CALEB #2
She heats the pasta in the microwave and sets a plate on the counter near me while I work on the last two legs. I eat standing up between tightening bolts, and the food is actually better than anything I've made for myself since I moved in.
"This is good," I tell her, talking with my mouth full. "Sure beats MREs and TV dinners." I'm not a cook, though I do barbeque a mean steak. And the compliment lights up her face in a flash.
"Don't sound so surprised." She grins and picks up the instruction manual, studying it upside down before flipping it around. "Is this piece supposed to go here?" She points at a diagram and then at a cross brace I haven't installed yet.
"That goes on last. It stabilizes the whole thing."
"See, that's why you're doing this and not me.
I would've put that on first and then wondered why the legs were crooked.
" She sets the manual down and leans on the counter again, watching me work.
"You're very focused when you build things.
You get this little crease right between your eyebrows and your whole face tightens up. I swear you stuck your tongue out too."
Now the lip between the teeth as she smiles… Fuck. She is flirting with me.
"It's concentration," I grump, turning back to the work.
God, this isn't good. Bennett didn't pay me to flirt with his ex-wife.
He paid me to find out if she's a good mom, which I think she is.
I need to keep this surge of attraction building in my chest to myself and just get the table built and get out of here.
"It looks like anger."
My shoulders drop at that comment. It's what I've heard my whole life.
"It's not anger," I say softly, tightening a bolt.
I think a lot of servicemen hear that they look angry all the time.
If civilians even knew what sort of rigors we went through in training, they'd understand that we take life seriously.
It's hard to shake the mentality that death could be lurking around any corner.
"If you say so. But you can relax your jaw." She walks past me, brushing my shoulder with her fingertips on her way to the counter where she rinses the plate.
I catch myself clenching and loosen my jaw, which annoys me because she's right.
She chuckles, but I focus harder on the cross brace to avoid her look.
She's getting a kick out of this, trying to make me lighten up.
I want to—seriously, I do. I just know I'm walking a slippery slope now charged with chemistry and attraction, and I shouldn't even be here.
The table comes together in about forty minutes total. I flip it upright and set it square, then press down on the surface to test for wobble. It's solid and level and ready for her and Ethan to eat dinner. And now I just have to carry the old one out.
"Oh, my gosh." Olivia runs her hand across the top. "It's beautiful. It actually looks like a real table and not a pile of boards."
I sigh and nod at her. "I hope it works out for you." I’m already eyeing the door, ready to get out of here.
She pulls one of her mismatched chairs up to it and sits down, resting her elbows on the surface, testing it out. "Ethan's going to flip when he sees this. We've been eating at that old thing for years. We've needed something nicer."
I gather up the packaging and the hardware bags and flatten the cardboard box, stacking it all neatly by the back door. Then I finish the water she gave me and set the glass in the sink.
"Thank you," she says, and she says it the way she says everything, warm and direct and without any pretense. "Seriously, Caleb. You didn't have to do any of this. I owe you at least a dozen more beers."
"I'll take that." I wipe my hands on my jeans and head toward the front door, but Olivia stops me before I open it.
"And thank you," she says softly, so I turn to look at her.
"For the other day at the park…" Her eyes search my face expectantly, and I try not to look like the grumpy ass soldier I know I am.
"Ethan loved having a guy to hang out with for a moment. Derek takes him to do stuff, but he doesn’t make memories like that. "
"No problem," I say, but I turn and walk out before she can keep the conversation going.
I feel sorry for that poor kid caught in the middle between his parents.
I can tell Olivia really does want what's best for him even if she's struggling, and I can tell Derek just wants to be around his kid more, though he's going about it the wrong way entirely.
I stalk back over to my weed whacker, left by the fence where I set it down, and I fire it up as I stew.
The sleeping pills bother me. Combined with the Sertraline, it does paint a picture that Derek would use in a heartbeat and probably will when I tell him.
But a picture isn't proof of anything except that a woman who works long hours and raises a kid alone has trouble sleeping and feels depressed sometimes.
That describes half the single mothers in the country, and none of them deserve to lose their children over it.
I pull the cord and the weed-whacker roars back to life, and I'm torn.
The problem is that I liked being in there.
I liked the pasta and the way she made fun of my concentration face and the fact that she wouldn't take no for an answer about feeding me.
She wanted to take care of me even when I refused it.
And I liked that her kitchen felt lived in and warm and that she talks to me like I'm a person instead of a slave.
God knows how long it's been since I've felt that connection to humanity.
That's not supposed to happen on this kind of job, and I know better.
So why do I find myself staring up at her house again when I'm trying not to get sucked farther into this thing?