Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“I can’t believe you’re starting the deck today,” I practically squeal as Logan opens the back doors to his van.
He shoots me a small smirk, displaying just a few of his perfect, pearly white teeth. He’s wearing another flannel today, but he accessorized it with a mustard-colored tool belt, completing the perfect porn star construction guy image.
I remove my gaze from his tool-belt-covered ass, shaking my head. I’m such a creep. He’s a guy in his twenties—my employee, for fuck’s sake—and I’m thirsting over him like a desperate cougar.
I am a desperate cougar.
The thought slams into me, almost knocking me off my feet. I pour myself another cup of coffee, hoping for it to clear my mind, and decide to bring some coffee to Logan in a totally appropriate, non-creepy way.
He’s unloading his van, carrying mammoth beams into my backyard.
“Can I help somehow?” I ask.
“Sure. Bring another round of these, would you?”
My eyes widen and he chuckles.
“Oh, a joke. Good one.” My cheeks flush with heat.
“It’s fine, Ms. Summers. I can handle myself.”
“Will you be doing it alone? I thought Chase Constructions had more workers.”
He walks right by me with another load of wood on his shoulder. “It does. But they had to keep working on the projects that we booked months in advance.” My mouth parts into an ‘oh’. “So, I’ll do this one alone.” The bite in his tone is playful, but my face is fully flushed now.
“About that … sorry. And thank you. I would have booked you months ago, too, but I hadn’t even known I’d be looking for a new house then.” Dropping the beams on the ground, he turns around, shooting me a questioning look. “I’m blabbing, sorry. I’ll let you get to work.”
He doesn’t break eye contact for a few more moments before dipping his chin and throwing himself into work. I watch him for a second before deciding I should get to work, too.
I place my coffee safely on my desk and drop into my comfy office chair. The writing gods have been merciful enough to throw me a bone the last few days, but I’m still thirty thousand words behind on my project. And that’s for the already extended deadline.
Groaning, I boot up the computer and open my manuscript. I can tell pretty much exactly how my writing day will go by the first five minutes of it.
If I start writing right away, not caring about reading where I left off or overthinking what happens next, it will be a good day. If I go three chapters back to reread my previous work, I’m procrastinating, and I probably won’t get much done.
Instead of starting Chapter 13, I click on Chapter 10 and get to reading. I left off at the beginning of a sex scene, hoping that I’ll be more in the mood to write it today.
Guess I was wrong.
I reread chapters ten till thirteen three times before deciding to take a break. My curtains are closed—that won’t work. Pulling them open, I realize I have a direct view of the deck building business. First row tickets to the biceps and tight ass show.
Determined not to be a creep again, I focus on my manuscript and the words start flowing. My fingers click and clack on my ergonomically designed keyboard, and two hours later, the book is four thousand words and one hot-as-hell sex scene richer.
I shoot a text to Abby, my current PA, informing her of my progress.
Abby
Oh, thank God!
I didn’t want to alarm you, but I was really worried we weren’t going to make it.
Abby is sweet, smart, and not my sister. She’s a good PA but still a bit frazzled and scared about the whole gig. Sandy wouldn’t care about my deadline. She would say, “Fuck them. You’ll do it when you feel like it. They know it’ll be worth it, so they better wait for it.”
My lips pull up into a smile, thinking of her. Quickly, I snap her a photo of my backyard in progress.
Sandy
The backyard’s nice, but the backside’s nicer, if you know what I mean.
You selling tickets for this show?
Laughter bubbles out of me. Sandy is absolutely ridiculous and the sole reason I still have some remnants of my sanity.
Me
You’re an idiot.
Sandy
You love me
Me
Of course, I do.
What are you up to?
Sandy
Just shopping for baby supplies with Stella. You?
Me
Had a productive writing day, believe it or not. And now I plan to put some pictures up.
Sandy
Yeah? And do you know how to do that?
Me
How hard can it be?
I shoot her a selfie with a hammer I got from Home Depot last week.
Sandy
Oh, you GOT this.
Her text makes me laugh out loud before I lock my phone. I have a box of framed pictures, documenting our lives since the birth of both Olivia and Asher, and I want to put them in the hallway, along the stairs. I’m hoping they’ll help make this house a home.
Dropping the box on the first step, I prepare my nails and hammer, courtesy of the pink toolbox I bought.
The hammer has a pink handle, which I love, though it seems a little heavy.
The YouTube video said I should measure everything out, but I clearly see the right place for them, so there’s no need for that. I’ll just put one above each step.
Grabbing a nail, I place it gently on the wall, squinting to find the perfect spot. It feels weird to wield the hammer in the very direction of my fragile fingers, but it’s what everyone does, right?
And the videos make it look super easy.
There’s no need to be afraid, even though my hands are definitely shaking and my breathing is erratic.
Squinting once again, I bring the hammer up and, deciding to rip off the bandage, smash it onto the nail with all my force.
“Aaaah!” My heart is beating out of my chest as I check my hand to see if my fingers survived. Seems like they did, unlike the wall that sports a large hole in it.
“What happened?” I almost jump out of my skin at the panicked sound of Logan’s voice.
“Jesus Christ.” I grab my chest.
“Are you ok?” His eyes are wide with concern.
“You scared me.” I catch my breath.
“You were the one screaming bloody murder.”
“Oh, sorry. I had an…” my gaze falls to the hole in the wall, “accident.”
“What happened here? Is your hand ok?” His hand gently grasps mine, checking it for injuries.
“Umm, yeah. I think so.” I look down at our hands, noticing how big his hand looks around mine. His eyes land on the ruined wall, so I continue. “I tried to put some photos up.”
“What are you, the Hulk?”
“Har-har. I’ll have you know I’ve never done that before. I guess I miscalculated the amount of strength I needed.” I pull my hand back from his grasp.
He hisses. “Wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that miscalculation.”
“Now I have to figure out how to fix … that.” I gesture to the hole.
He chuckles before saying, “I’ll fix it,” then turns toward the patio door.
“No way. You’re doing too much already.”
“I said I’ll fix it.” He walks out of the house.
“Ok. I guess you’ll fix it,” I say to myself.
A few minutes later, he’s back, carrying various tools, not all of which I can name. He slaps some plaster on the hole I made, smoothing it with a spatula.
“Where’s the measuring tape?” he asks, turning toward me.
“I-I don’t have it.”
He nods in understanding, but I feel like a fool, thinking I could do this on my own.
“What was the plan?”
“Each step was supposed to be a photo.”
“Let me find my tape.” He disappears outside.
He gets back, a pencil stuck between his full lips, a measuring tape in hand.
When he’s done measuring the wall and stairs, there are twelve little X marks above each step.
He proceeds to fill his pocket with nails and nails them to their respective spots.
My heart’s in my throat the whole time, but I guess he knows the right amount of strength to use to not ruin the entire wall.
Looking inside the cardboard box, he takes out picture by picture and puts them up, just like I wanted—chronologically. I should have probably intervened to help, but something about this glued me to the spot.
Maybe it’s the fact he knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t complained once about my silly ideas that I can’t do on my own. Or maybe it’s the fact that he looked downright edible doing it.
Whatever the reason, I’ve a feeling this sight won’t be leaving my mind anytime soon.
He grabs his stuff and walks back outside before I finally snap out of my stupor.
“Thank you,” I yell after him. “That was super nice of you.”
“I’ll do the last one when the plaster dries,” he responds, not turning around.
It’s then I realize that the hole I made is the only one not covered with a photo frame. It’s still a white blob, but I guess it makes sense it needs to dry before putting a nail into it.