“Ew,” I say, looking a little more repulsed than I actually feel. “How much longer are these renovations supposed to take?”
“A few weeks,” he says to the wall as he slides the grout across it, his metal tool leaving perfect grooves in it. “Three, maybe four.”
“Oh heck no. That is way too long.”
“I can only work as fast as I can work.”
I heave a sigh and look around at the mess. My deadline will be here before I know it and if this guy is going to be jamming music and using power tools every day for three to four weeks, I’ll never get a single word written.
Then I get an idea. A spark, an inspiration. Something I haven’t had with my writing, but at least it’s inspiration for something else that matters. “What if I helped?”
He lowers his grouting tool and turns around. There’s a small smudge of dirt or grout or something on his forehead, but he’s still so handsome it takes my breath away.
“You want to help renovate?
I shrug. “Anything to get some peace and quiet around here.”
“Okay,” he says flashing me that bright smile of his. “Hope you have some paint clothes.”
Five
I do not,in fact, have paint clothes. As part of my downsizing and moving across the state plan, I had tossed anything that wasn’t in excellent condition, leaving my wardrobe made up of all my nice things. But that won’t stop me from helping with this renovation and getting Max’s stupid butt out of my house as soon as possible. I shake my head.
Do not think about his butt.
My phone’s GPS guides me to the nearest thrift store so I can find an old T-shirt and leggings that can be my official paint clothes. My bedroom is the only room that’s fully painted, and everywhere else in the house has only been primed. That’s a lot of walls and not much time to paint them.
After going on a three-for-a-dollar T-shirt spree at the thrift store, my stomach grumbles loudly reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since Max’s pizza last night. The only grocery store in Sterling is small but charming. I pop in and browse around for some groceries, loading up on orange soda, sour candies, and popcorn—my three most essential writing snacks, as well as some other essentials, like ice cream, frozen tater tots, and various junk foods. Sometimes I’m only an adult in age, not personality. But if I’m going to get anything written, I need my writer fuel: sugar.
Back at home, Max’s music blares through the speakers, but he turns it down when he sees me walk in the front door. The kitchen backsplash looks great. He managed to get the whole thing tiled in the couple of hours I’ve been gone.
“What’s that?” Max asks, brows pulling together as I lug in my grocery bags. I resist rolling my eyes and snapping that a real man would offer to help a lady carry groceries. Men suck, and I already know that. No point in saying anything about it. Besides, even if he had offered to help, I’d still turn him down. I can do this on my own.
“It’s food,” I say, hefting the bag onto the counter.
“Oh, no.” Max sucks in air through his teeth. “Did Kelly not tell you that we have no appliances?”
My eyes widen. Sure enough, there’s a gaping hole in the kitchen cabinets where the refrigerator should be. And another space for a dishwasher and oven. Above the oven space is yet another empty space where a microwave should be mounted. I stare at the tall rectangular fridge space and wonder when exactly I fell and hit my head and became someone who doesn’t notice whenvery large appliancesare missing!
“Did you get anything cold?” Max asks, scratching the back of his neck.
I toss my head back and groan. “Yes, I did. Because I’m an idiot. And I’m so freaking hungry I was really looking forward to cooking something for lunch.”
“Ah, Julie, I’m sorry. Good news is that new appliances will be delivered in three days. Kelly said they were all stainless steel, so they’ll look great.”
I huff out another sigh before thinking of an idea that might, maybe, possibly work, assuming that small town folks are as sweet and charming as they’re often portrayed in the movies. I do a quick reshuffle of my bags, putting the frozen and cold stuff into three bags. Then I walk down the street to the blouse with the white door. What was her name? Lina?
Lina welcomes me into her house, and after I explain my problem, she’s happy to let me store my stuff in her fridge until mine arrives in a few days. I’ll take that as a win. Small towns really are as great as they seem.
Back at home, Max has put away his grouting supplies. The rushing water coming from the bathroom tells me he’s taking a shower. It’s a quick shower, because I’ve barely even put the rest of my groceries into the cabinets when he emerges. Instantly, my brain conjures up an image of Max wearing a towel around his waist, beads of water covering his muscled torso. He walks out fully dressed in jeans and a red t-shirt, hair slightly damp in waves across his forehead.
Bummer.
I mean, not bummer. I don’t care one bit.
“There’s a great diner not too far from here,” he says, running a towel across his hair. “Wanna get some lunch before we get back to work?”
How is it that a man can shower and look so put together in just fifteen minutes? So not fair, Mother Nature. You did us women dirty.
