CHAPTER NINE FALLON #3
Jaz props one hand on her hip and gives him a slow once-over. “You’re telling me your frilly Hollywood ass can lay down some floor?”
“You can do anything if you put your mind to it,” Sawyer says with a smirk.
“Ugh, you’re annoying.” Jaz moves past him into the lobby and then starts cleaning up all the carpet staples.
I turn to Sawyer. “We, uh, we got it handled. I watched some YouTube videos, and Sully will come supervise us in a few.”
“Okay,” he says as we walk into the lobby. “But if you need help, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you—but just enjoy your stay. Uh, we have some picnic tables on the south end of the property that might be an inspiring place for you to write—you know, when you’re done with your workout.”
A slow smile plays at his lips. “I’ll be sure to check it out. Thanks.”
When he turns away to refill his water bottle, my eyes travel the length of his back, the contours of his muscles that run all the way down to the light curve of his ass.
Just above the low-riding waistband of his shorts are two dimples that catch my attention more than they should.
They’re subtle but just pronounced enough to make me wonder, for an insane moment, what it would feel like to run my fingers over them.
When he’s done refilling, he doesn’t bother turning back around to say goodbye. Instead, with the palm of his hand he pushes against the back door and exits—the whole time, I watch the ripple and pull of his back muscles.
“Stare a little longer, why don’t you,” Jaz says, startling me.
“I’m not staring,” I say as I spin back around toward her, but I can feel a blushing stain on my cheeks.
And Jaz notices it.
She scoffs. “Okay...”
Jaz: How’s the floor coming along?
Fallon: Why did I think I could do this? I know nothing about renovating a house, let alone laying down floors.
Jaz: That bad?
Fallon: After you left, I had to tear up an entire row because I didn’t install it correctly. I’m about to throw in the towel.
Jaz: Take a break, come grab a drink. We can start again tomorrow.
I glance at the clock. Seven at night. I have two more hours to actually get some of the floor down, two hours before I pass out in my bed.
If I want to finish up these renovations—and get those reservations—then I need to finish this.
Taking a break isn’t an option at this point.
I need to push and keep pushing when I think I can’t push anymore.
Push through the frustration.
Push through the sore hands.
Push through the fact that I really have no clue what the hell I am doing most of the time.
Fallon: Thanks, but I’m going to try to figure this out.
Jaz: Have you had dinner?
Fallon: No. Not yet.
Jaz: I’m going to call up Rigatoni Roy and send a pizza your way. Sausage and onions?
Fallon: You’re the best, thank you. How’s Sully?
Jaz: Hanging with Tank and the boys. He’s in his element. Really happy, actually. Tank was telling me he’s seen a noticeable change in him lately, like he isn’t grumpy all the time.
Fallon: I’ve noticed the same thing. I’m happy he’s having fun. Okay, back to work.
Jaz: Want me to see if someone can take over the bar so I can come help?
Fallon: No, I’m good. Might be better if I try to figure this out myself. I have a bunch of cabins that need new floors as well, so I better get the hang of it. I’ll talk to you later.
Jaz: Okay, pizza is ordered.
Fallon: Thank you.
I set my phone down and scan the new flooring.
Sully picked it out from a few samples I showed him.
At first, he didn’t understand why we needed new flooring, but when I showed him his design book and the renovations he had wanted to make, he understood.
It’s pretty, some natural-looking grains on a luxury vinyl flooring—it’s extremely durable and the latest fad in construction.
But if you don’t know what you’re doing, it’s a pain in the ass to attempt to install.
“You can do this, Fallon,” I whisper just as Sawyer walks into the lobby, sweaty once again and ready to fill up his water bottle.
Talk about revenge body.
It’s the only reason I can think of for why he’d be working out as much as he is—to get back at Annalisa and Simon.
A droplet of sweat rolls down the front of his chest, between his pecs that are lightly sprinkled with trimmed hair, and then down his stomach.
Peter is starting to develop abs, and I know it’s something he’s been working on—but Sawyer.
.. I’m pretty sure the man was born with definition, because there’s no looking for them; they’re in your face, plain as day.
“Hey,” he says, looking at the two pathetic rows of flooring. I’m sure anyone else would be much further along by now. “How’s it, uh, going?”
