“I don’t have to come if you’re going to be uncomfortable.”
I turn to look at him once more. “You’re right. We’re just friends and neighbors; it won’t be a big deal.”
“Hmm.”
Okay, what does that mean? Never mind. I don’t want to know. I focus on the TV and not so much on him playing with my hair or sitting so close that the weight of him on my couch forces us even closer together.
“You should go to bed. You’ve yawned three times in as many minutes,” he tells me.
“I need to know if Bethenny is going to tell Luann about her husband being with another woman,” I say, keeping my eyes glued to the TV.
“I’m sure you can google it if you really need to know.”
“True.” I yawn again, and my eyes water.
“Come on.” He stands, then pulls me up with him off the couch. “Walk me to the door, then go on to bed.” He walks to the door and stops with his hand on the handle, then looks at Bruce, who hasn’t gotten up. “Bud, come on. Time to go home.”
“Come on, big guy.” I pat my thighs, and he comes instantly, and I laugh as Tyler grumbles under his breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell Bruce, hugging him around his furry neck, and then I stand and look at his dad. “When do you want me?”
His eyes change ever so slightly, and I swear he’s going to say something dirty, but he doesn’t. “Nine thirty or ten.”
“Okay,” I agree.
He touches his fingers to my cheek, then opens the door and steps out onto the porch. “Bruce, come,” he calls when Bruce doesn’t follow him. I giggle, and he shakes his head as I push Bruce outside with my hands on his rump. “See you in the morning, babe.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I watch him walk down the stairs and roll my eyes when he orders me into my house and to lock the door. I do what he asks, only because I want to, but I still watch him through the window as he and Bruce walk across the grass between his yard and mine and up to his front door. When he’s inside, I go back to the TV and turn it off, then get in bed, where eventually I fall asleep thinking about the guy next door.
“That’s a lot of tape,” I point out as Tyler adds more and more blue tape to the edge of the backsplash where it meets the wall.
“You said yourself you aren’t handy. I just want to make sure the backsplash and counters aren’t ruined today.”
“Wouldn’t it have been smarter to put the backsplash and the counters in after you painted?” I check out the paint color he chose for the kitchen. The smoky-blue color will go great with the speckled gray, silver, and blue granite of the countertop and the glossy white tile for the backsplash, which has pieces of blue and gray glass mixed in.
“That was the plan, but the counters showed up, so I put them in, and then I couldn’t stand looking at the yellow backsplash anymore, so I ripped it out and put in the new stuff.”
“Wait, you did all this yourself?” I look around his kitchen, and I’m seriously impressed. The space is open all the way to the living room, and a large peninsula divides the two rooms. He has state-of-the-art appliances, a double fridge that I would never be able to keep stocked, an oven built into the wall, a microwave under the counter, and a five-burner gas range in the peninsula. This morning he made me french toast, bacon, and eggs on a cast-iron griddle after I showed up, and we ate while sitting at the island in his kitchen. I don’t know if it was his cooking or just being in his company, but it was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.
“Baby, I’m a contractor. It’s my job to remodel shit. I’m not going to pay someone else to do work I can do myself.”
“Okay, but it’s still impressive,” I mutter, and he smiles at me as he adds a sheet of plastic and even more blue tape to the backsplash. “I’m starting to get offended by the amount of plastic and tape you’re using.”
He laughs, tossing back his head. He has a great laugh, rich and deep. I could listen to him laugh forever. I also like how he looks when he laughs, the way his big shoulders shake and his eyes light up. Frick, I just really like him.
“Just being safe. Anyway, I’m done.” He rips off the tape and tosses the roll to the counter. “Are you ready to paint?”
“I guess.” I shrug.
“Do you wanna borrow a shirt?” I look down at my old T-shirt, the same one I had on last night when he came over, and shake my head. “Then let’s get to work.” He comes over to where I’m standing and takes the can of paint from me. He then pries it open, mixes it, and dumps some into a painting tray. When he’s done, he hands me a small angled brush. “We’ll start on the edges. You take the bottom, and I’ll take the top. Once we get them all done, we’ll add another coat; then I’ll hit the rest with the roller to finish it out.”