17. Rose
Rose
Last night, I had to pry that helmet right off his head, telling him he absolutely could not wear it in the bath or to bed.
With Ben suspiciously quiet, I go looking for him, not expecting to find Murph holding Ben up to inspect a small hole in the wall in the spare bedroom.
My eyes briefly scan the clutter in a room currently undergoing renovation—sealed paint tins, DIY tools, and dust sheets.
The two windows are open, letting in the fresh morning air.
“Are you using my son as an extension pole, Murph Owens?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips as I stand in the doorway.
Murph and Ben snap their heads toward me. Their guilty expressions mirror each other so closely that I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Murph lowers Ben’s feet to the floor and straightens, clearing his throat and avoiding my mock-glare.
"Ben wanted to help." Murph stuffs his hands in his pockets, and after a quick glance, Ben does the same.
"He was just checking the size of a hole so I can fill it and prep to start painting.
He won't be involved in painting or sanding, and we always keep any rooms with tools locked.
I know the risks that come from working on a construction site and would never put Ben in danger. "
I look between the man in blue denim, a red flannel shirt, and chunky boots, and my son in blue jeans and an almost matching flannel shirt. He’s wearing white sneakers, but if I’d packed his brown boots, there is no doubt in my mind that he’d be wearing them.
My brain cannot deal with how freakin’ cute they look standing side by side, wearing identical sheepish, caught with a hand in the cookie jar, expressions.
“I got you that shirt for Christmas,” I grumble, resigned to the fact that he’s wearing it now, so there’s no point making him change into something else I’ll only have to wash later. “It’s a nice shirt for special occasions, not DIY, Ben Hayes.”
He blinks up at me. “I wanted to match with Murph.”
I can’t find it in me to complain too much because they do match and they look cute as hell. I’d put this down to hormones, but during my pregnancy with Ben, my hormones went into overdrive at the end of my second trimester.
This cuteness tickles the part of my brain that likes it when a couple wears matching PJs on Christmas morning, or when tiny versions of big things are involved. Like those mini jars of jam in the grocery store.
“I, uh, helped him with the buttons,” Murph says. “As soon as he saw what I was wearing, he wanted to wear the same thing. They were a little… off.”
Which is a polite way of saying a mess.
I swallow my smile. “We’re still working on buttons.” Ben almost gets it right, but he’s usually so excited to start playing that he rushes through getting dressed. When he takes his time, he doesn’t wind up with more buttons than holes at the top.
“I got some of them right.” Ben wrinkles his nose as he tugs on the hem of his shirt.
“That’s okay, baby,” I say with a reassuring smile. “You’ll figure it out one day.”
“He has a lot of energy,” Murph says unnecessarily.
As if he hasn’t seen Ben run all over this house from the moment he cracks his eyes open in the morning to when it’s time to go up to bed.
“I know,” I sigh. “Usually it goes toward crawling over me at 6 a.m.”
It was a joke. Or, I guess half of one.
Murph drops into a crouch in front of Ben. “What’s this about using your mom like a climbing frame?”
Ben laughs. “A climbing frame?”
Murph chuckles. “Sleeping mamas don’t make good climbing frames. They can roar if you wake them up too early. Like a dragon.” And he actually roars. His impression of what a dragon might sound like would be more impressive if that dragon weren’t me.
“Hey!” My back stiffens in outrage, and I start to complain as Ben dissolves into giggles, a hand over his mouth.
That happy sound silences me in a way few things ever can.
When my son is giggling like that—even though I’m the punchline of this particular joke—it’s impossible to cling to my outrage for long.
“How about next time you wake early and want something to do, we can work on a project,” Murph suggests.
“That sounds like child labor,” I say, frowning.
At the same time, Ben jumps up and down, yelling, “And paint? Or bang nails into the wall.”
Just what we all need. A five-year-old running around with a hammer, banging on walls at 6 a.m.
“No hammering,” Murph says with gentle firmness. “I could teach you to make something.” He glances at me. “Your mama is going to have a little boy or girl. Maybe we could make something for your brother or sister.”
“A crib?” Ben suggests, hopping up and down, his excitement growing by the second. “No, a playhouse, or a swing set, no, a bigger house with a porch.”
