CHAPTER EIGHT SAWYER
C HAPTER E IGHT
SAWYER
“Hey you, what are you doing just lazing about?” Sully calls out while charging toward me in those unmistakable suspenders.
I sit up from where I’m sprawled across the lawn in front of the bench—one of my favorite spots, because it’s far from the ducks but still has a great view of the mountain and the rock formations.
“What do you mean?” I ask as he reaches me, a pinch in his brow.
“We aren’t paying you to sit by the lake and look around for four-leaf clovers,” he snaps. “Get to work.” He tosses his hand to the side.
“Oh, I was unaware there was more work to be done.” After yesterday, I assumed any need for my handiness was over and done with.
“Of course there’s more work to be done. If we want to get ready for opening season, then we need to get this property ready,” Sully insists. “Which means you need to move your ass.”
I glance down at my blank notebook page.
The only thing written is Noely, Going in Blind , but I scratched that out quickly.
I can do better than steal a love story from a news anchor who tried to defend me.
Since I haven’t gotten anywhere on the idea front, it won’t hurt me to lend a hand again, especially since I got so much joy out of it yesterday.
So, I stand up and tuck my notebook under my arm. “What do you need me to do?”
“You can start with those picnic tables over there.” Sully points down the hill to an area with overgrown grass and weathered picnic tables.
“Do you really think anyone is going to eat at them with all that chipped wood? People don’t come here to get slivers in their asses.
Sand them down and repaint. I expect to see them all finished by day’s end. ”
Day’s end? Shit, I’d better get to work, then.
With that, he turns on his heel and charges back toward the main lobby, arms pumping at his sides. For such an old man, he has quite a pep in his step when he’s angry.
I chuckle to myself and consider asking Fallon if she wants me to tackle the picnic tables, but I know Sully has a point. I haven’t sat at the tables yet, and it’s because they’re in desperate need of some sanding and a paint job.
So... I head back to my cabin, change into my work clothes, and then make my way to the hardware store. This time, I don’t run into Tank at the door. He’s standing at the counter, hovering over a catalogue, and I give a quick wave as I walk up.
“Back for more?” he asks.
“Picnic tables. Need to sand them down and repaint.”
“Looking for an electric sander?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I think I want to do this by hand. I like the feel of the hard work.”
“You’re a better man than me,” he says. “Let me get you what you need.”
He takes me to the back and helps me pick out some sandpaper, sanding block included. I might not want an electric sander, but I know a block will help immensely.
“Sully believes I’m a contractor—I honestly didn’t think he was going to remember me.”
“He hasn’t completely lost his short-term memory. But he does get confused a lot. He probably associates you with the bench. It’s very near and dear to him, so he most likely has it in his head that you fix things.”
“That makes sense,” I say as we walk toward the paint section. “I have no idea what color to pick.”
“Red,” Tank says without giving it any thought. “Sully and Joan always liked red picnic tables on the property. They enjoyed the pop of color against the natural woods.”
“Then we’ll go with red.”
When we reach the counter, I pull out my wallet, but Tank holds up his hand. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Tank, I can pay.”
“I’m aware what you can do, but I said your money isn’t good here. You’re helping out my friend; therefore, you don’t pay. Got it?”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me kick you in the ass,” Tank says, voice lowering to a threatening tone. Jesus, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s related to Jaz.
“Okay.” I pocket my wallet. “Got it.”
Once again, Tank drops me off back at the cabins, and I get right to work.
Sanding.
And sanding.
And sanding. The summer heat consumes me to the point that I have to go back to my cabin and change into a pair of shorts.
I return to the picnic tables and begin sanding again.
You’d think I’d regret not going with an electric sander, but I like the feel of the hard work on my body.
I like the physical labor, exerting my body to the point that I feel like I might collapse.
I like the fact that while I’m sanding, I get lost in the grain, in the vibration of grit against the wood, in the rough sound filling the space around me.
I like that my mind doesn’t wander, that I can block out the reality of Annalisa and Simon’s deceit, and the looming demand of another screenplay. I can just... disengage.
But shit, it’s hot.
I set the sandpaper down and reach behind me to pull my shirt off. I fold it into thirds, lengthwise, and then I stuff it in the back of my shorts, letting it hang there as I twist my hat backward to pour some water on my face. But when I reach for my bottle, I realize I’m all out. Damn it.
