4. 2
Jason
A half-block away from home, I leaned over panting, hands on knees. I hadn’t even made it five miles this morning after fitful, scant hours of nightmares about ghosts running up and down the loft steps.
And the rest of the night trying not to think about Rose. I pulled my water bottle from its pouch and took a long draft. She sure liked to touch, didn’t she? Jesus. Over and over. She had me so amped up I had to use a drop cloth as a shield so she couldn’t see what even those spare touches were doing to me. Then surprise-hugging me. My self-abstinence wasn’t going to last much longer with her around.
Fuck it, I’d just walk the rest of the way home. I had so much to get to today, not least of which was planning what questions I had for the Big Dick people. I’d taken their first available appointment—next Friday—so I had almost two weeks to obsess over it. It had to go well. Working with them was my only way to turn that vast, empty community room into a two-story home. If only the worries Mom put in my head about being associated with them weren’t warring with the excitement of a dream coming true.
A moving truck pulled out from my driveway and passed me on the road. Rose must be all moved in. Even though I’d always planned to rent out the rectory apartment, it felt weird to be a landlord. And now that I was, I had to douse my attraction to Rose—even though she apparently thought I was sexy. I grinned to myself. As intriguing as that was, what really puffed out my chest was her reaction to all my hard work.
My followers on all my social media platforms loved everything I did. Every step of the way through renovation they cheered me on, raved over my finish selections, and sent me more than a few marriage proposals. My family had been by a few times and been impressed. But man, Rose’s admiration hit different.
She’d looked like a Disney princess discovering a new castle with her long, curly hair, graceful movements, and expressions of wonder. And every time she touched me, my body completely lost it—instant shivers, instant arousal.
But I closed that door firmly in my mind. Despite what seemed to be a mutual attraction, none of that mattered. She wasn’t marriage-minded, my mom didn’t like her, and she was my renter. Three strikes. She probably had a boyfriend—a bonus strike four.
I entered the back door, the one I told Rose I’d exclusively use while I was using her kitchen and bathroom. Footsteps and shifting noises emanated from the direction of her hallway and living area. I grabbed a water from the fridge and called out a good morning.
“Morning! I’m back here!”
I followed her voice to her living room, which was a sea of boxes, several open but unpacked. Styrofoam peanuts littered the floor.
“Rose?” I peeked around the boxes.
A blanket with a cat flying a rocket ship covered a mound in the middle of the room. Half the blanket flopped down to reveal her lying on a giant bean bag chair. I jumped and pressed my hand to my pounding heart, still skittish from my night in the now-surely-haunted church.
“Jesus, Rose, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”
She pressed her fingertips under her watery-looking eyes. “I’m so stressed out. There’s too much stuff, and it’s everywhere. My mom even sent over all my stuff from her attic. I don’t know how she talked the movers into taking more than they originally agreed to.” She covered her head back up with the blanket. “She probably promised them a bunch of free sex toys.”
Her voice was muffled. Surely, I didn’t hear her right.
“What?” I asked. But no. As much as I wanted to pull that thread, that’s not what was important. Nor was that appropriate as her landlord. “Let me know if you need help moving furniture or anything. I’ve got a bed frame to finish filming, so I’ll be in the workshop.”
The blanket flopped back down. “Filming? Is that some kind of woodworking technique?”
“Filming for my social media channels.”
“Oh, is that why you take so many pictures of yourself?” Her eyes widened. “That was so rude. I’m sorry.” She stood up and folded her blanket, dropping it into a box. Another tank top and short shorts today.
“Where have you seen me take a bunch of pictures of myself?”
“At Becca’s shower. The selfie stick usage was a little unhinged. What do you do online? You said you’re an architect, right?”
“That’s what I studied, but it’s pretty tough to break into.”
“So, what do you do? And how did I miss asking you this?”
“I build custom furniture—bookshelves, tables, beds, cabinetry, even decks. That kind of thing. There’s a huge market locally for handcrafted furniture, and between that and the money coming in from my social media sponsorships, ads, affiliates, merch, et cetera, I’m making more than I would as a beginning architect in Louisiana.”
“Really,” she said, more of a statement than a question. “That’s amazing. I already knew you were crazy talented, but you must be really smart, too. My roommate in New York was always after me to start an Instagram account for my designs. But I…” She took her long hair down from its bun and put it back up again. “I’m so overwhelmed. I have a ton of gowns to make, my serger and sewing machine are still in boxes, I don’t know where anything is. And I don’t even know where to start with my business.” Her voice wavered as she stacked a small box onto an already-high stack then wiped under her eyes. “I’m trying really hard not to cry in front of you right now, and even harder not to have an anxiety attack.”
