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Chapter Eleven
Harper
Work was crazy busy, right up until the shop closed at two. It took me an extra fifteen minutes to get everything shut down, and even though many of the displays could use a refresh and reorganize, it’ll have to wait until Monday. Right now, I have a date with a circular saw and my drill.
As soon as I get home, I throw on a pair of old jeans, a blue tank top, and pair of old Ariat boots from my cowgirl days. It’s hotter than Satan’s balls outside, but fortunately, there’s enough of a breeze off the ocean that makes it somewhat bearable. Snuggles is out with me, running puppy circles around my legs until she takes her chew toy and parks it under the tree. I already moved her water bowl and a bit of food there, so she’ll be set for the next few hours while I work.
Jensen stopped by after work last night to help unload his truck and trade vehicles. He set up the sawhorses and got all of my materials in order. He offered to come back by this afternoon to help with Max, but I knew they already had plans to attend a baseball game. There’s no need for them to miss it when I’m perfectly capable of building a doghouse. I have a rough idea of how I’m going to build it in my mind, and a sketch on a piece of notebook paper. Jensen is a visual person, so when he stopped by, he doodled while I told him my ideas. Together, we finalized a pretty kick-ass doghouse for my baby girl.
I glance one more time to where she’s snoozing under the tree, and get the first piece of plywood positioned on the sawhorses. Before I know it, I have my cut lines chalked out and I’m ready to go.
When I was younger, Dad used to build things. Bookshelves, coffee and end tables, nightstands. Little things like that, and then he’d sell them at the local craft shows. Mom was always in the kitchen with Marissa, and so Jensen and I would find ourselves in the garage with Dad. Samuel was often studying, rarely finding the time to help cut, screw, and stain whatever project Dad was working on. Not me. I loved it. He’s the one who taught me everything I know and gave me the confidence to build just about anything I want.
Those storage shelves and display cases at Kiss Me Goodnight?
Built those myself.
Sure, most people look at me, standing five foot ten, weighing barely one hundred and thirty pounds, and wearing perfectly contoured makeup, and think I’m just a pretty face. I’m the girl who went to New York to model. The one who starred in a toothpaste commercial on national television. But I’m more than that, dammit. Yes, I may sell sexy panties and lingerie, but I can also cut just about anything with a jigsaw and figure difficult measurements in my head.
I’m versatile like that.
Two sides in and Snuggles starts to bark. Glancing up, I see her heading to the fence gate, tail wagging in joy. Latham approaches the gate, throws open the latch, and enters the yard like he owns the freaking place. Jerk. My dog doesn’t seem to mind the stranger in her yard. Instead of eating him (the way I had hoped), she runs circles around his legs, stands on her back legs, and begs to be petted.
“Traitor,” I grumble, grabbing a second sheet of plywood from the stack and jockeying it on the sawhorses.
“Need help?” Latham asks, setting his cooler down on the ground and approaching where I work.
“No.” I don’t mean it to come out snippy, but it does.
“Okay,” he replies, hands in the air in surrender, and backs away. “You clearly know what you’re doing. I was just trying to help you move the board.”
“I got it.” Deep breath. “But thank you for the offer,” I tell him, glancing his way again. He’s wearing well-worn jeans that hang dangerously low on his narrow hips and a dark green Army T-shirt. It too looks well-worn, the coloring fading just a little bit.
“I’m just going to sit over here where you can’t accidentally cut off my hand with your saw. Holler if you need help.” Latham grabs his cooler and heads over to the shade tree. My patio furniture is on the deck, so he marches up the stairs, grabs my favorite lounger, and returns to the place my dog was just resting. Snuggles seems particularly happy to have a friend join her under the tree, lying on the ground directly off to his left, where his hand can continually pet her head. He pops off the top on a beer bottle, takes a hearty swig, and sets out to watch me work.
I’ve never had an audience before.
It’s weird.
And a little exciting.
Pushing all thoughts of my voyeur out of my mind, I finish measuring out and cutting the two roof pieces. In fact, I get lost in my work and completely forget about Latham being here. The radio on the deck plays 90’s music as I continue to get all of my pieces cut out, softly singing along as I go. The only one left is the base. Needing the third sheet of plywood, I head over to retrieve it, only to be met with another set of hands.
“Before you say anything, I know you can carry it, but since I’m here, I don’t mind helping.” Latham throws the sheet over his shoulder and carries it over to the sawhorses for me. I don’t argue, even though I really want to. My argumentative nature comes out in full force when Latham is involved. I don’t know what it is, really, but the man has always had this infuriating ability to get under my skin.
“Thanks,” I reply, grabbing the tape measure from my tool belt and marking out my corners.
Latham grabs the chalk line and holds it in place, following my lead. He never pushes me out of the way (like Joey did when he tried helping me make one of the display shelves for the store). Instead, he stands to the side and jumps in exactly where I need, never once taking over the project. Before I know it, we have all the pieces cut, including the two-by-four trim, and are ready to start piecing it together.
“I have to admit, Harper, you’re a refreshing contradiction,” he says as he pulls another beer out of the cooler and hands it to me, before taking one for himself.
“Why, because I can build my own shit?” I ask, sweating a little (okay, a lot) and enjoying the way the cold beer quenches my thirst.
“Well, yeah. Most women would just go out and buy a plastic doghouse, let alone try to build one themselves,” he says, drinking about half his bottle in one gulp.
“Well, I’m not like most women,” I retort, setting my bottle aside and reaching for my drill.
“Don’t I know it,” he mumbles quietly, finishing off his bottle and tossing it in the outdoor recycle bin. When the glass hits what’s inside, Snuggles jumps up from her nap under the tree and rushes over to make sure he’s okay. I can’t help but shake my head at my traitorous dog, though if I were telling the truth, I completely understand why she likes him. Though, I’d never admit that aloud, so I don’t say a word.
