figure out how I feel about this whole thing. I’m still just as in love with my new house as ever, especially the stunning back porch that faces the water, so that’s not a problem at all. This whole Max thing is the problem.
Because he’s kind of awesome?
Like, just as a friend, of course.
I want to hate him, but he’s funny and kind and he eats salads like some kind of weirdo who cares about his health. All these good qualities are starting to topple over the wall of hatred I’d built up in my heart, the wall that tells me I hate men and I won’t ever be friends with them.
Maybe that’s a little too harsh. Just because I hate romance doesn’t mean I have to hate men. Just because Max is incredibly hot doesn’t mean I should hate him, too. I mean, good for him. Good for his genetics and his working out habits that give him those muscles, and good on the sun for making his skin all tanned and gorgeous and GOOD FOR HIM. He’s handsome. Good for him.
I take a deep breath.
“You okay?”
Max’s sudden voice startles me from my thoughts. We’re home now, walking into the living room, and I barely even noticed it. I nod. “Yep. Time to paint.”
“Cool,” he says. “I’ll go install the new outdoor light fixtures.”
My chest constricts a bit once he leaves. I don’t know why his mere presence does things to my insides, like wake up butterflies that have been dormant for months. It’s really annoying. Too bad these butterflies can’t help write my manuscript.
I shrug it off and stare at the paint supplies on the floor in front of me. I’ve never actually painted any walls before, but I’ve seen enough Home Depot commercials to know you dunk the roller thingy in the paint and then slather it over the wall. Should be easy enough.
It is not easy.
I barely managed to pour a heavy gallon of paint into the metal tray thingy without spilling or dumping it everywhere. Then the paint gooped down the side of the can, making a mess of everything because in a split second, I decided to stop the paint spillage with my hands, and now I’m standing in the middle of my living room, grateful as heck for the drop cloth on the floor because my hands are covered in super thick paint. It doesn’t scrape off into the bucket very easily. The kitchen and bathroom sinks are brand new, the faucets still shiny and nice. I can’t touch them to wash off my hands.
There has to be a water hose outside, right? Worst case scenario, I’ll wash my hands in the lake. With an elbow maneuver that probably makes me look like a T-Rex, I manage to open the back door without getting paint on anything except my own clothing, my hair, my cheek, and my dignity. Outside, I wander around the porch looking for a water faucet, a garden hose, anything.
I walk around the house and find a spigot. Yes!
“You okay there?”
“I’m great. Just washing my hands,” I say, not looking up from the task at hand. Light blue paint splashes onto the grass beneath the water stream.
“Wow, you’ve already taped everything up? You work fast.”
I turn off the water and glance up at Max, who is all lean muscle beneath his grease-stained work shirt.
“Tape?”
His brow furrows as he follows me back inside. He surveys the floor, which has a tray of paint, a paint-covered gallon bucket, and very clean untouched paint rollers.
“Have you never painted before?”
“I’m a city girl,” I say, which should tell him all he needs to know. Judging by the curious look on his face, it doesn’t. “I’ve always lived in condos and you’re not allowed to paint rental homes.”
“You have to tape first,” he says, bending to grab a roll of blue masking tape. “All the corners and edges around the windows and ceiling. You know, so you don’t get paint on the parts that don’t need paint?”
“Ah,” I say with a slow nod. “That would make a lot of sense.”
