If You Like It, I Love It (Grinberry Falls #2)

1. Joni

Joni

The five-pound hammer feels good in my hand, not too heavy, but weighty enough that I’m confident I can get the job done.

No thanks to that condescending salesguy at the hardware store who kept trying to convince me I needed a lighter-weight hammer.

I am perfectly capable of deciding what’s best for me, thank you very much.

In his ridiculous little orange vest . . .

I swing, and the first crack is brutal. My clenched hand tightens on impact. It sends a jolt up my forearm, shoring up my muscles to land the next blow with even more force.

And I do. I swing again, and again, and again, feeling stronger with every bash and split of this ugly tile countertop I’ve always hated.

“I. Am. Not. Weak!” I declare each word distinctly on its own fierce downswing.

My eyes clock the ceramic shard hurtling toward my face, but not fast enough for me to duck it entirely. I manage to pull my head slightly to the right, but the jagged tip strikes my forehead just above my left eyebrow.

Instantly, a strong hand whips around from behind me, grabs my wrist, and holds it frozen in front of my ribcage, incapacitating my hammer-swinging arm. A sneak attack.

The sneaky hand holding me could probably easily swing a hammer twice as heavy as mine.

The last few seconds replay in my head. I see my final hammer strike and marvel at the clean break.

Okay, it’s several clean breaks, more of a shatter effect.

For a scant second, I feel nothing but pride for my ability to do that much damage with a single swing, but that too is shattered—by the sharp pain above my eyebrow.

It happened so fast . . .

The firm hand maintains its grip on my wrist as it moves my arm toward the outdated broken tiles on my countertop. Once he has it positioned where he wants it, he says, “Let go of the hammer and turn around so I can see where it hit you.”

I drop the hammer, scattering a pile of smaller pieces.

When I turn, a hot trickle of blood runs down my brow toward the bridge of my nose, cascading off the inner side and into the corner of my eye. I swipe at it, blurring my vision.

Even through a film of bloody tears, his deep brown eyes make me feel foolish and cared for all at once.

Like a flashback, which wouldn’t be possible because he’s not a part of my past. He isn’t looking into my eyes at all.

He’s examining the slice on my forehead created by the flying chunk of tile.

His sigh is heavy with relief, but it broadcasts heavy annoyance as well.

Both of his hands rest on my shoulders, and I should not feel this comfortable being touched by my general contractor—who I barely even know. And who shouldn’t even be here right now!

Before I can ask why he’s at my house at seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, he steps away from me and snaps a paper towel from the roll, running it under cold water in my sink and then wringing it out.

He presses the cool, damp paper towel to my skin, applying enough pressure to stem the bleeding, and says, “Joni, when you said you might start the demo yourself, what did I say?”

“You said it’d be easier if your guys did it all. But I am fully capable of helping, Enzo. I am!”

Again, with the damn sighing.

“Okay. Then where are your safety glasses?” he asks.

“Right. Like your guys wear safety glasses all the time.”

“They better be wearing them when they’re doing shit like this.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“You can watch to make sure they wear them tomorrow while they finish wrecking out your kitchen.”

“Why are you here?” I ask, my tone clearly conveying my anger at being interrupted. Spied on. I don’t know where he thinks he is right now, but this is my motherfucking house, and he can’t just pop by after-hours anytime he wants.

“I was leaving another job and came by to see if you needed any help moving your table out of the kitchen or unloading the cabinets. I know you said you were going to do it all yourself, but sometimes, people don’t realize how big a job that can be.

I just wanted to be sure my guys can hit the ground running when we show up in the morning. ”

Our eyes lock. We both know that service was not included in his bid.

Great! Another man who thinks I’m incapable of something. He and the asshole in the orange vest should buy each other a beer and compare notes.

“Well, as you can clearly see, I’ve got it handled.”

“All I’ve seen so far is you trying to swing a hammer that’s too heavy for you while not wearing safety glasses.”

