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Jayda: Kiss him again and finish the job when you won’t be interrupted.
Me: Against company rules!
Jayda: …Which you’ve done a stellar job of following so far.
Me: Fuck off.
Jayda: Get fucked.
Jayda: No, literally. Literally get fucked.
Me: We’re done here.
***
While I didn’t disagree with Jayda’s recommendation of getting fucked, it was inappropriate. We’d already crossed that line, but I wasn’t sure crossing it even further was a wise thing to do.
For now, I was going to focus on my job. Nothing else but my job. That was my plan, and I was going to stick with it, no matter how hard it seemed at times.
After a quick call with my dad to check on the progress of the kids’ beds, I got stuck in to painting. I’d called Eric and had him delay the floors by another twenty-four hours. It was annoying, and he hadn’t sounded too impressed.
Until I’d explained why.
Then he’d laughed for a good five minutes before telling me he’d waive the extra delivery fee.
Gee, thanks, friend.
I told him if he really wanted to make it better, to get his ass over here and paint. Naturally, he refused, so here I was, by myself, painting.
In silence.
It was, actually, quite nice. Aside from the first few days, I hadn’t been in the house alone to get work done. There had always been the undercurrent of noise from the kids downstairs—if they weren’t up here.
In an odd way, though, I missed that same noise. It was almost eerie to be alone in the empty house, so I set my phone on the windowsill in Eli’s room and opened Spotify. The quiet hum of music made it a little easier to cope with.
I painted and painted and painted, going over and over the spots that had been…affected…yesterday. That was the nicest way I could put it in my mind.
While the white paint dried on those bits in Eli’s room, I washed my hands and, with my phone between my teeth, moved into Ellie’s. Her paint had dried evenly—more so than I’d thought it would—so I knew that with one more coat, her walls would be done.
I pulled my phone from my mouth and texted Eric quickly to confirm he could get the flooring in at least Ellie’s room tomorrow. Without hanging around for his response, I cracked open a paint can using a screwdriver and poured it into a tray.
I would be glad to see the end of this pink paint.
Shamelessly, I sang along to Justin Bieber as I painted. It cycled through my favorite, big playlist on shuffle, taking me from the country twangs of Luke Bryan to the latest Maroon 5.
I hummed along, not knowing the words, until it flipped over to Sam Hunt. Trading my roller for a paintbrush, I dipped it in the paint and sang along to Body Like a Back Road. Between dips, the paintbrush acted as my microphone.
Oh my god, I’d never had so much fun painting in my life.
I stood, wiped paint from the brush, and continued my personal concert. The music flipped over from Sam to Demi Lovato’s Instruction, and, well, I got into it a little too much.
The brush was my mic; the window my adoring fans. I slid left and right and back just like the song demanded. My braid swung around my shoulders as I danced.
I spun.
And froze.
Open-mouthed, mid-chorus, I stopped on the balls of my feet, staring at Brantley in the doorway.
Oh, shit.
The grin that stretched across his handsome face was disarming, and it was clear to see that he’d been quietly laughing his ass off as he watched me.
I took a step to the side, my bare foot kicking the paint tray. “Ouch!” I grabbed my ankle and hopped to the side, leaning against the dry wall. “Um…Hi. I didn’t see you there.”
He just grinned at me.
“How long have you, um, been there?”
“Long enough.” His eyes sparkled.
Oh god.
“Oh goddddd,” I moaned.
“If this building thing doesn’t work out for you, can I suggest the X-Factor?” He rubbed his hand over his mouth.
I blushed furiously, my cheeks burning right red.
“I have to be honest. If I knew I’d be getting a show, I’d have come home half an hour ago.”
“I was just taking a break. Stretching, you know.” I let go of my ankle and gingerly put my foot down. “Getting rid of some cramp.”
“Is dancing to Demi Lovato conductive to getting rid of cramp, then?”
“How do you know it’s Demi Lovato?”
“I listen to the radio in the car, you know.”
“Right. ‘Course.” I turned and paused the music, taking a second to realize why I didn’t know he was coming: I’d turned the volume right up. “I’ll just…” I waved my brush. “Get back to work.”
“Are you sure you don’t have the Macarena on that list?”
“One song!” I threw my arms out. “One song. God. Everyone does it.”
