Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
REECE
I sink back into the hot water, following Andi’s progress through the house as the lights flick on in the living room, then on the stairs. Why did I say “adequate”? Andi’s art is phenomenal. And although I know artistic talent doesn’t necessarily translate to skill in room design—or at least I assume it doesn’t—I trust her implicitly.
But she clearly was trying to put our conversation on a less personal footing. And I was flustered. Adequate was the best I could come up with.
* * *
The next morning, Andi arrives in the garage as I finish heating a leftover waffle in the toaster oven. “Coffee on the workbench.”
She smiles sunnily, as if last night’s argument is forgotten, and takes the plate I offer. “Thanks. You really don’t have to make coffee since you don’t drink it yourself. I can do my own.”
“I don’t mind. Not like it takes much effort.” I mime scooping grounds into a filter. “I should have run water to the garage, though. It’s a pain to have to go inside every time.”
“Does a maker space usually have a sink?” She sits and scoops butter onto her knife.
I shrug as I slide another waffle into the oven. “Depends on what you’re making. And since this isn’t permanent—I figured I could wait until I renovate the back—if I bother. I keep waffling on how much I want to do. Will it add enough to the resale value to be worth the time and cost? Speaking of waffling, do you want Nutella for yours?”
She frowns and does a dramatic shudder. “American Nutella is… not as good as back home.”
“Agreed. That’s why I smuggled this into the country in my carry-on.” I turn the jar so she can see the label.
She snatches it from my fingers. “My hero!” Putting the syrup aside, she layers a tiny amount of the chocolate spread on half her waffle. “But American maple syrup is better.”
“I know some Canadians who might argue.”
After breakfast, we finish the demo. Andi helps me tape plastic sheeting over the open part of the stairway. Then we move the coffee table and television to the garage. I use my trusty Sharpie to mark sections of the wall between the kitchen and the living room, leaving the supporting beams intact.
Then we get to work. My shoulders and arms complain a bit as we get started but loosen up with each swing of the sledgehammer. Andi seems to be a bit slower than yesterday, and she winces each time she lifts the heavy mallet. I watch for a few seconds.
She stops and glares at me. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just—” I break off. I was going to ask if she hurt herself, but that swift, tight question has me second-guessing. I’ve spent enough time with my sister to know when a woman uses that tone, it’s better not to suggest... well, anything. At least not without a rock-solid reason. And even then, it’s risky.
“I know you’re enjoying the demo, but?—”
“Yes?” Her sticky sweet tone doesn’t hide the steely look in her eyes.
“The electricians are coming on Tuesday, and I need to get the outlet locations marked. Do you want to do that or finish breaking things?”
“How do I mark the locations?” She carefully sets the hammer on the ugly laminate flooring. Removing her gloves, she slides one over the end of the handle with the fingers sticking up, then folds the other between the thumb and forefinger so it appears the hammer is holding it.
“I have a drawing. You can put a sticky note at each spot.” I lead her to the garage and pull out my rough sketch. “See the Xs? Put a sticky note on the wall or stud where we want the outlet.”
She turns the drawing until it’s oriented the same as the kitchen. “Are these floor level or countertop?”
I blink in surprise. “Uh, I guess it depends on if there’s a counter.”
“Sure.” She doesn’t quite roll her eyes as she turns and heads back inside. “But this one—” She compares the drawing to the room, then points at a location near the newly demolished wall. “The kitchen peninsula goes here, right? So, the outlet could be down there or up here. Right below the top of the bar. Convenient for appliances. Same with that one.”
I nod with respect. “Good call. This one will have to wait until I frame in the counters, but yeah, that one—what do you think?”
She bites the tip of her finger, staring at the wall, then points. “I’d say?—”
“What did you do to your hand?” I grab for her wrist.
She pulls away, holding her palm toward her body. “It’s nothing.”
I put out a hand and make a gimme motion. “It’s not nothing. Blisters?”
