Chapter 29
Chapter
Me: I got nailed
George: Yeah you did
Me:
Me: But also there’s a nail in my tire
George: Do you need me to come put the spare on for you?
Me: I am a strong, capable woman. I can put on my own spare tire, thank you very much.
Me: And that’s exactly what I did last month when I got nailed the first time
George: You’ve been driving on a spare tire for a month?
Me: I know
Me: I’m pretty impressive
George: That’s not the direction I was going.
Me: Sorry I can’t make it to the airport. I have to wait for my mom to get home so I can take her car to grab a new tire
George: You mean two new tires.
George: You can’t keep driving on a spare.
George: I can come pick you up. We’ll go flying, then get your tires.
George: Emphasis on that plural.
I wait on the front stoop of our house for George to arrive, overly anxious about the idea of him coming here. The discomfort isn’t to do with the house itself. My home may be crumbling in a variety of ways, but when you stand back and look at the larger picture, the place is pretty gorgeous.
The lower half of the house is fashioned from warm, red bricks that continue into columns that frame a thick wooden door.
The entry has a curved top that makes me think of drawbridges.
A wide, multipaned window gazes out at the front yard.
The upper levels are the classic Tudor-style white plaster bisected with dark wooden beams. The roof has a dramatic, whimsical slope, and only an expert would realize how badly the shingles need to be replaced.
So no, it’s not the house. My steadily increasing anxiety has to do with the weaving of George into more parts of my life. Specifically, the part that includes my mother.
How will she react if she finds out that I’m friends with someone else connected to BBN? That I’m more than friends with him. That I’m starting to feel things and ways about him.
“Why are you sitting on the stoop?”
I start at the voice speaking directly behind me and clasp my chest to calm my heart as I turn to find Marge staring down at me with a confused smile.
“You’re so quiet!” I accuse her instead of answering. “I didn’t even hear you open the door.”
She shrugs, then waits, picking up on my evasion.
“My car has another flat. George is on his way to pick me up so we can still go flying.”
“George. Hmm.” She taps her chin, her expression thoughtful. “He was quite tall, if I recall.”
“Uh, yes. Correct. I don’t have an exact measurement, though, if that’s…something you needed.”
“Have him come inside when he gets here. The chandelier bulb needs to be changed.”
“Marge, no—”
But she’s already gone, and I sigh in defeat. My stepmother is used to handing out instructions and having them followed. Something to do with being a teacher.
Not long later, George pulls up in his truck. Through the windshield I spy him smiling, and it reminds me of when I spotted him in the airplane with Tasha. Only this time, the happy expression is for me. Because of me.
I pop up from my seat and jog over to meet him.
He’s not even fully out from behind the wheel when I lean in to kiss him, mainly because once he fully gets out of the truck, it’ll be hard for my mouth to reach his.
George solves this issue by wrapping his arms around my waist and drawing me up with him until he’s standing straight and my feet are dangling.
“I like this greeting,” he rumbles against my mouth.
“Good. It’s all a ruse to soften you up. Marge has a chore for you.”
He snorts. Then he kisses me deeply once more before letting my body slide down his. Even though I want to stay right here, staring up at him for a few minutes just to enjoy the view, a sharp bark interrupts the gazing.
“We’ve been spotted.” I slip out of George’s hold and return to the front door. “Are you ready to be tested? To be judged, and most likely found wanting?”
“I don’t—”
“Too late. It’s happening.” I open the front door, and a moment later out trots Grumps. The cocker spaniel pauses on the front porch when he realizes there’s a stranger in the front yard. He growls, barks three times, then waits to see if George will attack.
“Don’t stare at him,” I instruct. “And try not to look like a murderer.”
“What does a murderer look like?”
I shrug. “Only Grumps knows.”
When the intruder in his territory doesn’t make an aggressive move, Grumps sneaks down the few steps to snuffle George’s shoes. He gives another growl.
“Is there anything I should do?” George asks.
“To win his favor?” I lean a hip against the brick column. “Try squatting. He doesn’t like being so much lower than people.”
Without hesitation, George sinks down to his haunches. The move startles Grumps, who hops back a few steps, growling as he goes. But then George extends a hand, and my dog considers the offering, eventually sidling up to sniff the relaxed fingers.
George risks a scratch to Grumps’s neck.
A successful endeavor.
“I did it.” He keeps his voice low and grins up at me. The pride in his face at having briefly won the reluctant acceptance of my dog has me wanting to dive in and kiss him again.
But I hold myself back so as not to ruin the moment.
“Look at that,” I murmur back.
Eventually Grumps loses interest and chases after a squirrel that dared to venture into our yard. George straightens, and I can’t help watching the way his legs flex with the move. I never knew I had such a thigh fixation. George Bunsen really brings it out of me.
