Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
ANDI
Do I want to kiss Reece Turner?
Who wouldn’t? He’s tall and handsome, and being near him makes my heart race. More importantly, he’s sweet and kind. He’s done so many things for me without any expectation of a return. He bought me Coke Zero and helped me move. He gave me a job and place to live, even though he hardly knows me. And the gentle way he cleaned and bandaged my hand made my heart jump into my throat.
But he’s also annoying and grumpy. He bosses me around and gives me instructions like he’s talking to a fifth grader. He assumes he knows a thousand times more than I do on any given project.
Although to be fair, that’s not much of an assumption. I flat out told him I’d never done any reno work, so I suppose I can’t hold that against him.
I hate it when my inner voice is so reasonable and fair.
On the other hand, he’s my housemate, my landlord, and my boss. Getting involved with any of those guys would be a risky idea, but a relationship with all three of them rolled into one—that’s begging for trouble. And I’m not the wild-fling type of girl, so any kissing is only going to be the prelude to something deep and potentially long-lasting.
Which brings up another problem: how’s a disgraced princess supposed to have a real relationship with anyone? Harry had Meghan before he left the royals. The way Reece talks about his parents and sister, it’s clear they’re very important to him. He’s not going to want a loser whose own family disowned her—with a very public international press release and televised interview.
But the real problem is I have no idea how he feels about me. After he carried the UPS delivery upstairs—a bed in a box for the guest room—Reece went back to work as if nothing had happened.
I spend a whole ten minutes posting sticky notes on the walls to tell the electricians where to install the power outlets, then sit on my hands for the rest of the morning. Figuratively, not literally. That would hurt too much.
And I relive that almost-kiss a thousand times. I examine all the potential benefits and pitfalls and dream up a zillion different ecstatic and humiliating outcomes. By lunch time, I am an emotional mess. So, I wash up and grab my car keys. “Gotta run.”
* * *
A week later, my blisters have healed but our relationship has not. Reece has managed to avoid me continually. Every morning, he leaves me a to-do list, then puts on ear protection and gets to work cutting and hammering. He installed the studs, then covered them with drywall in the kitchen while I cleaned and sanded the old cabinets we decided to reuse.
When my hands got too sore, I perused decorating websites. Since he refused to collaborate, I selected tile and paint colors for four different finishing options and created three-dimensional images to simulate the results. But every time I’ve tried to talk to him about possibilities, he’s “too busy to chat.” He works until the light fails, eats takeout standing in the demolished kitchen, then disappears upstairs. It’s exhausting.
On Friday morning, I arrive downstairs early, determined to put an end to this insanity. I stride into the garage, a cheerful smile pasted on my face and determination in my soul. Reece doesn’t look up from the table where his empty paper bowl holds the dregs of his cereal. He scrawls another line on his sheet of paper.
“Good morning!” I head for the coffee that he’s continued to brew for me every morning despite our awkwardness. Filling my mug, I inhale a cloud of fragrant, life-giving steam, then turn to lean against the counter. “We need to talk.”
He looks up, his expression guarded. “I’d love to, but I can’t.” He extends the strip of paper toward me. “I have to make a trip to Portland. Here’s a list of things you can work on while I’m gone.”
“Portland?” I make no move to take the paper. “What’s going on? I thought all the appliances and finishings were being delivered?”
“They are. This is personal business.” His clipped response leaves no room for me to argue.
I nod and take the list, scanning the items. The tasks are simple and easy to complete, even with blistered palms. I raise a hand to show him. “My blisters are healed. I can do heavier work.”
“That’s what needs to be done next.” He nods at the strip of paper. “I’ll show you how to mud the drywall.” He pivots on his heel and heads out of the room.
My stomach growls, and I consider making him wait while I eat breakfast. But driving to Portland will take three hours each direction, and he’s probably in a hurry to get started. Plus, if we get this out of the way, maybe I’ll have time to make him listen before he leaves.
Snagging a protein bar from the stash on top of the old fridge, I carry my coffee mug into the kitchen.
Reece stands beside the framework he built. A half-height wall fills part of the wall we demolished, but it’s built to hold the cabinets we removed from the original kitchen, with a breakfast bar on the living room side.
