Chapter 12
“ S hit!” Tomas looked at his watch before going to his locker.
If he went home to shower, he’d be late for dinner.
He pulled the clean shirt and shaving kit that he kept on hand for meetings with clients out of his locker and slammed it shut.
Striding to the restroom, he tugged off his KBS t-shirt along the way and used it to wash away the sweat and sawdust at the sink.
He scooped up water, scrubbed his face, and ran his wet hands through his hair.
“You have a date!”
He looked up to see Carl, the third contractor at KBS, leaning against the door jamb, a large smile white against his dark brown skin. “Yeah. And I’m running late.”
Carl strolled into the room like he had all the time in the world.
Fifteen years younger than Tomas, he’d started being Vincent’s assistant while going through the contracting program at the college.
Ali had then hired him. Talkative and outgoing, he tended to annoy Tomas, but he was good at his work, so Tomas put up with him.
“Who is it? Do I know her?”
Tomas glared at him through the mirror, not about to discuss his personal life.
Leaning against the counter, Carl crossed his arms, tapping a forefinger against his chin. “I do know her. Hmm…is it the barista over near City Hall? She’s all kinds of cute.”
“None of your damn business,” Tomas growled. He tossed the wet shirt into the sink and pulled on the long-sleeved, blue button-down.
Immune to Tomas’ taciturn ways, Carl asked, “Where are you taking her?”
With a grimace, Tomas grabbed his shaving kit and wet shirt, and shouldered past him.
Carl called to his retreating back, “Make sure you have protection.”
Tomas righted himself before stumbling down the stairs. He hadn’t thought about condoms. There was no time to go to the store. He walked back to Carl. “You got any?”
Waggling his eyebrows, Carl reached into his back pocket for his wallet and produced two packets.
“Thanks.” Tomas narrowed his eyes at the younger man. “Not a goddam word to anyone.” Snatching the condoms, he turned and stomped down the stairs, Carl’s laughter trailing behind him.
P ulling the pins out of her hair, Fiona stared wildly into the mirror.
Up or down? Tomas would be here any moment, and she needed to decide.
Her workday chignon was far too formal, but wearing it down felt too…
expectant. She growled in frustration, finally grabbing a hair tie and putting it up in a messy bun.
With a grunt of satisfaction, she surveyed her outfit.
The navy blue, high-necked tank top was a good choice.
It would hide stains, and Fiona was a messy cook.
The white denim capri pants were a little snug.
She twisted to see her butt in the mirror.
No panty line, and if she refrained from wiping her hands on them, she’d make it through the evening without looking like a slob.
She slicked on nude lip gloss, turned off the bathroom light, and surveyed the bedroom.
She fluffed the pillows and straightened the pile of books on her nightstand.
“Give your head a shake,” she murmured aloud.
There would be no bedroom action tonight.
But she’d shaved her legs and put on her sexiest bra and panties, just in case.
A knock at the door sent her flying down the hall, through the living room, past the table, and to the French doors.
Outlined against the evening sun, Tomas stood, his head twisted to the side, looking over the deck and yard.
In one big hand he held a bottle of wine, and in the other a bag with the KBS logo on it.
“Hey,” she said on a breathless sigh, holding the door open for him to enter.
He twisted back and surveyed her from top to bottom and back up, dark eyes settling on her face, moving back and forth as if memorizing her features.
While they had talked and texted, they hadn’t seen each other in five days.
She swore he’d gotten better looking. Straight dark eyebrows over bold black eyes, framed with inky lashes, a blade of a nose, and hard but kissable-looking lips.
She sighed, and those lips quirked up in the smallest of smiles.
“Hey, yourself.” He leaned forward and brushed her cheek with those lips, then his gaze met hers, eyes crinkling at the corners in the sweetest of smiles. He sniffed, brows drawing together in a fierce frown. “What’s that smell?”
“Oh crap!” Fiona darted away and went to the oven.
Grabbing up potholders, she yanked the oven door open and dove in with both hands to pull a pan of burnt crostinis out of the smoking oven.
Settling the pan on the top of the stove, she dropped the potholders on the counter.
“So, no appetizers tonight.” She directed her mortified gaze to the pot of chili simmering away. A sound had her turning back to Tomas.
