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I’ve taken residence on the roof-top of my bungalow so that I can oversee the entire site, knowing that it’s what irritates Mitch the most. I’ve come out here every day for the past week, stirring my coffee with evil satisfaction as he glowers at me from his makeshift joinery workshop in the centre of the hill that rolls between the cabins.
The sound of Mitchell’s scary truck revving into Pine Hills each morning is the alarm clock that I never knew I needed. The second that I hear it I hop out of my sheets and I rip open the curtains, waiting for him to spot me through his windshield, dismount his vehicle, and then slam the door shut. His eyes don’t leave mine the entire time.
I make coffee number one of the day whilst we have our standoff and then I take a nice prolonged sip. Then I whip around and give him a full two hours of the cold shoulder. I wash and dress with more enthusiasm for a day on the dirt than I’ve had for the past five movies I’ve written. Then I get my notebook out, grab coffee number two, and head to my lookout point to “oversee”.
Let’s be real, I’m not actually here to supervise. I’ve seen the digital updates that Mitch and his brother have been submitting over the past two months and they are more than capable to see this project through. All I needed was a semi-plausible excuse to be here that didn’t involve revealing the fact that I was recently not only romantically jilted but betrayed from the inner circle too.
I rub over the dull ache in my chest with my bare left hand and then I settle back in to what I’ve really been doing.
I’ve been hate-writing the beginnings of a revenge-fantasy manuscript that is so thoroughly unhinged that it will never see the light of day. Previously it could take me months to come up with a fleshed-out concept but, funnily enough, being treated like shit really does dose you up onso-be-itresignation crossed withfuck-youinsanity. The only problem is that the script is supposed to be about my ex-fiancé, but the bronze muscle-machine that I’ve been watching every day has without question obliterated his physicality from my mind. I can barely remember what Evan looks like. Which means that, whether I like it or not, I have semi-subconsciously given the handyman in front of me a starring role in every line that tumbles onto the page.
I look down at my notebook and feel a pang of something like guilt. I don’t want to think about my ex-fiancé and I have a man who looks like he was cooked up in a romance novel less than forty feet away from me. I tap my pencil on the page and decide to turn a new leaf, literally. I scribble over the page until it’s an undecipherable slate-gray mass, rip out the offending evidence of my unmistakable psychosis, and crumple it up into a compact little ball. Then I stand, lean over the balcony, and fling it straight across the site into the skip right beside Mitch’s workshop.
His eyes zip to the ball of paper and then flash straight up to me. There’s a heavy scowl on his brow. I watch his forearms flex, delighted.
Over the past seven days the man has not spared me a single word, communicating solely in prolonged glances and belly-flipping grunts. I take this opportunity to study the hard lines of his body and, without him knowing, I begin to trace the heavy angles of his frame delicately onto my notepad. Harsh cheekbones glowing with the exertion of his labour, thick shoulder muscles hulking beneath his navy shirt. It’s an intriguing colour on him; its darkness only emphasises the depth of his stark tan, whilst simultaneously contrasting the crystal facets of his eyes. He looks away from me and my body does a little shiver of relief.
I look down at the paper and add in the finer details. Although my formal work in LA was strictly as a screenwriter I was clinically obsessed with the storyboard artists. Getting to know the unique flavours that each of them added to their character designs continuously ignited a curiosity-sizzle in my brain.
My fingers hover over my secret drawing of Mitchell, wishing that I had some watercolour paints to add a splash of red to his cheekbones, an ice-cave blue to his eyes. Instead I shade in his irises, leaving a little white circle of light in each to mimic his inextinguishable sparkle.
My brain gives me a slap across the frontal lobe, scolding me.
Stop it, Harper. He’s just a guy. He isnotyour new muse.
Remember how well the last one went?
When I look back down at him he’s got safety goggles drawn over his eyes and thick gloves pulled up his hands, one palm spreading up a large sheet of wood whilst the other clicks a power-tool to life. One of his crew members is set up at the next bench doing the exact same thing, head bowed low over his intensive task.
Okay, so he’s skilled. Whatever. I decide to cancel out my lusting by turning my back to the valley, instead facing the pine forest that obscures my view of the mountains. I stop my incessant doodling and instead try to think of some possible cons to this man, dotting them around the sketch of his gruff handsome face. I only manage to come up with‘Dangerously strong’and‘Hot dork?’before I realise that it has all gone oddly quiet down there.
I turn around and glance back down at the site.
Oh dear.
It’s late in the afternoon with yellow opal light trickling in through the trees, and from its current angle the sun is casting an otherworldly jasper glow on the hard-set face that is now frowning up at me. A member of his team is talking to him with an almost embarrassed look on his face, sparking my interest when he gestures vaguely in the direction of my bungalow.
I raise an eyebrow at Mitch, askingYes?but he merely glowers on, sharpening the blade of a manual saw, casually like a serial killer would.
I almost smile. Then I begin cataloguing the thick muscles of his forearms.
When he turns to face away from me, his conversation still going strong, I shield my eyes with a hand and stare directly at the sun. One week in the woods and I have already taught myself how to tell the time from the solar positioning. I squint my eyes, thinking long and hard before I make a guess with myself:six-fifteen.I check my phone and see that it’s four-thirty. Close enough.
In fact, this is very good news. It’s prime irking time, which is my favourite time of the day. It allows me to both keep Mitchell at arm’s length due to the fact that he will undoubtedly hate me, whilst simultaneously satiating my desire for male companionship by performing the actions whichmakehim hate me. Namely: being myself.
Time to get hands-on.
I flip open the hatch to the bungalow’s descending staircase, clip-clop to the ground floor, and then I pull open the front door.
I get the shock of my life.
Mitch is standing on my little step, meaty fist raised like he was just about to pound a hole straight through the wood. He drops the fist when his eyes lock in with mine and then he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, so enraged that he can’t keep still. I pretend not to notice how the haze of testosterone emanating from the broad planes of his chest is making my thighs shake. Luckily he’s so infuriated that he doesn’t notice. I blink innocently up at him, waiting for him to brighten my day.
“You’re hilarious,” he growls, eyes giving me a reluctant once-over before they flick back over to the front of my door.
Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten. I can’t help the smug little smile that suddenly dimples my cheeks, arms folding across my chest so that I don’t combust with satisfaction.
I may or may not have acquired a tiny metal plaque, engraved with the words HEAD OFFICE, and then stuck it squarely on the front door of my bungalow. You know whose office doesn’t have a little professional plaque? Mitch’s. So for all intents and purposes my bungalow reallydoeslook like it’s the Head Office.