“We need you to change a light bulb while you’re here. You ready to use that superior height for good?” I ask, reminding myself that I can’t stare at him all day.
“Lead the way.”
I call Grumps as we head inside, and the dog comes barreling toward us, letting out a series of warning barks as he aims for George’s calves.
“What is he doing?”
I glance down in time to see Grumps lunge at the man only to bounce back. “Headbutting you. It’s his go-to battle move. Be afraid.”
“Does this mean I didn’t earn his approval?”
“You did. But that was, like, sixty seconds ago. He’s got a goldfish memory.”
“But he likes you continuously, right?”
“Yeah. I’m one of the chosen few.”
George slides an arm around my waist and leans down to kiss my shoulder, sending a flock of goose bumps racing over my body. “Sounds like if I hang around him for a while, I could be chosen, too.”
“That’s quite a commitment.” My voice has gone breathy.
“But worth it.”
Grumps headbutts George again, huffs in celebration of his victory, and trots off to reclaim his reclining throne. We follow after him like the peasants we are.
“This way!” Marge sings out, and I lead George into the back sitting room that connects to the sunroom where Mom has her forest of plants.
Here, the ceiling rises high above us with another dramatic slope in the roof, and a simple round chandelier hangs from the center. In the light fixture is a dead bulb.
“It went out yesterday,” Marge explains. “I was going to try getting it myself, but I’m vertically challenged even with the assistance of a ladder. Do you mind?”
George stares up at the chandelier for a stretch, and I wonder if he’s admiring the architecture of the room.
The place is beautiful. It was one of the first spaces we redid because Mom was going to be spending most of her time in it.
Marge and I used long-handled rollers to repaint the ceiling a bright white that reflected the exterior of the house.
Then we thrifted like pros to fill the space with cozy rugs and chairs and even a chaise longue. Because firewood is expensive and we never have the time to chop it ourselves, we tend to burn candles found at Goodwill and yard sales in the fireplace.
George clears his throat. “Where’s the new bulb?”
Marge hands it to him, an eager smile on her face.
“I’ll brace the ladder,” I offer, circling to the other side and gripping the metal legs.
George drags his stare up and down multiple times before squaring his shoulders and climbing.
It’s kind of impressive how he rockets up the thing.
There’s only a touch of fumbling when he extends a long arm to unscrew the dead bulb, which he drops into Marge’s waiting hands.
When the new bulb is in place, my stepmom flicks the light switch and the chandelier blares to life in a beautiful, warm glow.
“Perfect. Thank you! We would’ve put that off for weeks.” Marge strolls out of the room with the old bulb, leaving me bracing the ladder as George climbs down.
Which he does at a snail’s pace. Seriously, the guy pauses for like a count of ten on each rung. Then I catch sight of his face, which is shockingly pale with a distinct sheen of sweat.
“Oh my god. Are you okay?”
His boots touch the floor, and I swear George exhales every ounce of oxygen in his lungs. I let go of the ladder and circle around to his side.
“Hey.” I press a hand against his back and one on his stomach, feeling the overwhelming urge to make sure he’s breathing. His rib cage expands and depresses, each move overly exaggerated. “Talk to me, George. What’s going on?”
His head drops, hanging in something like shame. He mumbles words I don’t catch.
“What was that?”
He sucks in another deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“You…” My brain struggles with the matchup.
A pilot who is afraid of heights? Is that even possible?
A warmth envelops my fingers, and I realize George has placed his hand over mine, holding me to him. The move muddles my brain briefly, and the two of us stand there, not moving, the only sound George’s steady breathing.
“It’s more a fear of ledges,” he explains, breaking the silence. “Fear of falling. That’s not something I’m worried about in an airplane.”
The way he answered the question before I managed to ask it makes me feel like he can read my mind. I slip my hands off him and remind myself that I’m probably not the first person who made the connection. He doubtlessly gets asked all the time.
“That makes sense. Even though, technically, we did fall from very high up the first time I flew with you.”
George huffs a strained laugh. “I’d say we glided.”
“Fine.” I frown. “You dolt!” I jab his side with my finger. “Why’d you agree to go up on the ladder?”
“I wanted to help.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and if you had passed out from fright and fallen off, that would’ve been a big help.” Neither Marge nor I are built to catch a guy of George’s size. He would’ve pancaked us. “Next time you can just hoist me onto your shoulders, and I’ll be the one up high.”
The corner of George’s mouth twitches. “As much as I’d like your thighs cradling my head, I don’t think that would get you high enough.”
“Whatever.” I give his side another scolding poke. “Let’s go fly a plane.”
George’s laugh follows me as I stalk out of the house.