He smiles, that genuine, adorable Max smile I’ve come to know in just two days. It’s not sarcastic like how Jason used to make fun of me, and it’s not slimy like a frat boy. It’s just a smile. It’s kind of sweet.
“I’ll tape, you paint?” he suggests.
“Sure,” I say.
He peels off a strip of tape and expertly applies it around the white window trim. I watch him work, admiring his strong arms as they place tape all around it and then move onto the next one. I should probably start painting, but, I’m mesmerized by his skill.
He turns around to face me and I jump, then reach for the bag of foam paint rollers to make it look like I’m doing something.
“Hey, Julie?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you hate me right now if I suggested playing some music?”
“Music would be great.” It’ll drown out the sound of my pounding heart and hopefully cover up all this awkwardness I have. Why am I so awkward? I should totally be freaking out about how I’m behind on my writing, but instead I’m just kind of… enjoying the moment?
Weird. This is so weird.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks.
“Anything,” I say.
He plays Weezer through the Bluetooth speaker and I grin. “Nice choice,” I say, bobbing my head along to the words for All My Favorite Songs, one of the band’s best works if you ask me.
We slip into a nice routine. He tapes up a wall and then we both work to paint it. He’s taller, so he uses the roller to get the high spots on the wall, and I kneel on the floor with a handheld paintbrush to paint the boarder of the room. The music keeps us company. Before long, we’ve finished the entire living room and Max suggests we do the small study next.
The study is half the size of my bedroom and it has no closet. A twin sized air mattress is on the floor. He has a duffel bag of clothing, a cell phone plugged into the charger, and a laptop.
“You travel light,” I say as he takes all his stuff and moves it to the center of the room so we can paint.
“Yeah, I don’t need much.”
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m taking Max’s home two months earlier than he had planned on moving.
“Where will you live after my house is done?”
“I’ll just go home,” he says, ripping off the blue tape with his teeth. I try not to stare at his lips in the process.
Home? Ew. This guy lives with his parents? He’s almost thirty!
I know I shouldn’t judge people, especially in this economy, but nothing pushes me away quite like a man without his own place to live. It’s always the guys who live at home who screw me over. They either have no money and they wanted to move in with me, which I refuse, or they have weirdly strict parents who won’t let “girls” over to visit even though I’m a woman and we’re both adults. One of the reasons I liked Jason was because he had his own place in my same complex. He was independent. Too bad that’s not the only quality that makes a guy boyfriend material.
“You do have a nice mom,” I say.
“Huh?” He snorts. “I didn’t mean my parents’ home. I meant my house.”
“You have a house?”
He nods, moving closer to tape the ceiling above me. My stomach flutters at our nearness. I take a step back.
“My brother lost his job so he and his family were going to be homeless a few months ago,” he explains. “He’s got a wife and two little kids so told them to move into my place until he’s back on his feet. I can just crash on the couch.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling breathless. “Cool.”
He’s got his own house? He gave it up for his family?
He’s gorgeous and handy and thoughtfulandhe eats salads?
