Page 19 of The Lipstick Flip

He nodded slowly. And then neither of us seemed to have anything to say. The kerosene heater hissed. Outside, on the street, a truck rumbled past. Noah hugged himself, and the puffer coat made rustling noises. He took a step, turned, and I had this moment of relief like my ribcage was cracking open because he was leaving. The bottoms of his Uggs were printed with bright red hearts.

“The house is really coming along,” Noah said.

I laughed once—sharp, short.

“It is! You and Si have done such a good job.” He seemed to be trying to find something specific to say because he looked around and added, “I love the floors.”

“Probably because you hated them so much before,” I said.

He shot me a grin over his shoulder. “They looked like someone had put an inch of epoxy on top of them.”

“Pretty damn close.”

He took another turn around the front room. “The windows are new.”

I grunted.

“You did a good job matching the casing.”

“Si did that.”

For some reason, that made him roll his eyes.

And because we’d been married once—still were married, as it turned out—I said, “What?”

“You always do that.”

I wasn’t all that smart, but I was smart enough not to respond to that.

“You always minimize your accomplishments.” He bent to inspect something. The coat rode up. The leggings were molded around a ten-out-of-ten bubble butt; Noah might have lost weight, but not in his ass. “You’re so talented, Howie. You’re good at everything you do.”

“Oh sure, that’s me. Fucking Man of La Mancha.”

Noah burst out laughing. “Man of La Mancha?”

Face hot, I shrugged. “I meant to say Renaissance man.” I didn’t add, But I was checking out your ass.

He laughed some more. He had this high, energetic laugh—when we’d first started getting to know each other, I’d thought he was nervous, but it turned out that was just Noah, wired for life.

“I know you and Si are a good team,” he said, hesitating by an outlet that was still missing a wall plate. “But the house tour is next week. Are you really going to be finished in time?”

It would have been tight before Si’s heart attack. Tight, but doable.

“I guess we’ll see,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work.” I hesitated. “I can see about Christmas Eve if you want.”

But Noah cocked his head, as though he’d heard something in my tone. And to be fair, that was Noah—he had some sort of supersonic bullshit detector, especially when it came to me. “Which house are people coming from? On the house tour, I mean. Where will they be before they come to you?”

I shrugged.

“Oh my God,” Noah said not quite under his breath. “Have you already picked out decorations?”

Decorations.

Because it was a holiday tour.

Like a tree. And lights. And shit.

“Oh Howie,” Noah said, and the disappointment was right at the surface.