My son has never picked up a hammer or a piece of wood in his life, and he’s over there planning to build his brother or sister a house.
I nearly laugh at its absurdity. His dreams are always so big, but I never want to make them smaller.
I love his self-belief and that he wants to achieve so much, so I watch Murph carefully, ready to jump in if he even thinks about trampling my son’s hopes, as ridiculous as they can sometimes be.
Murph strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not the man for a project like that.
When a company hires me, they hire me to work on the inside of a house, putting up walls, plastering, and painting.
But maybe we could do something else.” He shoots me another quick glance.
“A surprise for your mom.” He leans toward Ben and whispers in Ben’s ear. “Think she’ll like that?”
Ben’s eyes pop. “Uh-huh.”
I make a mental note to coax the secret out of my son the first chance I get. It’s rare that I get surprised much anymore. When I had Ben, I was the one planning the surprises. But this one seems juicy… and fun. Definitely fun.
Hmmm. Maybe I won’t coax the secret out of him after all. Maybe I’ll see if this excitement about what they could be working on keeps growing.
Murph sticks out his hand, still serious, and his larger palm swallows Ben’s small one in a handshake. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal, little man. Instead of using your mom as a climbing frame, we’ll make a surprise for her and your little brother or sister.”
It doesn’t hit me until much later that this project they’re working on is as much for me as it is for Ben. Ben needs entertaining in the morning, and I need a little more sleep than I’ve been getting.
I can’t take my eyes off Murph’s hands.
They’re strong and tanned, the nails short and blunt, and they hold me utterly transfixed in a way few things ever have.
With Win and Joel at work, the creaks and soft thumps drew me from Ben’s bedroom, where I was putting away the laundry that I did this morning while Ben napped.
Murph had an unexpected day off because his bosses are heading out of town to meet a potential new client.
I should have known he’d be at home today since he was renovating the spare bedroom in the morning when he usually grabs breakfast and is out the door soon after.
He’s been up here quietly working away while I’ve done laundry, watched cartoons with Ben in the living room, and called my parents to check in.
The spare bedroom door was open, and instead of saying anything, I stood in the doorway, watching him.
While I was downstairs with Ben, he patched all the holes, painted the ceiling, and is just now finishing the trim.
In maybe three hours, he’s gotten so much of this room looking refreshed.
He’ll probably have everything finished by the end of today.
There’s something intensely attractive about someone who knows how to do something so well and just… does it. There’s no hesitation. No doubt. Just a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to do a job well.
He returns his angled paintbrush to a small paint tray, stands up and stretches, a muscle in his neck cracking.
He glances my way. His eyes snap back to mine in a double-take.
“Hey.” A slow, pleased smile spreads across his handsome face.
“Didn’t realize you were there. I cracked the windows open all the way, but if you smell the fumes down—”
My cheeks heat at being caught ogling red-handed. “No. I can’t smell any fumes. That, uh, wasn’t why I was here. I heard you in here, and I was curious.” I cross my arms for something to do.
His eyes skim over me, lingering on the strip of belly that always shows when my t-shirt rides up.
Two beats later, he wrenches his gaze away with the speed of a man caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
He directs his full attention to an unpainted beige wall, but from the tension radiating up his spine, I swear I feel his focus still fixed on me.
“It was time I got back to work. I haven’t been making time for it. ”
Trying to finish renovating a house while a five-year-old is running around and being curious every chance he gets must have wreaked havoc on his ability to finish this project.
I step into the room. “Sorry. Ben likes to distract anyone he finds. You probably could have finished it if you hadn’t come to Harry’s birthday party.”
“I wanted to go. It was fun, and there’s not much left to do here now. After this bedroom, it’s just the dining room and the attic.”
“Why didn’t you start the dining room first?”
“None of us use it, but whoever buys this place will want it done.”
I frown. “Whoever buys it?”
His eyes turn hooded as I close the distance between us. “It was a foreclosure when Win and Joel bought it. I pay rent now, but it was never intended to be a permanent home for any of us.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too expensive and much bigger than what we need. We’d only ever intended to renovate and flip for profit. Not to live in.”
But it’s not too big. It’s the perfect size for all of us.