Chapter 21
Twenty minutes later—one perk of small-town life: the pizza place is very close by—I’m sitting on the floor, biting into a hot, cheesy slice of spinach pesto pizza, watching as Daniel rips up a carpet pad.
I’m distracted from his biceps by a droplet of sweat rolling down the side of his face. He stops and, without so much as a warning, whips off his T-shirt.
“Um…” My pizza slice droops forgotten in my hand.
“Hot in here.” He gets right back to work, now shirtless.
“Oh… sorry…” My gaze flicks toward the thermostat. I am deeply not sorry. “Do you want me to crank up the AC?”
“Nah, this is fine.” He shakes his sweaty hair back from his forehead.
“Okay.” I bite off another piece of cheesy goodness, wondering if I’m in a dream. A yummy, yummy dream.
“Want some help?” I offer after a few minutes.
Daniel glances at me, lounging on the floor and reaching for my second slice. He shakes his head, laughing.
“Good. I need to regain my strength, anyway.”
“You did a lot,” he says, kneeling down to scrape up some staples from the subfloor. “Did I mention that I’m impressed?”
“You did. I mean, I’m impressed too. I’ve never done anything remotely like home renovations before.”
“If you get really into it, I might be able to offer you a job.” He sweeps the staples into a garbage bag. “Picture it: McKinnon and Rosen, partners in home management.”
I guffaw. “I better stick to my own home for now. You know, for liability reasons.”
I wipe my hands on a paper napkin and sit back against the wall, sighing contentedly.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I nod. “Have some pizza before it gets cold.”
“Yeah, let me just finish this up.” He grunts and pulls out the final piece of the carpet pad, then rolls it up. He reaches for the pry bar, but I stop him.
“I’ll do the staples. You eat.”
“Thanks.” He wipes his hands on his shorts and takes my spot on the floor, tearing off half a slice of pizza in one bite.
I dig out the staples, fighting the urge to curse under my breath.
“How did you make this look so easy?”
“I’ve done it before,” he says, his mouth full.
“Do you help all your clients like this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Yes.” His voice is deadpan. I shoot him a suspicious look. “No, Mallory. Obviously I’ve been giving you special treatment. My gold-star level of service, if you will.”
“Why?” I pry at a bent staple that won’t budge. “Because you feel bad for that first night?” Making out with me before you knew I was a client?
“Bad?” Daniel pauses before selecting his next slice. “The opposite.”
“What?” I sit up on my knees, suddenly wishing we were using straightforward language instead of joking around. Because I’m confused.
“I don’t feel bad that we kissed, Mallory.”
I blush furiously. I guess that’s pretty straightforward.
“Would I have done it if I knew who you were?” he continues. “No. I do pride myself on being professional. But am I helping you out because I feel bad about all that? Also no.” He gives me a level look, as though he’s wondering if he needs to spell it out. “I enjoy hanging out with you.”
The empty room seems to echo with those words. So sweet, so uncomplicated. Don’t ruin it, Mallory.
“Oh.” I look down at the pry bar in my hands, then say slowly—as normally as I can—“The feeling is mutual.”
He claps his hands together, stands, and grabs the broom. “Glad we cleared that up.”
I watch as he sweeps up the staples.
“I guess I’m just not used to it,” I say.
“Used to what?”
“Making new friends.” I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth. “Because, I mean, back home I don’t really make new friends all that often. I have Carmen and my family and my co-workers and…” I shrug. “It’s different here.”
“Small-town friendliness?” he suggests.
“Maybe.”
“For what it’s worth, it seems to come naturally to you. You don’t come across as someone who doesn’t know how to make friends.”
I smile, embarrassed. “Thanks. All right, can we be done talking about me now?”
He ties up the garbage bag and teases, “Makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
“Just a little.”
“Well, come on.” He taps his bare chest and spreads his arms like he’s an open book. “Fire away. I love talking about yours truly.”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Who’s your best friend?”
“Jones.”
“Favorite movie?”
“Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Do you dress up for Halloween?”
“Last year I was Lucille Ball.” He gestures to his hair. “The redhead thing.”
“I have got to see pictures of this.”
“Come on, keep ’em coming.”
“Favorite meal?”
“Breakfast. Banana pancakes.”
“Ice cream flavor?”
“Cookie dough.”
“Me too!”
“I knew I liked you, Rosen.”
I’m momentarily flustered, beaming at him. Why does it tickle me so much when he calls me by my last name? Like we’re teammates on the high school track team.