Shit—I’d had more than my fair share of those. “Hey, it’ll be okay. Just take it one step at a time. It’s the only way I can handle things. And go easy on yourself. You only moved in this morning. Let me help you set some things up.” I pointed to a headboard. “Want me to move this into the bedroom? I always set my bed up first when I move into a new place.”
She looked back at me, deflating. “Thank you. Yes. That would be amazing.”
I sat my water bottle on the windowsill and hefted the full-size headboard with her pushing her box spring down the hall after me. “Between the windows?”
“Perfect.” She set the box spring against the wall and left again.
I set the headboard in place and spotted a metal bed frame leaning in the corner of the room. I grabbed it and started setting it out. “Do you have the hardware for your bed?”
“Yes!” She rummaged through boxes while I set everything out and pulled the plastic off her mattresses.
“So do you only make wedding dresses?”
“And bridesmaid dresses.” She came back with a bank envelope jingling with screws and a small, pink toolbox. “Here you go. I’m only taking customers by word of mouth right now, but I’ve been trying to get picked up by a major player in the business on my way to starting my own label. Holland Lane is my dream firm, but they won’t give me the time of day. I could open my own boutique, but there’s so much involved with starting a brick-and-mortar. I’d have to find a manufacturer to work with, make all the patterns, find a retail spot to rent—and I don’t know how I’d survive in a local-only market. It’s all so overwhelming, but I have bills to pay right now, you know?”
She was actively wringing her hands, looking around at the boxes as if not really seeing anything.
“You can make money with your brand without producing wedding gowns. Like you could…make T-shirts or stickers about sewing to sell online. Better yet, post sewing or design lessons, or even sell classes on sites like CraftClass. I’m working on a class for them right now. Or even just build your platform and then the right people will come to you.”
She stared at me blankly. “Can we add making money on the internet lessons to our rental agreement? I’m completely lost, but it sounds like you know what’s up.”
“Yeah. One of the biggest things I’ve learned is how important visibility is. Like I saw online the other day that a shoe designer hit it big after some famous actor found him on Instagram. Wait—who was in the news the other day because he got engaged to that singer? We went to middle school with him. He works for that millionaire?”
“Oh, Sam. Sam Cooper. Yeah, he got engaged to PJ Lane.”
“Weren’t y’all friends? Reach out and see if PJ will let you make her dress. Your platform would explode with that kind of visibility.”
She waited for me to step out of the bed frame and laid her box spring down. “Girl. I’d hand-weave the fabric like it was the freaking Middle Ages for that opportunity.”
I stopped and narrowed my eyes at her. “Is there a reason you keep calling me ‘girl’? It doesn’t bother me, but it does confuse me.”
She put her hands on her hips, her small smile slightly challenging. “Nobody bats an eye when somebody calls people ‘bro,’ or ‘man,’ even if the person they’re talking to identifies as female. So why can’t ‘girl’ be the universal?”
“Huh.” I nodded. “That makes sense. I like it.” And it made me smile inside every time she did it. I wanted to hear the story behind each of her quirks—the direct questions, the double entendres, all the touching that was making me insane. I bet she had a compelling explanation for them all.
“But PJ,” Rose continued. “She has a bad rep as a diva. I’m sure she’s only interested in the celebrity designers who are probably already knocking down her door. Why would she want something from a nobody like me?”
I shifted her mattress into place on top of the box spring. “Why would you self-reject without even trying? I haven’t seen your designs, and I don’t know anything about wedding dresses, but you must be pretty good to get that fashion internship. And Becca raves about your work all the time.”
She smiled and shrugged, pulling a sheet set covered in unicorns and rainbows from a box and tossing me a pillow. “I appreciate it, but PJ’s too high profile. I’d have to build a following before she’d even look at me, right? So sure, maybe goals. But I’m at the bottom, so that’s where I need to start.”
“Do yourself a favor.” I went around the bed and took the fitted sheet from her, pointing at a round ottoman in the corner. “Sit there, go to Instagram right now, make an account, and grab your handle. What’s the name of your business?”
She pulled her phone out, settling onto the ottoman cross-legged, her shorts riding high up her inner thighs. “Sweet Roses Bridal. My friend, Heather, already made me a logo, I just haven’t done anything with it.”