She hesitates, then nods, putting her hand in mine, palm up.
I gently fold her fingers flat, revealing a patchwork of brightly colored Band-Aids. Several of them have slipped and twisted. Puffy blisters show beneath. “Why didn’t you tell me? If you keep working, you’ll break those.”
“I want to earn my keep.” She pulls one of the mutilated Band-Aids away, wincing.
“Let me help you.” Holding her wrist gently in mine, I tow her toward the half bath by the laundry room. “I have a whole first-aid kit in here, but no Minion Band-Aids. Where’d you get those?”
She sniffs a watery snicker. “I stole them from Teo’s medicine cabinet when I scraped my arm last week. Actually, he said I could have them. He’s too manly to wear Minions, I guess. I left the Hello Kitty ones, though.”
Working slowly, I peel the rest of the bright strips from her palm. “Teo doesn’t strike me as a cartoon Band-Aid kind of guy.”
“I think Eva gave them to him. Or Hans, maybe, since he was willing to give them away.” She giggles, then winces. “Ow.”
“Sorry. We need to wash them, so grit your teeth.” I turn on the water and double-check the temperature, then slide her hand under the gentle stream. “Hold still.”
Releasing her arm, I pump some soap into my own palm and rub to create suds, then smooth them over her puffy flesh. Then I rinse her hand and pat it dry. “You’re supposed to leave them uncovered if the blisters haven’t popped. Let’s see the other one.”
She slowly lifts her right hand. The Band-Aids on this one are mangled even more, and two of the blisters have popped. When I put her palm in the water, she hisses but doesn’t say anything. Her flinch when I smooth on the soap makes me feel like a clumsy lout. “Sorry, we need to get these clean. You got some grit in here.”
“I know.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. Jaw clenching, she looks away. I fight the urge to take her in my arms and comfort her. It’s only blisters, I tell myself, but I can’t stop the protective instinct that surges through me.
Trying to focus on the task, I finish cleaning her hand, then pat it dry. “Hold still while I get the antibiotic.” Propping the white plastic case on the edge of the counter, I paw through the carefully packaged and labeled contents until I find a tube of ointment and some gauze. I squeeze a bit of the salve into her hand, then drop the tube back into the box and close the snap-on lid. “Let’s go out where there’s more space.”
In the garage, I nudge her into one of the chairs and crouch beside her. With a cotton swab, I spread the salve, then wrap gauze loosely around her hand and fasten with medical tape. “No messing with that until they heal.”
“No more demo?” She wipes her cheek with the gauze on the back of her hand.
“Definitely no more demo. We’re almost done anyway. And no more hot tub, either.” Trying to keep my distance, I stand and smooth the tape back onto the roll.
“Yeah, I probably should have skipped that last night.” She takes a deep breath and lets out a shuddering sigh. “But how am I going to work?”
I can’t help myself—I reach out and wipe a tear from her cheek. The touch of soft skin does something to me on a primal level. When she looks up, her gray eyes still shining with tears, I can’t help myself. I lift her gauze-wrapped hand and press a light kiss onto her wrist above the bandage.
Her indrawn breath yanks my gaze to her mouth with an almost audible snap. Swallowing hard, I lean down. Her face tips up to meet mine as if we were synchronized parts of a single, elegant design.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this possibility. How could I not? Andi is beautiful and funny and smart. Charming and alluring. There have been times I’ve been tempted to close the distance between us and see if her lips taste as soft and sweet as they look. But common sense has always stepped in the way. She’s a foreign princess; I’m a normal American. She’s a long-time Rotheberger while I’m a newcomer. Her visa runs out in less than a month. And her brother has made it crystal clear he doesn’t want me messing with his sister. But now her warm breath caresses my lips, and her perfume fills my lungs, and I can’t resist.
A horn blares. With a squeak, Andi jerks back, and I drop her hand like it’s on fire.