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“I spent all summer making these doors, changing them from the old ones.” A palm spanning a width larger than my waist hovers tentatively over the plaque, hesitant to touch it. “What’d you stick it on with anyway?” he asks gruffly, a deep crease between his brows.
I stuck it on with glitter-glue.
“Cement,” I say instead.
His head whips back to mine, eyes wide with horror. I let myself snuggle down in his discomfort for a good ten seconds before I submit.
“Kidding. Oh come on, what’s the problem? You really think that your guys can’t tell the difference between my whimsical bungalow and your boring office? You’re insulting them.” I’m not being sarcastic. I’ve seen the work that’s been happening over the past week and I’m both amazed and annoyed by how talented these men are.
He takes a huge step backwards, shaking his head. “I thought you weren’t going to be an issue. Stop messing around on my site.”
I raise a finger. “Need I remind you? This is technically my site.”
“And you hiredusto fix it. Let me do my job.”
He has a point and suddenly I’m embarrassed. I’m letting my personal issues interfere with a guy who doesn’t deserve my shit, a guy who infuriatingly seems to be one of the most capable and level-headed men that I’ve ever witnessed. If this was LA, he would have already quit. Or demanded a raise. Or performed any number of other petulant childish stunts.
Stunts like the ones thatI’vebeen pulling. I swap my notebook from my left hand to my right and give my aching heart another rub.
He notices, and his frown deepens.
I lower my hand, twiddling with my vacant ring finger. “Fine. Sorry. You can take off the sign if you want.”
I watch his eyes narrow on mine before flicking over to the plaque on the door. He’s longing to tear that silver sign off so hard that I can palpably feel his agony when he takes another step backwards. My lips part in surprise.He’s going to let me keep it?
He looks over his shoulder towards where he was just sawing and then he turns to give me a steady authoritative stare. “I’m going back to work now,” he says, still tense. Then with a parting glance he trudges back down the path, the muddy prints of his boots leaving a trail straight to his workshop.
I watch after him, amazed and alarmed by how level-headed he’s being. Is this how all men are outside of Hollywood? I seriously doubt it. In which case, I probably shouldn’t take it for granted that I’ve just struck gold in the literal middle of nowhere.
I mull over his words as he gets back to his task, a bulky bag of wood cut-offs growing larger beside him.
I’m going back to work now.
Hm. “Work”.
I look down at my notebook and think about my rekindling creative juices. I’m in no hurry to start writing another manuscript – in fact, a break away from the same task that I always do is probably healthy.
When I look up at the valley of cabins I’m suddenly seeing everything through new lenses, each separate task surrounded by a goldpick meshimmer.
I want this guy to respect me. I don’t want him to think that I shouldn’t be here even if, technically, he is correct. And I don’t want to be a pain in the ass to a man who seemsgood. I can save that for the next time I see my ex-fiancé.
I look down at my outfit, checking to see that it’s site-suitable. I’m wearing pale denim jeans and my favourite baby pink zip-up, but the flip-flops are a little amissso I kick them off and tuck my feet into a pair of boots instead. They’re sort of… faux hiking boots. They’re the shoes that you don’t mind getting a little muddy, khaki with a tall lip and rubber soles, and in a previous moment of whimsy I threaded a different pair of laces over the metal notches, in sugar-frosting pink.
My cheeks heat up but I try to override the ache in my belly, telling myself that it’s okay to be myself, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of me, here or anywhere else. I like pretty things and other people shouldn’t have a problem with that. I mean, would I judge a guy for having a killer six-pack?
Maybe it’s the same for guys. Maybe they actually don’t mind women embracing hyper-femininity. We aren’t in high school anymore – live and let live, right?
Wrong. I lock up the bungalow and begin making my way across the lush slope of the valley when I hear a car door open and my head turns curiously over my shoulder. A guy steps down from the side of a white van and a small frown touches my brow because I don’t recognise him or his vehicle. I guess that it’s one of the crew on a break but I’m not entirely sure. I give him a cautious smile, my eyes riddled withstay-backwariness, but he heads over to me anyway. He’s flashing me his teeth and his message couldn’t be more clear.
I swallow and try to up my pace.
“Hey,” he calls over to me, and a prickle rises on the back of my neck. I hope he can’t scent my fear.
“Hi,” I say back, my voice painfully light and sweet.Stay away, stay away, stay away.
“What’re you running for? I just wanna talk.” The smile in his voice makes my back muscles constrict.
I stop walking and turn to face him. He’s obviously in his late thirties and he’s not exactly unattractive but there’s something about the way that his gaze slow-glides down my hair that makes me want to wrap it into a bun and then shove it under a trucker cap.