“Well, you know, it’s going.” I attempt casual, like this is how I intended the floors to be installed... one plank every hour. I nod toward his bare chest. “Enjoy another workout?”
He glances down at himself and then back up.
“Yeah.” He leaves it at that. It almost feels like there’s more behind that “yeah,” but he’s not sharing, and there’s no way I’m willing to ask.
He walks up to me, and I expect to smell sweat, but I’m consumed by the fresh soap scent clinging to him.
How is that even possible? “Seems like you have a good two rows done.”
“Yeah, I had a third, but messed it up and took it out.”
He nods. “Well, I’m available if you need some help.”
“Oh, that’s okay—”
“Fallon.” He gives me a knowing look. “Let me help you. You clearly want to get this done tonight or else you’d have called it a night already. I’ve laid down quite a few floors in my lifetime. We can have this done in an hour and a half.”
I don’t want his help.
I don’t want him seeing me like this—pathetic.
Helpless.
Lacking ability.
I want him to see me as a well-put-together woman, the kind of woman he should have paid attention to on our date.
I know I say I’m over the whole blind date thing, and I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to see me thriving and regret, just a little bit, the way he treated me, to maybe even see me as the one that got away.
Sitting in the middle of subflooring, planks of wood scattered about, doesn’t necessarily give off that kind of vibe.
I want him to just go back to his little workout world and leave me alone, but... God, I’m desperate. If I finish this floor tonight, that’ll mean I can move furniture back in and start redecorating. Then I can take pictures and add them to the website. So much comes down to these damn floors.
Would it be so terrible if I had him help me?
Yes, it would be terrible. Not that it’s a competition, but I feel like I have the upper hand in our nonrelationship. Seeing him wasted and having to drag him through the cabins, passed out, really gave me that edge. Asking him for help... well, that would put us on an even playing field.
But God, look at this place: there’s no way I’ll finish this tonight—I’ll be lucky if I can get at most another two rows done by myself.
I roll my teeth over my bottom lip as I take in a deep breath.
Crap... am I really going to ask him for help?
I said I’d do anything to keep these cabins...
“You really think we can get this done tonight?”
“Easily.”
He seems so confident, like he truly believes we’ll be able to get this done. And for some inexplicable reason, I believe him.
I’m so desperate at this point to move these renovations along that I’m willing to believe anything.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I could use some help. I can take some nights off your bill as compensation.”
“Don’t even worry about it. Gives me something to do other than sulk in my cabin.” He picks up a board. “Shall we?”
Sulking in his cabin? Maybe that’s why he’s always shirtless and working out.
“I guess so.”
Sawyer takes charge and puts me at the saw.
He calls out measurements, and I cut the boards before handing them off to him and then watching in fascination as he lines them up and snaps them in place.
He works fast, laying them down, hammering the grooves into place, and moving on to the next.
In a few minutes, we’ve expanded to two more rows, a two-person assembly line that works flawlessly.
“Wow, you were right: we could get this done pretty fast.”
“Just have to have the right person at the right job.” He winks.
And that one wink is like an aphrodisiac as it makes my heart skip a beat. A feeling I wasn’t expecting at all, a feeling that is incredibly unsettling.
“Uh, yeah,” I say awkwardly. Get it together, Fallon. It was a wink, not like he called you beautiful or stripped you down nude. “It helps when you’re not fighting over what music to play either.”
He chuckles. “You mean that heavy metal stuff that I heard blaring from the lobby earlier wasn’t your choice?”
“I prefer for my ears not to bleed when I listen to music.” I adjust the safety glasses on my face before cutting a piece of flooring. Sawyer swiftly moves on his knees, grabs it, and lays it down.
“What would be your choice of music?” he asks.
“My first choice would be the best of the fifties. But Jaz would cut her ears off before listening to that.”
“Fifties, huh?” Sawyer asks. “There’s some beautiful nostalgia to listening to music from the fifties.
The era where the electric guitar boomed, Elvis became king, and doo-wop revolutionized jazz and the blues.
And it still sounds so innocent, even though I’m well aware there’s nothing innocent to the era.
But you can’t help but feel how pure it is. ”
Wow, he knows his music—wasn’t prepared for that kind of answer. I guess I just assumed he was into writing and that was it. What a one-dimensional assessment. Clearly, he’d have other interests.