He heads through the open doorway and squats beside an open tub of glop, brandishing a tool that looks like a pancake flipper that was exposed to gamma radiation. I’ve watched enough renovation shows now to recognize it as a taping knife. “This is mud.” He scoops some of the glop out with the knife and dumps it into a rectangular metal tray. “I mixed it while you were in the shower, so it’s ready to spread. I built with as few joints as possible, but we’ll need to mud these.”
Sliding the metal tray to the end of the wall, he uses the knife to scrape out a dollop and slathers it onto the line where two pieces of drywall meet. “This is pre-filling. You want to put in enough to fill the space between the two pieces of drywall, then scrape off everything else.” He demonstrates.
“I can do that.” I take a bite of my protein bar and sip my coffee.
He holds out the knife.
“Oh, you mean now?” I dither for a second, then set my mug on the living room windowsill and prop the protein bar beside it. Taking the tool, I follow his directions, filling the gap and scraping the extra off. “It’s kind of like gesso. Not my favorite medium, but I’ve used it in classes.”
“Except the idea here is to make it mostly invisible.” He taps the wall beside my joint. “That’s just about perfect. We’re pre-filling so the tape has something to stick to and won’t crack later.”
I stick the knife into the goo still in the tray. “Got it.”
“Scrape any leftover back into the tub and seal it tightly. Then wash the tray and knife in warm water.” He stands, dusting his hands together. “Right. I’ll be back this evening. Oh, and I hate to ask this, but could you remake my bed? The sheets are in the wash, and I want it done before Mum and Dad get here.” He pivots away toward the door.
“Wait, what? Your mother and father are coming?” I run across the room and seize his arm. “Don’t you think you could have mentioned that—I dunno—maybe a month ago?”
“I didn’t know when they were coming, exactly. I thought they’d fly into Seattle and visit Katie. But—” He breaks off with a shrug, trying to pull free from my grip.
I shake his arm. “Do they know I live here?”
“Not yet.”
I gape at him.
He pulls away and opens the door. “I’ll tell them on the drive. It’s not a big deal. See you tonight.” The door shuts in my face.
Not a big deal? Ouch. I guess that almost-kiss meant nothing to him. No wonder he’s been avoiding me. I’m just a cog in the machine, not worth mentioning to his parents. Huffing out a breath that blows my bangs away from my face, I stomp to the window and my coffee. The cloud of dust stirred up by his truck blows away as I watch. Like my impact on his life. An inconvenience that will fade with time.
* * *
Mudding the few joints in the new wall takes less than an hour. I’m probably doing it wrong, but I don’t care. I’m clearly as important as this mud—something to be hidden under a strip of paper tape and plastered over.
Okay, that might be a little dramatic, but I’m an artist. Drama is my jam.
Despite my claim that I don’t care, I double-check my work, watch a YouTube video to confirm I’m doing it right, then clean up the mess. I dump the freshly-washed linens into the laundry basket and carry them through the construction zone to the back deck. I’ve always heard line-dried sheets are the best, and I spotted an old clothesline reel back there when we used the hot tub.
The line unspools easily, and I slip the looped end over a convenient hook. Now what? I’ve never hung the laundry out. Time to YouTube.
Half an hour later, I dig myself out of the video rabbit hole. I had no idea “hanging marks” were a thing. In one video, an Australian mom points out all the mistakes her son made with his laundry. Including showing us how to rehang his superhero underpants. She has 3500 subscribers! I’ll bet his friends love that.
Unfortunately, Reece doesn’t appear to have any clothes pins. After wiping the line down so I don’t end up with dirt in addition to my hanging marks, I flip the sheets over the line. Mum and Dad will just have to deal with any wrinkles. Then I go inside to make lunch.
By four o’clock, the sheets are dry, and I’ve cleaned up the construction zone. I remake the bed, smoothing out the creases as best I can. I put a pile of fresh towels on top of the quilt and add a clean glass to the bathroom counter. Then I pack my toiletries into my travel bag and tuck them into my suitcase, making sure there’s no trace of my existence left behind.