Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I ask.
He groans, standing up. He sets his drill on the railing, which is secured to the posts once again.
“I told you this was on my list,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m a carpenter by trade, and I happened to have a box of decking screws handy.” He nods to the other side of the deck. “I fixed a piece over there too.”
“I’m probably going to have to shore up this whole thing.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Or at least wear clothes out here.”
I roll my eyes as my cheeks flush. “And I thought you were a gentleman. My hero.”
“You thought wrong.” Even as he says it with pursed lips like he means it, his eyes shine with a kindness that makes my stomach flutter. “Do you want me to check the front porch too?”
“I didn’t know I was getting a new house and my own personal carpenter. I would’ve paid more.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“I’m kidding,” I say, slipping off my robe.
Jay’s eyes drop to my chest, and I’m quickly reminded of my state of undress. And that my white tank is wet from the spilled coffee and that my nipples are undoubtedly putting on a show.
Not that he probably hasn’t seen them already.
I clear my throat and put my robe back on. “Thank you for coming by this morning and fixing this. It is very kind of you, and I appreciate it.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” I smile. “I might be a mess, but we aren’t a charity case. I can take care of us. I promise.”
His head tilts as he takes me in, as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. The longer we stand face-to-face, the squirmier I get.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, needing to fill the silence. “I just made a pot of coffee.”
I think he’s going to decline. He seems surprised, maybe even taken aback, at my offer. But so am I.
What am I doing, asking a man I just met to come inside my house for a cup of coffee? I don’t know him enough to be letting him into my house. Many men who wind up being serial killers start off hot and charming.
Although he’s not exactly charming . . .
“Coffee seems like the least I can do,” I say, nibbling my bottom lip.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, from your fall yesterday. Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh. That.” I glance down and grimace. “Just some scrapes, and I’m sore as heck. I convince myself I’m still twenty-one, but something happens like this, and I’m quickly reminded that I’m thirty-eight.”
He grins. “Wait until you hit forty. Getting out of bed runs the risk of pulling a muscle.”
I laugh and motion to the house. “So, coffee?”
“Sure.”
I reach for the door, but he extends his arm before me and grabs the handle. He pulls it open and waits for me to go first.
“You’re so certain you’re not a gentleman, and then you do things like this,” I say, going in first. His cologne envelops me as I pass him. Goodness, he smells yummy. “I’m not sure what to make of you.”
He slips his tool belt off and sets it on the deck before following me inside.
I take out a mug and fill it for him. Then I top off mine.
“Do you take your coffee with cream or sugar?” I ask.
“Nope. Black is great.” He takes the proffered mug. “Are you a cream-and-sugar drinker?”
“I used to be. I didn’t want it if it wasn’t the color of caramel and tasted like candy. But I overdid it one year with a cookie-flavored creamer, and now the smell of creamer makes my stomach churn.”
He leans against the counter and scopes out the kitchen.
“I haven’t had time to decorate,” I say. “Much to Dylan’s dismay, I haven’t even gone to the grocery store yet.”
“Who is Dylan?”
“The one with the mouth.”
He nods, sipping his drink.
The room feels smaller, warmer . . . cozier with him in it. I’m surprised it doesn’t feel odd having him in my space. I haven’t had a man in my home since Christopher died.
“So it’s just you and the two boys here?” he asks before taking another drink.
“Yeah. I grew up in Alden, actually, and moved away for college. I met their father there. We got married and moved to Boston. I’ve lived there ever since.”
He watches me over the rim of his mug, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight from the window. “Where’s their dad?”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. I imagine Christopher whispering to me, telling me to relax. To trust myself. To enjoy this interaction. But that doesn’t make it easier to speak about his death.
“Their dad, his name was Christopher—he passed away.”
Jay’s eyes widen. “Shit. I’m sorry.”