7. Red Front Door
RED FRONT DOOR
“Better be careful, old man. You don’t want to pull your back out.”
Owen lowers his arms from where he’s been immersed in fixing the overhead fan and points his screwdriver at me. The scowl on his face is meant to look threatening. Instead, he looks like an adorable grumpy bear. I tell him as much.
“Watch it, you little shit.”
I mime zipping my lips and let him return to the task.
Delilah’s is closed on Sundays, which means I have a much-needed day off. A day that’s being well spent, pretending to read while watching Owen putter around the apartment doing various projects.
The highlight of the morning was witnessing him fixing the leaky kitchen sink. There’s something about a man, lying on his back, sheen on his brow, working away at his pipe, that does it for me. Call it a competency kink if you must, but it hits all my buttons.
He swears a few times under his breath before giving in and climbing back down the ladder. “Pretty sure it’s fucked,” he grunts, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe his brow.
And holy hell.
Owen is all man. Not the polished, gym-cut kind. The sort straight out of every little gay boy’s wet dreams. Slightly soft around the middle, chest covered in a warm sweep of hair, a trail of it disappearing under the waistband of his jeans in a goddamn invitation to follow.
Who knew he was hiding a whole religious experience under that shirt?
I mean, I had my suspicions. However, even my wildest fantasies couldn’t have conjured the reality in front of me.
I pull a pillow onto my lap to hide how much I’m enjoying the sight of him, and bring the book I’m reading up to cover the heat spreading across my cheeks.
“Uncle Owie said a bad word.” Annabelle pops up behind me, completely oblivious to the dirty thoughts running wild in my mind about her uncle. Her sweet voice has the same effect as a bucket of ice water.
“Put a dollar in the swear jar,” she demands, little palm held out flat in front of her, fingers wiggling.
“You have a swear jar?” I question.
“That wouldn’t be a good investment.” He shakes his head and smiles one of his perfect dimple smiles. “Not in this house.”
I hold back a chuckle and reach behind me, pulling Annabelle over the back of the couch and down into my lap. She comes willingly, already rambling a mile a minute about all the things she’d be able to buy if only she could get Owen on board with the swear jar idea. Baby girl would be loaded.
“Someone looks like they could use a good tickle.”
My hands are on her stomach before she can protest. She’s writhing and wriggling all over the place with full-body laughter.
The echoes of her joy bounce off the walls, wrapping around me like a big warm hug.
Why is it that when you’re a kid, being tickled is the best feeling in the world, but as an adult, it’s so painful?
She thrashes a few more times before becoming impossible to contain, so I finally let her free. She takes off at the speed of light, jetting back into her room and throwing the door closed behind her.
My whole body goes tense at the sound of wood slamming against wood, but the reprimand I’m bracing for doesn’t follow.
Instead, Owen laughs, low but warm, and sighs contentedly, turning his attention back to folding up the ladder.
My mother would have swatted my ass for daring to make such a loud noise.
Children are meant to be seen and not heard, after all.
Not in this house, I try to remind myself.
Annabelle could set off a foghorn, and the most it would get her is an eye roll or a stern Princess from her uncle.
Ah, there’s that achy feeling in my chest again.
I go back to reading my book, but Owen plucks it out of my hands, setting it on the coffee table, and flops down next to me on the sofa.
He leans his head back against the cushion, rolling it sideways to look at me, green eyes sparkling as they reflect the late morning sun streaming through the window.
“Want to talk about it?”
For a heartbeat, I debate pretending I don’t know what he’s going on about. He’d probably let me get away with it, too. But there’s something about Owen that chips at my defenses. So I try some honesty instead.
“That would have caused me to be grounded for a week,” I admit, nodding my head in the vague direction of Annabelle’s bedroom door.
He blinks a few times, something akin to disbelief on his face. “She’s four.”
I shrug because that wouldn’t have made a difference. It’s not hard to guess what he’s thinking, but I’m grateful he doesn’t feel the need to say it out loud. I know my parents weren’t always what a parent should be. They tried. I'm just a lot.