“That’s a perfect name. Wait, Heather Aucoin, from middle school?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Graphic design is one of her many talents.”
“I remember her. She helped me get through algebra.” I trained my eyes on the unicorns, making quick work of her bed as she tapped and swiped on her phone, its case covered in cat mermaids.
“Okay, I’m all set up. I’m gonna go follow you. What’s your username? Or do I search for your real name?”
“I’m Deck Daddy. You have a quilt or something?”
She fell over sideways, cackling and throwing a leg down to keep from falling off the ottoman. “ Deck Daddy ?”
I smiled, too used to that reaction to be insulted. “It’s got just the right amount of shtick, which works in my favor. But I admit it’s a little too close to ‘dick daddy,’ which has caused more than one massive misunderstanding to come my way—and more than one massive dick pic.”
She’d almost recovered from her laughing fit, but that set her off again. After a minute, though, she was sitting back up and scrolling. “Okay, okay. I found you. And, followed. Helloooooo Deck Daddy.” Her eyebrows went up.
I caught my face in a mirror leaning against the wall. I’d turned bright red, for some reason.
“Wow. The women and gay men on Instagram eat you up, don’t they?” She looked up. “Oh, a quilt? Yeah, lemme grab it.” She stuck her phone in her back pocket and dug in another box, pulling out a comforter. It was covered in, of course, roses.
“How did you come up with Deck Daddy? It’s brilliant.”
“Well, I didn’t get a lot of followers on my old handle, WoodworkingwithJason , until one day my reflection showed up in the sliding glass door beside a deck I built—and my shirt was off.” I scratched my beard, a little embarrassed to be talking about this in her bedroom. She billowed her comforter onto the bed and sat down on it, going back to scrolling my account. “The post blew up, and one of my followers called me ‘Deck Daddy,’ and I kinda ran with it. So now I give the people what they want.” I grinned at her, but she stared back at me. “What?”
She breathed out, returning her eyes to her screen. “I mean you were always good-looking, but goddamn. HA! One of these women tagged you, #WILF: woodworker I’d like to fuck.”
I smiled at the compliment. And the hashtag. And at her blushing furiously after she said them.
So…did Rose have a boyfriend?
Nope, that wasn’t something I needed to know.
“Okay, but I have to buy some Deck Daddy merch.” She burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I love this shirt.”
I leaned over her shoulder. “Which one?”
“This blue one.” She tapped on the screen with a pink nail. “With the hammer and nails: ‘#nailed by @DeckDaddy.’”
“I’ll give you a shirt. You don’t have to buy one. What size you want?”
“Um, large. I like ‘em big.”
I miraculously held back a snort, but she didn’t.
“They’re on order, but it’s yours when it comes in.” Among the cardboard boxes in the living room, I’d seen a few pieces of furniture like a dresser, a desk, and a nightstand. But I didn’t remember seeing any kind of worktable or sewing machine. “What do we have to do to get you set up to work?”
She stood and shoved her phone into her back pocket again and pressed both hands to her stomach. “You’re so sweet, but you have better things to do than to spend all day holding my hand.”
“Nah, what else is a landlord for?” I followed her back into the living room and picked up my water bottle.
“In my experience? Lying about repairs and trying to cheat you out of security deposits. Oh, do you want a security deposit?”
I swallowed my water. “No, that’s okay. Seriously. What can I help you with? You have a table for your sewing machine? I cleared the room out yesterday.”
“Thank you! Yes, that folding table against the wall. Let me find my sewing machine.”
I grabbed the six-foot folding table she pointed out and brought it into the room, but I didn’t have high hopes for it. It was mostly held together with duct tape and good vibes—literally, a sticker that said “good vibes”—and she’d wrapped the top of it in pink satin. I managed to get it open, but it was shaky as hell.
“You don’t have another table?” I asked as she walked in with a box.
She shook her head. “No, Strawberry Jello’s all I’ve got.”
“Strawberry Jello?”
“The table.” She set her box on it and gave it a shove, and the whole thing swayed.
“Let me see if I have another—”
“No, it’s totally fine. I’m used to it, I promise.” Hands pressed to her stomach again.
“You can’t work on this. I could build you a table.”
She paused with her hands inside the box, staring at me with a confused expression. “Jason, you’re not trying to lure me into a sex dungeon with all these favors, are you? Because in my experience, when a man offers a ton of unsolicited help, eighty percent of the time he’s trying to lure you into a sex dungeon.”