He was biting a lip, staring at her with an amused expression. “That’s fine.” He placed the wine on the peninsula countertop. “I remembered you like chardonnay. If you show me where the glasses are, I’ll pour one for you.”
Wordlessly, Fiona pointed at a cupboard, then stood back and watched the big man move about her kitchen, totally relaxed, making himself at home.
Her hostess skills resurfaced, and she said, “I bought you beer.” She opened the fridge with a Vanna White flourish.
“There are three different kinds. I hope they’re okay. ”
Tomas handed her a glass of wine, then bent to look in the fridge.
Reaching in to snag an IPA, his distinctive woodsy lime scent trailed off him.
Standing, he pulled the door of the fridge closed and stepped closer to her, effectively pinning her in the corner where the two countertops met.
Her stomach fluttered as a big hand moved toward her face.
She held her breath. A long finger brushed across her lips, freeing a strand of hair stuck to her lip gloss, then tucking the hair behind her ear.
“Thanks.” He stepped back, and a sigh escaped her. Oh my God, how would she make it through the night?
“The chili looks good.”
“Yes! That’s something I can make.” Fiona scooted around him and motioned with her wineglass. “Do you want to take our drinks outside for a bit, or do you want to eat now?” Screwing up the crostini messed up her plans, and she was all kinds of awkward.
He glanced out the window and then down at her. “Let’s go outside.” Taking the beer and the KBS bag, he opened the door for her. She moved past him with a murmured thank you, and led him to the outdoor chairs on the deck.
The furniture was new, two armchairs, a small couch, and a table.
She’d arranged and rearranged them until finally placing the couch against the wall of the house, the two chairs angled on either side of them so that each seat had a view of the backyard.
They came with beige cushions, and she’d bought bright red pillows that drew hummingbirds to her deck.
She took a chair, and Tomas sat on the couch near her and handed her the bag. “This is for you. A housewarming gift.”
“Oh.” She placed her wineglass on the table and took the crumpled paper bag.
He looked sheepish. “I suck at wrapping gifts.”
The admission melted her insides. The Aztec god had a flaw. “I’ll try not to hold that against you.”
Opening the bag, she pulled out a pink zippered case. She dropped the bag, examined the case for a clue, then unzipped it to reveal a power drill. Eyebrows drawing together in puzzlement, she said, “Thank you. This is so….”
“Practical. I know.” He shrugged and sat back, angling one long leg over his knee. “This brand makes tools specifically for people with small hands. They were originally all in pink for women, then someone clued in to the trans world, and now they come in a lot of colors.”
Fiona held the drill up. She’d never been comfortable with tools, precisely because they were too heavy and awkward to handle. But this one, she pressed the power button, and it whined. “Oh!”
“I charged the battery.”
“Thank you.” She turned the power tool in her hand, holding it like a weapon. “Do I need to get a license to drill?” He rolled his eyes, and she widened her own. “It was there. I had to use it.”
She pressed the power button a few more times, oddly pleased to have received the drill. “Thanks again, but, umm, why?”
“My dad left when I was small, and my mom was useless at fixing things,” he said, staring out at the yard.
“Anything that was broken had to wait until one of my uncles could fix it, and they showed me how to do things. When Mom married Carlos and had my sisters, she decided they would learn how to use tools, make their own repairs, change tires. That kind of shit.”
One hand holding the drill, Fiona picked up her wineglass and sipped, not interrupting.
“Last year for Christmas, I bought Sylvie, Cara, and my mom each one of these.” He shifted his gaze to Fiona. “Women should have the tools to take care of fixing things themselves.”
“You mean like that wonky outlet?” Tomas was unavailable, so Carl came to fix it and was in and out in less than an hour.
“Yesss,” Tomas drew out the word. “But that’s electrical and should be approached carefully. Maybe start with something less?—”
“Shocking?”
He smiled, revealing that dimple she was enamored with. “I was going to say less life-threatening.”
“Did you give your mom and sisters lessons on how to use the drill?”
His head bobbed. “Sort of. Sylvie was putting together a television console and was having trouble. I couldn’t help her in person, so I made a video and sent it to her.”
“Great idea. I’ve found all kinds of instructional videos on YouTube. Is yours up there?”
“I sent it directly to Sylvie, so I doubt it.”
Fiona sat back and sipped her wine speculatively.
“What? You’re thinking of something.” He nudged her knee with his own, a relaxed smile on his face.