I can’t bring myself to make eye contact, instead getting lost in picking at the hole in the hem of my shirt.
Round and round my finger turns, and I watch the fabric stretch a little wider on each pass.
The silence that settles makes me feel itchy all over, but then he puts his solid hand on my knee, and the buzzing urge flees, evaporating into thin air.
The warmth of his touch has the same effect as the weighted blanket I slept with as a child. Without it, my brain would whirl all night long, refusing to turn off. Under its safety was the only time my mind could go blank.
I’m expecting him to pull away and drop the subject altogether. Instead, he says, “She’s bored. She needs something else to do during the week besides watching me work. Kids her age require constant stimulation.”
He lets out another sigh, this time less playful exasperation and more shamed disappointment. “I feel like I’m failing her. She should be spending her time learning and around other children. She needs friends.”
It’s raw honesty I hadn’t been prepared for.
“Is she not old enough for school yet?” I don’t think Kindergarten starts until six, but I’m sure my parents enrolled me in something else at that age. Likely out of a desperate need for a few peaceful hours to themselves. “Pre-something?”
“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “She got into the Pre-K program at the local school. They have a long waitlist, but a spot opened up for her last week.”
“Oh, that’s great. I bet she’ll have a fabulous time.”
Although I’ll miss her helping out around the cafe. Watching Annabelle play waitress is one of the best parts of my morning, only second to sneaking indulgent glances at her uncle while he works.
“I hate having to turn the spot down, but I’m not sure I can swing it.”
“Why not?”
The second the question leaves my lips, I know it was a dumb one.
Owen can’t exactly close the cafe every morning, during its busiest hour, to take Annabelle to school.
It would cut his profits dramatically. I’m positive the list of volunteers willing to take her for him would be endless; however, I’m also positive Owen could be on actual fire, and still wouldn’t ask for help.
Unless… A light bulb dings to life in my brain, and the idea is out of my mouth before I can catch what a terrible one it is. “I could watch the cafe.”
His face does something complicated, and I prepare myself for the instant rejection, “You’d do that?”
“I’m better with the register than you are now, and it’s been at least three days since my last fist fight with the coffee machine.
It might be a little hectic, but all the regulars know me.
I’m sure they’d understand if I didn’t keep quite to your speed.
You could make one of your fancy signs for the door to warn people as they come in, so they won't get upset when the line is taking too long.
“Or we could set up a self-serve station. Most of the bagels and pastries cost the same. I could ring them up at the register and say, Please select your pastry from the basket to the right. People in this town are honest; they wouldn’t take advantage.
That way, I’d only have to worry about running the register and making coffee.
“Not that I’m worried. I could do it, I know I could do it.”
I pull in a gasp of air, fully prepared to launch into another list of why Owen should trust me with this, but the smirk on his face stops me in my tracks. He’s not laughing at me, but he’s not not-laughing at me either.
“What?”
“I asked if you would do that for me, not if you could. I have no doubt you’d be able to handle the morning rush on your own.” He flicks the top of my nose. “It’s a lot to ask of my favorite new employee, is all.”
“Oh!” I feel a little foolish that I let my mouth run away on me. I push the worst of the humiliation down, instead focusing on how that one casual touch made me feel all fuzzy inside. “What’s the point of hiring someone if they aren’t able to help when you need it most?”
“I suppose you’re right. Okay, it’s settled. I’ll call the school tomorrow and let them know Annabelle will start next week.”
I ride the energy his trust gives me for the rest of the day.
In the afternoon, we take Annabelle for a picnic in the park.
It’s a sunny day, with only a slight chill in the air when the wind pushes through.
Fall is well underway now, but the warmth of summer is lingering far longer than it does back in Washington.
It makes for a nice walk down Main Street, and we lounge on the grass in the park while we eat.
Birds sing in the trees, and the world turns slowly as time passes between us three.
“Have you always lived here?” I question, realizing I know little about the man at my side. Not that I’ve shared much about myself with him either.
Nodding, he wipes a rogue drop of mayo from his chin and points to a house with a red front door and a tree swing across the street.