Samantha
SAMANTHA
W e arrive back at the house just before 10 AM, and we decide to leave everything in the truck for now, instead of lugging it inside. I take in the space again. I’m excited to put my interior design skills to the test again, but this place needs a lot of work. It’s a little daunting, but I’m mostly excited.
“So," I say. “Is it okay If I start in the living room?”
“Go for it," Chandler says. “I want to get the kitchen cleaned up.”
“Sounds good to me!”
Chandler heads to the kitchen, and I take another look around. The clutter is overwhelming. But this is what I want to do. I want to take a space and make it into something beautiful, something homey and comfortable. It’d be less taxing to start with, one corner at a time. Since the couch is full of clothes and the washer is a dud, I start with the reclining chair in the corner. I remove the throw blanket, setting it on the couch with the dirty clothes. There are some dark stains on the couch. What the fuck is that? It needs to be cleaned. Or thrown out .
“Chandler!” I call out. By the sounds coming from the other room, I can tell he’s already working hard in the kitchen.
“Yeah!”
“Is it possible that the brown stains on the couch are a biohazard, and it needs to be thrown away?”
There’s a pause before he responds.“It’s highly unlikely! We can’t throw out Gramp's chair! He’s had it forever!”
Looks like I’m left to clean the mystery stain.
“Can I move the chair on the porch to clean it?”
“I don’t care, Sam!” He sounds annoyed, and I can’t help but laugh a little. I can’t help it. I like pushing his buttons.
I push the chair toward the entry and out the front door and place my hands on my hips, pleased with myself.
I go inside and head to the kitchen in search of cleaning supplies. Chandler comes into the kitchen from what I assume is the laundry room. “Washer is still shit.”
“Of course it is," I say. I look under the sink for cleaning supplies but can’t find anything.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something to clean up the chair with so it can dry while I get the rest of the room done.”
Chandler nods, walks away to the back room, and returns a moment later with a washcloth and a bucket. He pours dish soap into the bucket and then fills it up with warm water.
“Laundry detergent, dish soap, and water.” He says, and I take the bucket from him.
“This kitchen is a fucking disaster," Chandler complains. He looks around the kitchen and shakes his head. “I can’t believe the house has gotten this bad.”
I frown, my heart feeling heavy at his words, the somber tone in his voice.
“We’ll get it looking brand new," I assure him. He nods with a sigh .
I drag the bucket of water outside and get started cleaning the couch. It doesn’t take long to scrub it down, and the stains are starting to fade. Once I finish taking the dirty bucket of water down the porch steps and pour it out, and then I set the empty bucket next to the chair. It looks better already. I leave it outside to dry and go back inside and see that the clothes from the couch have disappeared. The couch is cleaned off, but it also needs to be scrubbed. I move it under the living room window. I fill up the bucket with water and soap and get to work. Thank god it can be cleaned.
After that task is completed, I start on the bookshelves and remove all of the books from the shelves around the fireplace, cleaning and dusting. I throw out the old newspapers in a trash bag Chandler gave me, roll up the old disintegrated rug, and lug it out onto the porch. It takes all morning, but after more dusting, sweeping, and mopping, it looks a thousand times better than it had before. The walls still need to be painted, and once the new rug and the extra bookshelf we found at the thrift are set up, this place will look brand new.
I go into the kitchen to search for Chandler, but before I can call for him, I’m floored by the complete transformation of the kitchen. All of the flowerpots that were stacked on the counter are gone, the sink is clean of dishes, and the floors have been swept and mopped. The dining room table is also clear of any newspapers and junk. The only thing is some mail on the counter. It looks like an actual kitchen. It’s nice and clean and smells like lemon. Chandler’s back is to me, and he’s setting a few pots on the windowsill.
“It looks great in here.”
“Thanks. Only took five fucking hours. How’s the living room coming along?”
“Why not see for yourself?” I ask, and his eyebrow ticks up. He follows me into the living room and takes a look .
“Wow, Sam. This is looking good.” Then he looks at me with a wide grin, and my stomach flutters. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome," I say. I notice how his eyes are a sparkling, making them lighter blue, and I’m sure not if it’s from the lighting or if they’ve always been that way. They’re strikingly beautiful.
“I’m gonna need some help to paint," I say.
“Sure. I’m pretty much done with the kitchen, anyway. I’ll go get the paint stuff in the garage," he says and wanders off outside.
Chandler returns with the paint. The only color that was in the garage was white, and luckily, there were new paint brushes, rollers, and painter’s tape all ready to be used.
We spend the afternoon washing and painting the walls. The room looks bigger, brighter, more comfortable. I would love to have a home like this.
“Thanks for helping me with this, Sam. You really didn’t have to," Chandler says, rolling paint onto the wall.
“I enjoy doing this stuff," I say. “I actually want to be an interior designer.”
“Really?” His brows furrow, but he’s smiling at me, and I blush like a schoolgirl.
“Yeah. My friend Penny-”
“Your porn buddy?” He interrupts.
“Is a realtor," I say, ignoring his comment. “And I got to design the sunroom in the house she’s showing today.”
I need to give her a call after we finish up here.
“That’s pretty cool, Sam. Why didn’t you go to school for interior design?”
“I have a degree in art, but accounting was the quickest way to make some extra cash with my degree while I figured out how to get my business off the ground. It’s all a work in progress," I say and finish painting the window trim. I step back, and my handiwork has paid off. It looks amazing in here.
“I think we’re done, Sam.”
I look at him, and he has an affectionate look in his eyes that makes my heart swell with warmth. Then his smile turns mischievous as he lifts his paintbrush and slowly makes his way towards me. “Chandler," I warn, backing away, and his eyes light up playfully.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” He’s teasing me, still making his way to me with the paintbrush full of white paint. I shake my head at him, my eyes wide, and try to bolt to the stairs, but he grabs me by my waist and spins me around. I laugh, and we tumble to the ground, falling backward. I can feel the hardness of his chest pressing into my back, and my ass is on the floor, between his legs. I look up at him. He has that affectionate look in his eyes again, making my heart melt just a little.
“Hi," he whispers.
“Hi.”
I feel a magnifying pull to him, my lips to his. I close my eyes, my heart hammering with anticipation. But right before our lips touch, I feel something wet and cold on my face. What the hell was that? I lift my hand to my face. When I pull away, there’s white paint covering my fingers. I look at him in shock. “Chandler!”
He laughs and gets up from the floor to run from me, so I grab my own paintbrush and chase him around the living room. He’s too quick, and he taunts me as I chase him.
“The benefit of working out is that I can do this all day.” That’s not the only benefit; it also makes him look absolutely amazing doing anything.
“I’m sure you can," I say, breathing heavily. “I give up!” I say and set the paintbrush down, out of breath .
“I need a shower," I say
“Me too.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and then both race upstairs toward the bathroom.