Page 2 of If You Like It, I Love It

“All I’ve seen so far is you trying to swing a hammer that’s too heavy for you while not wearing safety glasses.”

“Excuse me? Trying to swing? Those tiles didn’t bust themselves.” I push his hand away and take a step back.

“And I thought Glynnis Ramsey was stubborn,” he says, shaking his head while referencing my friend who recommended him.

“She is,” I confirm. “That’s why I like her. Friends commonly share traits. It’s a thing. Look it up.”

“In my defense, you seemed much more reasonable when we first met. I thought you were going to be easier to deal with.” He exhales and runs his hand through his hair.

Oh, shit. He’s not thinking about backing out of the job, is he? Because it sounds like he might be.

“Yeah, well . . . just so you know, I’ve been told I make a misleading first impression before. It wasn’t a unique performance just for you.”

He laughs, and the dimples that appear in his cheeks don’t make a boyish impression at all. They make him look like a damn heartthrob, one who should be smiling for the camera instead of standing in my kitchen in work boots. And worn jeans that hug his thighs. With that snug black t-shirt clinging to his chest. He’s too young for me to flirt with, but I’m not blind.

My general contractor is H-O-T, hot.

And here I stand in paint-stained, faded green sweatpants and a stretched-out tank top that shows my boring beige bra through the arm holes, holding a makeshift bandage to my forehead with my sweaty hair plastered to my neck that suddenly feels grimy with itchy grout dust. Fuck me.

At the end of a long day, he looks like he’s ready for a photoshoot. I’ve been swinging a hammer for all of ten minutes, and I look like a fashion victim on one of those surprise reality shows right before they get ambushed by the makeover crew.

I glance at my pantry to be sure the doors don’t fly open. Nope. It’s just us.

No one is coming to save me from my unfortunate choices tonight.

He gestures toward his own forehead and says, “Will you please move that paper towel so I can make sure you don’t need stitches?”

“I don’t need stitches. And if I do, I can drive myself to the emergency room.” I pull the paper towel away from my face to show him I’m not mortally wounded. “I promise to cease and desist on the demo, okay? You can go now.”

“You need to be sure and clean that cut good.”

“Again, fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are. I’ll let you get on with it then. See you in the morning.”

His arm extends to my smashed countertop as he walks past, and he swipes my hammer without breaking stride.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“Tonight, it’s my ticket to sleep.”

“Are you saying if you don’t take it, you’ll lie awake all night, worrying about my safety?”

“I was trying to take it without having to say that, but yes.”

He still hasn’t looked back at me, just keeps walking toward my front door. I follow behind him, infuriated, but also intrigued—which further infuriates me.

“You didn’t even knock before you came into my house.” It’s a fact that suddenly occurs to me as we get closer to the door, and the audacity to just let himself in like that sets my last agreeable nerve on fire.

“I did knock. You didn’t answer.” He opens the door and finally looks back at me. “And then I heard banging.”

“Oh, and you just couldn’t wait to barge in and catch me starting the tile demo!”

“Lock this door behind me. And start keeping it locked from now on.”

Who the hell does he think he is, issuing commands at me in my own home? In a voice that could melt the panties off the Venus de Milo, no less! If she wore them to begin with.

She doesn’t wear boring beige bras, that’s for sure! My gaze drops to my chest as I secure the deadbolt. I pull the neckline of my tank top open. There’s not even a single lace panel. It’s just thick and beige and blah.