Knowing there’s a bottle-refill station in the main lobby, I make the trek up the hill to the lobby and push open the door. I step inside to find Fallon and Jaz painting the dark woodwork that spans the length of the front wall.
“Why is this taking forever?” Jaz complains when she turns and spots me. Her eyes fixate on my bare chest and then float up to my face. “Well, would you look at that, Julia has muscles. I was not expecting that.”
“What?” Fallon asks, turning as well, paintbrush in hand. When she sees me, her eyes immediately dart away. “Oh, uh, hi. Do you need something?”
I hold up my bottle, even though she’s not looking at me. “Just need to refill my water.”
Jaz, on the other hand, has no shame in checking me out. “What do you know, he has defined abs. I never would’ve guessed. What else are you hiding?” Her eyes fall to my crotch. “Anything... special?”
“Jaz,” Fallon scolds. “Stop that.”
“What? I can’t stand here and appreciate a male specimen when I see him? You know, you can look at him—it won’t burn your eyes. Look at his nipples; they’re a great size.”
“Uh, thank you.” I move to the water-refill station to the right, feeling oddly flattered. The last person I’d ever expect to grant me a compliment is Jaz, so even though she’s talking about my nipples, I’ll take it.
“I wasn’t really talking to you,” Jaz says, clearly catching her mistake: paying me a compliment. “Just making general commentary. I still don’t like you.”
“Good to know,” I say, trying to be as casual as possible. I refill my water, feeling Jaz’s eyes on me the entire time.
“You must do a lot of push-ups, don’t you?” Jaz asks.
“What’s it to you?” I shoot back at her, making her eyes narrow.
“Are you giving me sass?”
“Does it feel like I am?” I face her and take a sip from my water bottle.
“You are.” She points at me. “Watch it: you don’t want to mess with me.”
“Maybe I do,” I say, trying a new approach with Jaz. Maybe she’ll respect me more if I don’t act like a complete pushover.
“I wouldn’t.” Fallon speaks up, her eyes still avoiding my topless torso.
Me, on the other hand, I can’t say the same.
Those ripped jean shorts look fucking good on her.
“Now enough of this—we have to get this painting done. And since that stupid spray-painter thing won’t work, we need to get a move on. ”
“Why won’t it work?” I ask, pulling my eyes from the way her jeans hug her ass.
“We don’t need you butting in with your immense screenwriting knowledge.” Jaz shoos me away with her hand. “I’m sure you can maneuver your way around a plot twist, but that isn’t quite helpful with what we’re doing.”
Ignoring her, I walk up to the paint gun and take a look at it. Within a few seconds, I diagnose the problem.
“You don’t have the nozzle set up right.” I make the proper adjustments.
I turn it on and spray the wall. The white paint comes out in a perfect sheet across the wood. With a satisfied smile, specifically directed at Jaz, I hand the spray gun to Fallon, who is finally looking at me, appreciation in her eyes.
“Oh my God, thank you,” Fallon says, excited. “You just saved us so much time.”
Jaz eyes me. “I don’t like that you knew how to do that,” she says. “Are you some sort of wizard?”
“No, but like you said, I’m hiding things. You might just have to dig a little deeper to find them.” I give them a sturdy salute. “Good luck with your painting.”
Content with putting Jaz in her place, I leave the lobby with a smile on my face and head back down the hill to the picnic tables, where I find Sully sitting on one of them, testing it out.
“There you are,” he says. “I thought you were taking a nap.”
I shake my head. “Just filling my water back up.”
He motions to my chest. “What happened to your shirt?”
“I was hot.”
“Well, this is a family facility—put it back on. You don’t see me taking my shirt off, do you?” He snaps his suspenders against his chest.
“That I don’t.” I reach behind me and pull my shirt from my shorts, then put it back on. The cotton fabric already feels stifling. There is a very, very cold shower in my future.
“And wear your hat the way it’s supposed to be worn, bill forward.”
I twist my hat back around. “Sorry about that, sir. Is that better?”
He scans me again. “Yes, now, hand me some sandpaper—you missed some spots.”
Knowing damn well I didn’t, I hand him some sandpaper anyway, and together, we sand the picnic table. My strokes are fast, labored, getting the job done, while Sully takes it slow, deliberate with each stroke.
“You’re going to throw your back out going that fast. Enjoy the moment, the calmness of the paper running against the grain of the wood.”
Since I’m almost done, I decide to slow down and join him in his pace.
“See, enjoy it,” Sully says, his shaky hand running along the wood.
“You’re right. This is nice.”