"Thanks for the tip," I murmured.
"I'll give you more than the tip, honey," he replied. "A whole fuckin' lot more. And you'll enjoy it more than anything that douchebag has for you."
My lips parted as a furious blush climbed up my neck and over my face. "I can help you here or you can say that shit," I countered. "But not both."
"I never asked for your help."
"That's funny," I replied. "It's really funny because you invited me into this hot mess when you decided to run the tile saw in the middle of the motherfucking night, dude." Ben shrugged that off as he balled the foil in his palm. "You can have my help or you can have the city and county inspectors knocking on your door." I turned an exaggerated glare toward the house. "Oh, wait. You don't have a door right now because you thought it was a brilliant idea to rip the doorframe off. I guess the inspectors will have to climb in through the damn window when they come to shut you down."
He shrugged. "Whatever."
"You know what's even more funny? You'd rather say rude things and make unwelcome advances than have my help. If you're the kind of person who enjoys making women uncomfortable, then, yeah, I'll be going now." He pitched the foil ball across the yard. "Fucking hilarious, Ben. I knew you were a lot of talk but I didn't realize it was this kind."
Without looking in my direction, he said, "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did." He glanced to the side, swore under his breath. "Notallof it."
I stood, crossed the yard to retrieve the foil, and stalked back to the patio. "Then what are you trying to do?"
"I—" He stopped himself, let his shoulders drop. "I don't know. I can't deal with anything right now and everything about this house makes me crazy and I don't know what your regular voice sounds like because you're always fucking yelling at me."
"Like I said"—I gestured toward him with more graciousness than I felt—"you can say that shit or I can go."
"I'd tell you to get the fuck out but I'm sure you're a skilled multitasker."
"While that's true," I conceded, "we're focused on fixing up this house so I don't have to listen to tile saws all night."
"That might be your objective but I'm focused on hunting down that douchebag from your lunch date and telling him to keep his spiffy-ass suits away from you. Come on, now. You'd break him over your knee, wouldn't you? You can tell me the truth."
"We are not talking about Rob or his suits right now," I said, trying—failing—to stifle a shocked laugh. I hadn't thought about Rob over my knee. Didn't want to think about it. "And you have no reason to quote-unquote hunt him down. He's a nice guy and I like him and that should be all you need to know about the situation."
Ben pretended to gag. "First the fizzy water and now this. Why the hell are you hanging out with him, honey?"
I shifted to face him fully. "Why did you buy this house if you hate remodeling?"
He bit into another sandwich. I wasn't counting but it seemed like his third. "Is this one of those situations where I have to answer your question before you'll answer mine?"
"No," I cried, laughing. "This is one of those situations where we're not talking about Rob because my relationship with him is none of your business."
"Oh, but me buying this house is your business?" he countered.
I grabbed my work gloves off the grass and smacked his shoulder with them. "Yes! I'm here working on this damn house. I deserve to know why you're doing this."
Ben shrugged but didn't respond, turning his attention back to the sandwich in hand. After several quiet minutes, he said, "My fucking grandmother."
I almost choked on a chunk of apple. "Excuse me?"
He didn't look at me when he said, "My fucking grandmother. I bought this little place because I thought I could fix it up and she'd like it better than the shitbox retirement community she was living in. I had a bunch of guys from the firehouse who were helping me out at first and things were going good."
They must've been the ones who'd handled the plumbing because it was the only element of this project that wasn't a disaster.
"But she died," Ben continued. "My grandmother fucking died and now I have this money pit of a house on my hands and I hate everything about it."
His words were an ice bath and I felt tears prickling my eyes.Oh, hell.Here I was, yelling at this poor guy about subfloors and tile and permits, and he was grieving a fresh loss.
"Oh my god. Ben," I said, touching my hand to his forearm. "I'm so sorr—"
"Don't say it," he snapped, wagging a finger at me. "Don't tell me you're sorry. I don't want to hear it." He looked over his shoulder, staring off toward the gardens as he knuckled a tear from his eye. "Your turn. What's the deal with the suit who may or may not be a douchebag?"
"He's not a douchebag," I said softly. "Rob is—" I stopped myself, not certain how I wanted to describe my relationship with Rob. "He's a nice guy who is going through a rough patch right now."
