Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

Jesus, Viv, get a grip.

Caroline watched with raised eyebrows as I said, “Pretty sure Clark’s here. I’ll go get the door.”

I hurried down the stairs, spying the familiar outline on the other side of the lace. It had been a long week. Stomach in knots, I practically jumped the last two steps, flew across the floor, and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. Once there, I finally paused to breathe. What would I find on the other side? Familiar and Funny Friend Clark? Or Distant and Detached Clark?

I opened the door. He filled it. Tall, dark, and tweedy. I smiled without even thinking about it. His brown eyes warmed instantly, taking me in and then, as usual, dropped down to scan me head to toe. Per usual, I let him look. I leaned against the doorframe as he took in my legs, clad in the shortest cutoffs I owned. I didn’t really plan out my outfit this morning at all. Not at all . . .

When he got to my stomach and its jewelry, his eyes widened. I wore a T-shirt casually knotted in the back to bare my navel. He stopped somewhere around my chest and I puffed up a bit, letting my fingers play with my cameo. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. The brief perusal felt like hours. And when his eyes finally made it back up to mine, they were warm and kind and happy to see me. But then they became all business.

“I trust you have everything in order before the contractor arrives?”

My stomach rolled over. He was still pissed.

“Good to see you too, Clark. Come on in.” I sighed, holding the door open wide and ushering him in. His arm brushed mine and my fingers touched my skin absently as I watched him walk into the room, turning in a circle and examining the work I’d done this week. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the Post-it I’d stuck on the loose newel.

“Don’t start. I’m only asking if they can restore it, not replace it. Happy?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the word I’d use to describe myself,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

I stifled a snappy remark, watching him from the door. “So, how was your week?” I asked.

“Busy,” he said, now examining the wood-framed mirror in the entryway. “Did you scratch this?”

“No,” I huffed, crossing to stand next to him, looking where he was rubbing his finger along the bottom frame.

“This scratch wasn’t here before,” he insisted, and I pushed into his side.

“If you’ll move your hand, maybe I can see what you’re talking about,” I answered, squinting to see what he was worrying. The old frame was riddled with cracks and scratches; what was he seeing? I tried leaning over his arm, but it was in my way, so I ducked underneath and raised up on my tippy toes. I brushed his hand aside and examined where his finger had just been.

The half-inch scratch looked as old as the wood. I started to tell Clark exactly where he could go scratch when I felt the warmth of his body against mine. Pressed along the length of me, the long, lean lines of his body fit against mine, and he slid his finger back into place. On the wall.

“See this? This wasn’t there before,” he breathed, just behind my ear. My neck bloomed with heat.

What was happening here?

I slowly dropped from my toes to my heels, pressing my spine further against him. Then I raised up once more, arching to lean closer to the wall, pushing another part of me more firmly against a specific part of him. He let out a hiss, and I grinned into the wall. “You mean this here?” I asked, dragging my thumb across the gouge in the wood.

I repeat. What was happening here?

I chanced a look over my shoulder and saw Clark. Eyes closed, jaw clenched. Inhaling deeply.

And further over my shoulder was Caroline. Arms crossed, with a knowing grin.

I turned back to the wall, tapped the scratch, and slipped out from under his arm. “I guess we’ll just add it to the list of things to do,” I announced.

His eyes popped open. Clearing his throat, he turned, then saw Caroline. “Oh, hello there. Good to see you again,” he said, walking away and putting the entire room between us. “I trust this contractor you’ve hired is familiar with this kind of restoration work?”

I leaned against the wall, flustered and confused and not at all sure what had just happened. It was hot in here; I needed to open some windows. I pulled at the neck on my T-shirt, fanning myself, and Caroline smothered a laugh.

“Yes, he works with a local guy I’ve worked with before. They’re very careful with projects like this,” she answered.

Clark nodded briskly. “Good, very good. While we’re waiting for him, let me show you some of the designs I came across in the archives of some of the original homes here in town. You mentioned you were going to be consulting on your friends’ vacation home, and I’m familiar with that house. It’s a beauty,” he said, setting his briefcase on the dining room table, having a perfectly normal conversation with Caroline—while I was still trying to bring my heartbeat back to its normal rate.

He didn’t seem to be affected in the slightest. Humph.

Most uncomfortable day ever. I mean it. Once the contractor arrived we went from room to room, with Caroline leading the charge. Thank goodness she was there, because the tension that was simmering between Clark and me was like a thin coating of insanity covering every word uttered. And every heated glance. And every not-so-heated glance.

When I asked if the cedar closet off the upstairs hallway could be removed to expand the bathroom? A lecture from Clark on why it would be a crime against humanity to destroy something as important as this very closet. I listened for the first two minutes, then got caught rolling my eyes and was promptly scolded. To which I stuck out my tongue. Which resulted in a gaze so smoldering from Clark it’s a wonder the cedar didn’t burst into flames.