That couldn’t be an accident.
She was touched by his solicitousness.
And, ridiculously, a little disappointed that he’d taken her so very seriously.
“I’ve planned it so we can get all the noise and fumes over with at roughly the same time. I figure, give or take wildcards, we can get it all done inside of a couple of weeks, but let’s give it three weeks on the outside to account for any surprises. I can crack the whip.”
She chose the Column B Budget option: more guys on the job, a little more expensive.
The sooner it was done, the sooner she could sell this place, replenish her savings... and maybe bail on GradYouAte, if it came to that.
He clapped his laptop closed. “All right, then. Let’s go paint and tile shopping.”
“Me and you?”
“You’re the lady with the checking account... boss.” He stood and gave her another little chummy shoulder punch.
Within a day of Mac making phone calls, the house seemed aswarm with big guys, most of them on the diffident side. There were, in truth, only about a half dozen of them at any given time, but they took up a lot of space and they walked with thunderfeet up the stairs and overhead so that their presence filled the whole house. She kind of liked the energy. They greeted her respectfully, received their assignments from Mac. And like a sergeant, he dispatched them upstairs to get to work after they masked the downstairs rooms for painting.
He set her up with a paint tray and a roller—First Date was ironically the name of the paint for the first room, a pale cream with some warmth in it, with the faintest hint of blush pink when the light hit it. It glowed like the cheeks of a girl on her way to the prom.
“Okay, Avalon. You dip it in like so... got it?”
She dipped. As instructed.
“And then you stroke it up and down... up and down... up and down. Up and down.”
She watched the muscle play beneath his T-shirt as he moved the roller up and down.
He turned, eyebrows up. “Want me to show you how?”
God, yes.
“Got it. I’m going to stroke it. Up and down. Up and down. Faster or slower? Which do you like better?”
He stared at her, thoughtfully.
“Well... eventually, it’s always good to go as fast as you can... but it’s probably best to start out slow. For everyone. Right? Slow, even, constant strokes.”
She was faint. But not from paint fumes. She stared at him blankly.
“Got it.” Her voice was arid from lust.
“Excellent.” He actually performed one of those brisk little hand swipes people do when they check something off a list. As if his own pupils hadn’t gotten big and black there for a moment.
“I’ll check on things in a little bit. Let me know if you have any questions.”
And then he basically left her alone.
To think about up-and-down strokes as she performed satisfying up-and-down strokes of paint.
There passed about a week of bonhomie and progress that was practically choreography. At the end of each work day Mac called a huddle to review progress or to present things for her to approve or revise. She was seldom alone with him. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t make up excuses to linger around the house.
But the banter was easy. It was, in fact, one of the most effortless weeks she’d ever experienced as an adult. Even shopping for fixtures and picking out tile was an exercise in ease. He had opinions, but deferred to her eye, because it was clear she had a good one; he offered input on durability and that sort of thing. He made sure she colored inside the budget lines. He located deals, called in favors.
She realized that having someone you trusted implicitly, someone to whom you could surrender burdens, was practically synonymous with inner peace.
And that not trusting someone could be like riding a roller coaster in a cart missing a wheel.