After a long pause, Daniel seems to remember that he’s shirtless. He clears his throat, pulls his shirt on, and says, “Well, I should get going. I’ve got an early client meeting tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your help. And the pizza.”
“Anytime.”
“You know, I saw that movie four times the summer it came out in theaters.”
“Hmm?” He looks confused.
“Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Ah. See? We would’ve been friends even back then.”
We look at each other, the moment long and sticky. Nothing can happen between us. Our conversation about his ex-girlfriend confirmed that. But still…
And then he starts to sing. “Duh-duh dun dun, duh-duh dun dun…”
It’s the Pirates theme song.
I burst out laughing and smack him on the shoulder. He runs outside, still singing as he snaps on his helmet and swings a leg over his bike. I chase him, weak with laughter, which only makes him sing louder.
I shout after him, “You are without doubt the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of!”
“But you have heard of me!” he calls back, just before he disappears down the dark street.
When I wake up the next morning, my first thought is ouch . My muscles ache, my hands ache. The walk to the dining room for breakfast is slow and painful. Somehow my quads are sore, as well as some muscles around the backs of my shoulders that I didn’t know existed.
In my victorious haze last night, I’d thought maybe I could return to the house in the morning before work and devote an hour or two to ripping up carpet in one of the bedrooms. Now I realize that was wildly optimistic.
I am completely exhausted, as though I ran a marathon yesterday.
There is no way I’ll be recovered by tonight; the only thing I’m going to want to do after work is soak in the Jacuzzi and then crawl into bed.
Which means I’m wasting an entire day when I should be working toward my goals so that I can eventually, someday, go home .
As I’m lingering over my plate of scrambled eggs and potatoes with ketchup, staring absently out at the beach, my phone rings. It’s my mom; she must have heard my thoughts from across the country and now wants to make sure I am actually coming home.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Darling, did I wake you?”
“No, I—” Why does everyone keep assuming I sleep until midmorning, like I’m a teenager? “I’m eating breakfast. What’s up? And why are you up at the crack of dawn?”
“Pickleball, darling, pickleball!”
“Right.” I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.
“Anyway, listen, is Gramps with you?”
“No, he’s back at his place. He eats Grape-Nuts at five A.M. I guess that’s where you get it from.”
“Oh, hush. Well, I am calling because Trish and I had a terrific idea. You know his birthday is coming up?”
“That’s right. June tenth, isn’t it?” I somehow pluck the date out of my memory and instantly feel bad that I haven’t thought about his birthday until now.
“Yes, which is six days away. You will still be there, I assume.”
“Um…” I picture Pebble Cottage: its brown, brown walls, one room now devoid of carpet. I mentally combine these images with the fact that I, apparently, can’t do two days of manual labor in a row, and that I still have to purchase and install flooring, not to mention paint the walls.
I groan and shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth. “Unh-hm.”
“Yes, we figured. I hope you’re using sunscreen. So here’s our idea: surprise birthday party!”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Your father and I will fly down, arriving the evening before his birthday, and check into a hotel. Maeve and Blake are still TBD, since one week is short notice for them.”
“Okay. Wow,” I say again. I don’t know why, but the idea of an impromptu visit makes me feel defensive. Gramps and I have a decent rhythm going, and I don’t want my parents to mess it up.
“And we’ll need you to help with the logistics.” She says this in the same tone of voice she might use to tell me I’d won a shopping spree at Nordstrom.
“Logistics?”
“Booking the party room, ordering a cake from Publix, buying decorations. Trish will handle the caterers for the dinner buffet. Of course, we can sneak in and help you set everything up before the party.”
“Party room?” I repeat, feeling ten steps behind.
“The party room there at the condo, Mallory. Inquire today because it sometimes books up well in advance.”
“Inquire today.”
“Are you feeling all right? You seem a little slow this morning.”
“I’m fine, I just ripped up some carpet yesterday,” I say, as though this reason would make sense to anyone other than myself.
I expect Mom to skim right over this detail—she’s not usually one for details—but she snags on it instead.
“You—what? Carpet? Where? Pebble Cottage?”
“Yeah. It needs new floors. And paint.” Don’t laugh —I really need her not to laugh. If one more person laughs at my attempts, especially now that I feel like I did the hardest workout of my life, I might just give up.
“Look at you taking initiative!” Her voice surprises me by sounding like it’s full of admiration instead of hilarity. “Mallory is taking initiative!” This last bit sounds like she yelled it at my dad in another room.
“I’ve taken initiative before,” I grumble. “I think.”
“What kind of flooring are you going with? Because I think a nice vinyl plank would really—”