“Excuse me? Trying to swing? Those tiles didn’t bust themselves.” I push his hand away and take a step back.

“And I thought Glynnis Ramsey was stubborn,” he says, shaking his head while referencing my friend who recommended him.

“She is,” I confirm. “That’s why I like her. Friends commonly share traits. It’s a thing. Look it up.”

“In my defense, you seemed much more reasonable when we first met. I thought you were going to be easier to deal with.” He exhales and runs his hand through his hair.

Oh, shit. He’s not thinking about backing out of the job, is he? Because it sounds like he might be.

“Yeah, well . . . just so you know, I’ve been told I make a misleading first impression before. It wasn’t a unique performance just for you.”

He laughs, and the dimples that appear in his cheeks don’t make a boyish impression at all.

They make him look like a damn heartthrob, one who should be smiling for the camera instead of standing in my kitchen in work boots.

And worn jeans that hug his thighs. With that snug black t-shirt clinging to his chest. He’s too young for me to flirt with, but I’m not blind.

My general contractor is H-O-T, hot.

And here I stand in paint-stained, faded green sweatpants and a stretched-out tank top that shows my boring beige bra through the arm holes, holding a makeshift bandage to my forehead with my sweaty hair plastered to my neck that suddenly feels grimy with itchy grout dust. Fuck me.

At the end of a long day, he looks like he’s ready for a photoshoot. I’ve been swinging a hammer for all of ten minutes, and I look like a fashion victim on one of those surprise reality shows right before they get ambushed by the makeover crew.

I glance at my pantry to be sure the doors don’t fly open. Nope. It’s just us.

No one is coming to save me from my unfortunate choices tonight.

He gestures toward his own forehead and says, “Will you please move that paper towel so I can make sure you don’t need stitches?”

“I don’t need stitches. And if I do, I can drive myself to the emergency room.” I pull the paper towel away from my face to show him I’m not mortally wounded. “I promise to cease and desist on the demo, okay? You can go now.”

“You need to be sure and clean that cut good.”

“Again, fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are. I’ll let you get on with it then. See you in the morning.”

His arm extends to my smashed countertop as he walks past, and he swipes my hammer without breaking stride.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“Tonight, it’s my ticket to sleep.”

“Are you saying if you don’t take it, you’ll lie awake all night, worrying about my safety?”

“I was trying to take it without having to say that, but yes.”

He still hasn’t looked back at me, just keeps walking toward my front door. I follow behind him, infuriated, but also intrigued—which further infuriates me.

“You didn’t even knock before you came into my house.” It’s a fact that suddenly occurs to me as we get closer to the door, and the audacity to just let himself in like that sets my last agreeable nerve on fire.

“I did knock. You didn’t answer.” He opens the door and finally looks back at me. “And then I heard banging.”

“Oh, and you just couldn’t wait to barge in and catch me starting the tile demo!”

“Lock this door behind me. And start keeping it locked from now on.”

Who the hell does he think he is, issuing commands at me in my own home? In a voice that could melt the panties off the Venus de Milo, no less! If she wore them to begin with.

She doesn’t wear boring beige bras, that’s for sure! My gaze drops to my chest as I secure the deadbolt. I pull the neckline of my tank top open. There’s not even a single lace panel. It’s just thick and beige and blah.

He now has me typecast: hardheaded and boring. There’s no coming back from that. Not that my general contractor needs to see me as anything other than a client. But I do catch myself wondering more and more lately what image I present to the world.

I don’t know why I care so much what anyone thinks, but it’s been a long time since I even considered it. Five years, almost to the day. Long enough that I don’t think of myself as a widow first anymore.

Now, the first word that comes to me is single. And I still don’t really know what to do with that information.

I’m thirty-nine and single, and this wasn’t the plan. But for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to make some changes. Starting with my outdated kitchen.

Who knows what other changes that might inspire? Maybe I’ll do the bathrooms next.