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It had been my experience that all women, even the ones you’re only having sex with, are on some level exhausting. I wasn’t in any particular hurry to get back to it.

I came up behind Kristen and peered into the garage over her shoulder. It was cavernous and mostly empty except for a few containers stacked against the far end and a newer black Honda parked in the last bay. She hit a button on the wall and sunlight shafted under the opening garage door.

She turned to me, the green mask starting to crack around the edges. “Bathroom is down the hall. Sodas are in the fridge. Holler if you need something. I’ll get you a fan. It’s a hundred and fucks degrees out here.” She left me standing there.

Well, the reception was chilly, but at least she’d let me in.

I backed my truck up and started to unload, and she came down the stairs and set a fan in the middle of the floor. Then she walked out into the driveway, green mask and all, and put my folded shirt into my hands. “Here. I washed it.”

“Thank you.” A car rolled by and the driver stared at her. I looked back at her with an arched eyebrow. “Don’t you care what people think?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“No.”

“There you go.” She turned and went back into the house and I smiled after her.

Kristen had crossed my mind a few times over the last two days. I’d actually found myself somewhat looking forward to coming over and getting further abused.

I’d asked Brandon about her boyfriend. Not straight out—I’d asked him why she didn’t have him build the stairs. Just an excuse to find out more about her.

Brandon only met him once, almost a year ago. Didn’t have much to say about it, other than the guy seemed all right. But he did say Sloan didn’t seem to like him for some reason. I’d pressed for more, but he just shrugged and said she wasn’t a fan.

Two hours later I poked my head into the living room. “Where’d you say the bathroom is?”

She’d changed into sweats and a T-shirt and she lay on the couch with a heating pad on her stomach. Her mud mask was gone.

She answered with her eyes closed. “Down the hall, second door. Put the seat back down.” She winced.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked like she was having the period from hell.

“Have you taken anything yet?” I asked.

“I took two aspirin at four a.m.” Even her words sounded painful.

I looked at my watch. “You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag.”

I went out to the truck and got two pills and brought them back with a water bottle from the fridge and handed it to her. She took them gratefully.

“You get a lot of calls for period cramps?” she asked, lying back against the cushions, closing her eyes.

“No. But I grew up with enough women to know the drill. Also, I’m a paramedic. You shouldn’t be taking aspirin for cramps. Aleve or Motrin is better.”

“Yeah, I know. I ran out,” she muttered.

“I’m going to get some lunch. Want something?” I figured if I was going to eat, might as well ask her too.

She opened an eye and looked at me. “No.” Then she sat up with a grimace. “I need to go to the store.”

“What do you need? I’ll get it. I’m going out anyway.”

She clutched the heating pad to her belly and eyed me. “You don’t want to buy what I need. Trust me.”

I scoffed. “What? Pads? Tampons? I have six sisters. This isn’t my first rodeo. Text me what you want.” I turned for the garage before she could object. I couldn’t care less about buying the stuff, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of woman to be embarrassed by feminine products—or anything, for that matter.