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My phone beeps a text. It’s from Henley.
What’s happening?
I smirk and take a photo of Mason painting in his shorts, muscles on display. I send it to Henley.
Painting.
I wait for his reply. Nothing comes, so I go back to painting.
“So the guys you live with, are they close friends?”
“Aah . . .” He hesitates. “They are. We are close because we do the same job and understand each other. The housing is supplied through work.”
He hesitated when he said that. I’m reading it as they get on his nerves sometimes.
“Have you always lived around here?”
“From New York originally.”
“Really?”
“You seem surprised,” he replies.
“I guess I am—not many New Yorkers go into the military.”
“You’d be surprised. A lot of us just wanted to get out.”
We keep painting for a while.
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you always want to be a nurse?”
“Um, yeah.” I shrug. “I guess. I like to look after people.”
“Must be a rewarding job.”
“Some days are better than others.”
“It looks good, doesn’t it? Imagine when the entire house is done.” He smiles as he stands back to look at our handiwork.
We chat for another forty minutes while we work. Mason is actually a really cool guy.
Not my type, but a cool guy nonetheless.
“Hello,” sounds a familiar voice from the front door. I glance up to see Henley standing there. “What’s going on here, poser painting?”
Excitement runs through me.
He came home from work!
This must be love.
Mason looks at him deadpan. “I didn’t have an old T-shirt.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Henley mutters dryly as he walks in past him. “I’ve got the day off; do you need some help?”
I say yes at the same time Mason replies no.
“Maybe I should drop my pants and paint naked,” Henley replies casually as he looks around.