I smirked and placed my hands on the swaying table, meeting her already-laughing eyes. “That’s a high percentage.”
She copied my body language and leaned in. “The other twenty percent want to embroil you in a pyramid scheme involving fish sticks and hand puppets.” She shrugged. “New York City was an interesting place.”
Trying to hold back a smile, I leaned in closer than I maybe should’ve. “Are you trying to besmirch the good name of the sex dungeon I built underneath my church home?”
She busted out laughing, and so did I. “Now I know you’re lying.” She pulled crunched up newspapers from the moving box. “Because if you dig down five feet in Metairie, you’re probably hitting water. Seriously, you’ve done way too much for me already.” She pulled her sewing machine out and set it in the middle of the table. It bowed under the weight. “You don’t have to build me a table. And I can’t afford one, anyway.”
I stood back, folding my arms. “Rose, are you trying to have to buy a new sewing machine? Because that’s what Strawberry Jello wants.”
She breathed out and shook her head. “You should see it when I cut fabric out.”
“What if I made it into a video for my channel? I’ve never made a sewing table. Might bring in some new followers, and then my followers might also go follow you. Winning all around.”
Her face soured. “Would I have to be on camera, though? I’m not made for video.”
I frowned at the exquisite woman before me. “Well, yeah. That’s usually part of the draw. I guess you don’t have to, but you’ll get more followers if you do.”
She pulled at her shirt. “I take the worst pictures. I always look like a trash gremlin.”
“A what?” I scoffed.
“A trash grem-lin. ” She enunciated, no humor to her voice as she pulled a moving box for clothes closer to the table.
“Wait, you’re actually serious. I’m not saying this to make you feel better, but—” I couldn’t tell her she was beautiful, even though it was true. “You look absolutely nothing like a trash gremlin.”
Her cheeks pinkened as she rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to get you to disagree with me. Isaac, the guy I’m seeing, says I’m just not photogenic.”
There he was. And he must wear magic glasses that make beautiful things look ugly. “If you posted photos or videos of yourself, your numbers would go up faster. Just saying.”
She half-smiled at me. “How does your girlfriend feel about you posting all these shirtless photos of yourself?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” That came out faster and harsher than I’d meant it to.
She frowned at me. “Yeah, you do.”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, I really don’t.”
“But I met her the other night. Misty?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” That definitely came out harsh. “Wait, did she tell you she’s my girlfriend?”
Her pretty mouth made a perfect O. “Your mom introduced her to me as your ‘lady friend.’ That’s not mom code for girlfriend?”
I sighed heavily and rolled my neck. “Misty’s the daughter of my mom’s best friend. I took her out to dinner exactly once over a year ago, and only because Mom wouldn’t stop pushing me. Worst night of my life.”
“Well, she stood there beaming when your mom said it.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “She wants her some Deck Daddy.”
“Geez, I can’t believe my mom introduced her as my ‘lady friend.’ Who even says that?” I leaned against the back of a rattan sofa that’d seen better decades. It crackled like it might break, and I stood back up.
She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start shit.”
“It’s not your fault. Misty’s just…a lot. She’s pushy, overbearing, and doesn’t understand the concept of ‘no.’ When I took her to dinner, she was determined to have me for dessert, and I—”
Rose snorted. “Waitwaitwait…” She grabbed her phone, scrolled for a minute, then held the phone up to me. “This what she wanted?” The post of me lying shirtless across the dining table I built.
I laughed. “I’m serious! She’s such a hypocrite. In our church group, she led a whole discussion about how devoted she was to saving herself for the sanctity of marriage, which is fine if that’s what you believe. But on that date, she wouldn’t shut up about how good she was in bed and how she wanted to prove it to me. Despite me telling her I wasn’t interested. Repeatedly.”
“Ah, now it makes sense why you were treating her like she was an amorous skunk at the shower.” She gazed at me with a small smile, eyebrows up. “Are you a virgin?”
I sputtered for a second. But was I surprised at her frankness? “No.” I laughed. “I’m not.” Do not ask her if she’s one.
Nope. Not good for landlord-renter relations.
“Well, if you want some unsolicited advice, my mom would tell you that you’re right to run in the opposite direction from Misty.”
“Why’s that?”
She shrugged. “Is sex important to you?”
“Yeah.” My face heated up. Which is one of many reasons why the past two years have been difficult. Why the past half hour had been difficult. And now she wanted to talk about sex?
