Chapter 18 #2
I frown, arms crossed firmly over my chest, and watch as he picks up plywood A and drills a hole into its edge. I look down at the instruction paper, which he’s not bothered to consult. This is not going to end well.
“There are plenty of funny Australians . . . Kylie Minogue.”
“Singer, not funny.” The drill screeches through the wood.
“Russell Crowe.”
“Never seen him do comedy. Pass me the screwdriver, will you?” He holds his hand out. “The Phillips head.”
I find it the first time, which, for a non-screwdriver aficionado, is impressive. I slap it in his open palm. “Hugh Jackman, Rebel Wilson, Chris Hemsworth—”
“Is that Thor?” He reaches for plywood B.
“Yes.”
“A screw, please.”
I empty the bag and pass them to him one by one as he needs. “And Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett, Margot Robbie—”
“What about them?”
“They’re funny.”
“You’re just naming actors.”
“Funny ones.”
He stands back. “Potato, pota-toh.”
I’ve been too busy arguing with him that I barely noticed he’s attached three sides of the booth. Enough that it actually looks like a booth, with its pre-painted red-and-pink stripes.
“Hey, you’ve done it.”
His eyes slice to mine, narrowed. “I told you I wasn’t completely useless at flatpack furniture.”
“I never said you were.” I nudge him hard enough that he oofs. “It’s not quite the same as the one Miles destroyed, is it?”
Hendricks shakes his head and laughs. “No.”
“Shame. He deserves a little PTSD from that day.”
Now that the sides are on, it takes no time to attach the roof, a scalloped-edge design that makes it look like we’ve built a life-sized—if not cartoony—pink-and-red-striped shop front.
It’s very kitsch and fifties, and we discover what the red fabric is for.
Mrs. Winston, being Mrs. Winston, added drapes.
There’s also a packet of self-adhesive decals, including a sign to go across the top, plus a whole bunch of hearts in red and different shades of pink—and applying them is where I make my usefulness known. Hendricks is only too happy to let me.
When we’re done, I stand back, hands on my hips, and admire our collective handiwork.
“Not bad at all. Cute, actually.”
“I’d go as far as beautiful—”
“Yes.” I nod. “Beautiful.” But when I look over, expecting to see Hendricks admiring the stand, he’s spun his hat back around and is looking at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” He reaches down to the cool box of beer and pulls out two, then hands one over. “Good teamwork for one day.”
“Even if the start was rocky.”
“As well as the dubious claim about your comedic skills.”
“Hey!” I gently nudge my leg against his. “I am funny.”
“Okay, we can agree to disagree.” He brings the bottle to his lips. “What else were you doing in Australia? Wrestling crocodiles? Barbecuing?”
“Barby at the weekends, no crocs, but . . . I learned to surf.” My voice is quieter because I miss it. And it begs the question, do I miss it as much as I would miss Valentine Nook again? “I got pretty good at it. Went every morning before work, in fact.”
His eyes skate over me, assessing, appraising.
I don’t know if he’s trying to picture me on a surfboard because it feels more than that.
It’s slow, deliberate, holding for a beat too long around my hips, and back up.
By the time his eyes finally meet mine, there’s heat emanating from beneath my skin, and my cheeks are flushed.
If I’m not mistaken, for the first time ever that I’m aware of, Hendricks Burlington has checked me out.
“I’m impressed,” he says eventually, raising his bottle to me. “What was the school like?”
“Like Valentine Prep, but bigger.” I smile, and the memories of the children running around in the sunshine help me hold my composure.
I imagine them breaking from school and heading straight to the beach for a surf.
It’s still the height of summer there, and here it’s dark at four. “I liked it a lot.”
“I’m glad you did.” His smile pulls up, but it’s more pensive than happy. “You worked hard to find a good school.”
He looks away again, back at the stand, and tosses the screwdriver he’s still holding over and over. The energy between us feels like it’s on the verge of turning tense again, or maybe we’re already there.
“So secret valentine, huh?”
Hendricks looks at me, bemused. The screwdriver stills. Yes, that’s much better.
“What?”
“I believe your son outed you.” I waggle my brows, for no reason at all. “Who is it? Annabel Stenson, Lauren MacCauley—or was she just Miles’s? Maybe Polly—”
“Stop it, Stor. Don’t do that.”
I shrug, wishing it hadn’t been niggling at me since Max brought it up.
Hendricks sips his beer again. “What about you, anyway?” It’s casual, too casual. “Any blasts from the past? Old-school buddies who’ve recently shown their face?”
I peer at him over the rim of my bottle and shake my head. “Nope.”
“None?”
I shake my head.
“Oh,” he replies, which is enough for me.
It doesn’t take a Mensa membership to know he’s talking about Sam Pelling.
I have no intention of letting him know that Sam messaged me on Facebook to say he’d heard I’d returned and asked me to meet, because I never replied. If there’s even the slightest chance that Hendricks and I might move into something more than friends, I’m not going to jeopardize it.
But the fact he’s brought it up adds to the warmth still circling deep inside my belly.
“Yeah, going to Australia really helped me cull my friendship group,” I quip. The ones from Valentine Nook anyway. I still kept up with some uni friends now and again. “I’d been waiting for the right time to do it, and the opportunity presented itself.”
He’s laughing as he pulls his phone from his pocket. Whoever’s name is on the screen wipes all amusement from his face, and before he answers, he turns his back.
“Sienna?”