Chapter 8
My skin is slick with sweat and my shoulders ache from the constant motion of sanding, priming, and painting my cabinets. It feels like we’ve been working for centuries, but the pile of yet-to-be-painted cabinets suggests otherwise. At least I have a good view though.
And I’m not talking about the landscape.
“Wow.” Silas looks down at the cabinets we’ve managed to finish, his thick eyebrows damn near in his hairline. “It actually looks good.”
Silas lost the button-up shirt he was wearing as soon as we got to work. His muscles flexed and strained beneath glittering bronze skin as the white tank top he’s wearing became more and more transparent as time went on. It’s a miracle I’ve been able to focus on the work at hand at all.
I shift the cowboy hat he sat on my head after I mentioned how bright the sun was and aim my most incredulous stare at him.
“Excuse me? Did you say actually?” I pretend to be only slightly more offended than I really am. “Of course it looks great. I can’t believe you ever questioned my vision.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He holds his hands up in front of him, veins running up his sinewy forearms. “I’ve just never seen a pink kitchen before. I didn’t know what to expect.”
That’s fair. Even Gabby thought I was insane when I told her.
I want this house to be like if Barbie were to buy a farmhouse, but even I can admit a pink kitchen is a lot.
After searching endlessly through Pinterest and renovation TikTok, I narrowed my plan down to either pink cabinetry or all-pink appliances.
In an ideal world, Silas would be helping me replace the fugly refrigerator with a brand-new bubblegum-pink one, but after looking at prices, I opted for a paint job instead.
No budget in the world would’ve allowed me to spend that much money on a refrigerator.
“Well, besides the appeal of a maximalist kitchen, I hope you’ve also learned the very important lesson to never doubt me.
” I put the final touches of paint on the cabinet I’m working on and drop the roller onto the paint tray.
“What do you think about taking a break? I need air-conditioning and something to drink.”
Preferably something with copious amounts of vodka, but I haven’t hit up the liquor store yet, and other than the half-empty (half-full?) bottle of bourbon, my supply is devastatingly nonexistent. I should also reapply my sunscreen. I can practically feel my skin wrinkling with sun damage.
“A break sounds good.” He swipes his forearm across his forehead. I didn’t know wiping sweat away could be sexy, but now I wish there was an option to watch in slow motion. “Should we bring the cabinets we finished inside?”
I don’t want to do anything else that requires labor, but I’ve only just met him and he’s already witnessing the way I turn into a wilted, wet mess when I’m subjected to temperatures above eighty-five degrees. I can’t make him aware of my laziness as well.
“Sure,” I say. “I set up a drying station in the laundry room. We can put them in there.”
By set up, I mean I laid a few tarps across the floor and over the new washer and dryer that I like to look at far more than I like to utilize.
I grab one of the cabinets that’s been drying the longest and head toward the house without bothering to check if Silas is following.
The heat of his gaze at my back rivals that of the pulsing sun.
I really hope he’s looking at my ass and not the sweat stain I’m sure is marring my paint-splattered T-shirt.
“Lucky for you, I went to the grocery store since you were last here,” I say after we set the cabinets down and make our way back into the kitchen. “What would you like? I am a beverage girlie, so I have lots of options. Pop, tea, lemonade, coffee—iced or hot—water? Pick your hydration.”
I pull open the refrigerator door and stare inside, trying to ignore the way he still manages to smell so good even after hours of sweating.
“Pop?” he repeats, and the teasing tone in his voice can’t be missed. “Is that what they call Coke in Colorado?”
“No?” I shake my head, not understanding what’s so funny. “We still call Coke, Coke, but pop is more than Coke. It’s all the soft drinks.”
“When you want pop here, you just ask for a Coke.” He says this like it makes sense when, in fact, it does not. “Then they’ll ask what kind of Coke you want and you’ll tell them Dr Pepper or Sprite or whatever.”
There are a lot of things I’m loving as a newcomer to the South.
I’m all for y’all—mainly because even if it’s not their original intention, it’s a very gender-neutral and inclusive term.
I love the way people say something sweet like bless her heart when they’re really cursing a person to hell.
I can even appreciate the way Texas natives devote at least 10 percent of their personalities to being Texan.
But calling all pop Coke? No. I cannot, will not, accept it.
“But that’s wrong. Coke isn’t the genre, it’s the artist. That’s like if you wanted to listen to country music and said you want to turn on Shania Twain when you really want to listen to Tim McGraw.”
“I don’t know,” he says, and his eyes dance with amusement. “I think renaming country music as Shania Twain is a great idea.”