“Then it’s important to be sexually compatible with a potential mate. And if you already don’t like her touching you?” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “It’s only downhill from there.”
“I wish my mom thought like you did. Misty’s got her fooled into thinking she’s a wholesome woman of the church. Mom thinks I’m not into her because I’m not used to dating ‘women of quality.’” I put that into air quotes.
She rolled her eyes. “Your parents totally did it before they were married.”
I laughed at the sheer absurdity of that thought. But the frankness of this conversation was more than a landlord and his renter should be involved in. “I guess it’s the quiet ones you have to watch for, huh?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You. Dr. Ruth junior over there.”
“Listen, you try having a mom who’s a sex therapist. Do you know what she gave my girlfriends as party favors at my eighteenth birthday party?”
I edged toward the door. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Vibrators,” she said, not breaking eye contact.
I rubbed the back of my neck. I needed to get out of this apartment. And into a cold shower.
“Yeah, and she didn’t ask me ahead of time if it’d be okay.”
“Wow. I don’t think my mom’s ever done anything as embarrassing as that.”
She laughed, pulling ribbons and bolts of fabric from boxes. “It was fine. My friends were excited to get them. Told me I was so lucky to have such a cool mom.”
I should’ve walked out, but I had to ask. “Why vibrators?”
“So we, as young women, could be in control of our own sexuality and not rely on someone else to find gratification.” She licked her full lips and leaned over to dig in a box, giving me a clear sightline down the middle of her shirt from cleavage to belly button. “And to learn what we liked. Sexually.”
What did pretty Rose like? Sexually?
I held my water bottle in a strategic line down my crotch. I had to get out of here.
“She didn’t want us to fall into a bad relationship just because we were horny. Like she said she did with my dad.” She stood and pressed her hands to her stomach again.
“Good for her. Hey, did you eat anything today?”
“Um…” She dug through another box. “Coffee.”
It was past ten. She was going to make herself sick. “I’m about to make myself breakfast,” I lied. “How do you like your eggs?”
“No, no, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” She pressed her hand to her stomach again and walked behind a stack of boxes.
“I’ll make ‘em scrambled.”
“You really don’t have to—”
“With some bacon.”
Her head popped up from behind a dresser, eyes lit with hope. “You have bacon?”
I laughed. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I went back down the hall and started cooking. Her morning reminded me of my first day after I got home from leaving Kasey. All my shit in boxes in a crappy little apartment, no job, no idea what to do next. I laid on my mattress on the floor that night, crying, wishing that everything in my life was different. That I hadn’t messed up with my family and friends, that I’d been enough for Kasey to stay. If I hadn’t doomscrolled across an Instagram ad for therapy, I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through it. No one should have to go through big changes in their lives alone. Why wasn’t this Isaac guy down here helping her? Why weren’t her mom and Lily helping her?
“Come and get it!” I called down the hallway.
“Girl.” Rose’s voice came from behind me. “The smell of bacon already floated me down the hallway like a cartoon character.”
I turned and handed her a loaded plate. “Sit down and relax. Eat. You’re not gonna get done any faster by not taking care of yourself.”
She grabbed a half-finished Diet Coke from the fridge and sat at the table, immediately grabbing the fork I’d set at her place. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Ohmygod, this is so good,” she mumbled around a mouthful of eggs.
I grabbed a Steno pad and a pencil and sat across from her. “I’m glad. Listen, I’ve got a lot of work to get to today, but—”
She covered her mouth, her eyes big. “Wait, you’re not eating?”
“I already ate, but I didn’t think you’d let me make you something if you knew.” I sat the pad and pencil next to her plate. “Before you go back to—”
She stood up with a shaky breath and came around to my side of the table, wrapping her arms around my neck from the side, her head against my back. “Thank you,” she said softly.
I patted her arm, and she pressed a quick, warm kiss to my cheek, radiating electricity to every nerve ending.
“I appreciate you.” She went back to her seat and kept eating, wiping tears from her face.
My cheeks burned. “I’m glad I could help. And hey.” I tapped the steno pad. “I’m serious about the table. Sketch or list out what you need, we’ll come up with a design, and then we’ll start filming. Deal?”
Her answering smile made me feel like a better man than I was. “That would be amazing. You’re literally my knight in shining flesh.”
“No problem.” I saluted her like a fucking idiot, grabbed my water bottle, and left before I indulged my sudden impulse to kiss the top of her head and tell her everything was going to be okay.