Well, he’s got me there. I hate losing, but since he’s looking this cute and complimenting my Canadian queen, I’ll accept it this time. But only this time.
“Fine,” I say. “But only because I love Shania. Now”—I gesture to his options—“would you like a Coke?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” His quiet chuckle fills my kitchen, and the warm sound makes the cabinet-less space feel like home. “Is the kitchen the first project you’ve done, or have you worked on anything else?”
I pull out the pitcher of sun tea I brewed yesterday and fill our glasses up to the brim.
“This is my second project.” I hand him his glass before taking a sip from mine. “I worked on the bathroom over the weekend.”
Attempted to work is a more accurate description of what was accomplished versus what I had planned.
I wanted to paint the walls, replace the lighting, and swap the pedestal sink with the new vanity that was delivered.
What I really did was cause a minor flood, nearly break my toe, and just manage to get the vanity installed before drowning myself in wine.
Small wins, am I right?
“Can I see?” he asks. “I mean, if you’re comfortable—”
“Sure! There’s not much to see, but my hair products are finally tucked away and not thrown all across the floor.” I set my glass among the mess cluttering the counter and climb the creaky staircase to my room. “It’s not much, but please pretend to be impressed.”
I’ve tried to show Gabby, but I don’t think she can get the full effect through the phone. I’ve been bursting for someone to be even a quarter as pleased with my work as I am. What can I say? Words of affirmation are my love language.
And gifts…and touch…and quality time.
This might be why I can only find boyfriends in my books. God forbid a girl have standards.
“Trust me,” he says. “I won’t have to pretend.”
Gabby has called me delulu a time or two—or twenty—in the past, so maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels like he might be talking about something other than my home improvement skills.
“That’s a premature promise, but I appreciate it anyways.” The heat rising in my face is getting harder to ignore. “Although, I’m pretty sure the flood I caused due to a minor pipe mishap might change your mind.”
“Who hasn’t flooded a bathroom or two before?” he asks. “I know you said you didn’t need him, but if you change your mind or encounter a major pipe mishap, just say the word and I’ll call my brother.”
I walk into my bedroom, guiding him around the half-unpacked boxes I would’ve hidden and rushing him past the unmade bed I would’ve made if I’d known a cute guy would be in my room today.
“I appreciate that, but I think I can figure it out on my own.” Or at least that’s what Pinterest and YouTube have convinced me. “Unless it’s an electrical issue, then I’ll call right away.”
Water is one thing but wires are another. I would very much like to not electrocute myself anytime soon…or ever.
“Does this house have a lot of electrical issues?” he asks.
Let’s just say that when the list of issues from the inspection came back after I put in my offer, the price of the house dropped drastically.
I think they thought it was going to scare me away, and if I was in any other mental state other than not well, it likely would have.
But lucky for them, coming into a windfall while being a hot grieving mess and struggling to feel literally anything at all not only lowered my real estate standards, it heightened my desperation.
They could’ve told me there was no roof and it still would’ve sounded better than staying in Denver.
“A lot is relative. It’s an old house, so it has its fair share of problem areas.
” I push open the bathroom door and flip on the light switch, gesturing to the small space as if I’m welcoming him into a golden luxe bathroom of Versailles.
“But lack of storage in this bathroom isn’t one of them anymore. ”
“Wow!” His eyes go wide as he takes in the bright space. “This looks amazing.”
He’s overdoing it, but I appreciate his gusto.
“Amazing what basic organization can do, right?” The vanity isn’t too special, but I didn’t want anything to take away from the floral tiles and stained glass window. “I still have a lot to do, but I’m really happy with it.”
“You should be; you did a really great job.” He wanders deeper into the room to get a closer look at the claw-foot tub I love to look at but have yet to utilize, but pauses when the creaky floors groan beneath his feet. “Does it always sound like this?”
“For the most part,” I say. “But the entire house makes noises. Isn’t this just how old houses sound?”
I try to ignore the rising panic on his face.
“I think some noise is normal.” The rickety floors groan louder with his every slow, measured step, and it doesn’t stop even after he pulls me out of the bathroom. “But this—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
And not because he’s trying to drum up suspense or he loses his train of thought.
No. Nothing like that.
He stops talking because the floors stop groaning and begin to scream. A cloud of dust explodes from the ground just before the claw-foot tub I love so much falls through it.
“So…” I draw out the word, staring unseeing at the massive hole in the bathroom where a tub sat mere seconds ago. “It might be time for you to call your brother.”
“Yeah, Luna,” he says. “I think so too.”