Reality crash. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
He shrugs. “We’ll build an airport somewhere else in Bronze Bay then. Figured you’d want the income,though.” He nods to the stack of bills I haven’t put down. I should have known he’d know the debt our business carries. The government knows everything these days.
My face heats under his gaze, and I’m too mad to say anything at all, and that fact infuriates me even further.
“Call me Tahoe, by the way. All my friends do.” Right now I want to call him a string of ugly swear words. He slides a pocketknife out of his shorts pocket and stoops to open a can of white paint, the view and my parent’s house all but forgotten. I have a drop cloth and everything ready to go. “You’re painting all of the brick white?”
“I’m not your friend, so I will call you Tyler, and yes. Start at the top, close to the pipes.”
He pays me no mind and just starts painting. I watch him for a solid fifteen minutes to make sure he’s doing a sufficient job and then retreat to my bathroom to change into a pair of board shorts and a tank top. I throw my hair in a messy bun and try to calm my rage.
Why am I so angry?
Because Tyler is right. We do need the money, and my thought process has led me to realize I need to be nice to this man even if his presence makes me madder than a poked rattler.
“I don’t need your help with any of this. I just want to make that clear. You’ve been driving me nuts, and I figure this might relieve some of the…annoyance,” I say when I return, mostly so he knows I’m back in his vicinity.
He grunts. “Everyone could use a hand. Even thepeople who refuse it time and time again.”
“Are you talking about yourself or me?” I say, picking up a clean brush and dipping it into the bright white. “I’ll work on trim.”
Tyler nods. “I’m talking about anyone who the statement can apply to. I’m really not big into talking,” he says, flicking his gaze down to meet mine.
A shiver racks my whole body, and I laugh nervously. “Okay. Are you some kind of robot? How do you live without speaking to other humans?”
He sighs. “All the humans I’m surrounded with don’t ask me questions…like that,” he explains. “It’s easy that way. Less complicated. You seem like an uncomplicated person, and you also seem like you could use a hand.”
Carefully and slowly, on my knees, I brush the baseboards until the standard cream color turns white. I’m not sure if being uncomplicated is a compliment or an insult, and I think it was a purposeful tactic used to confuse me even further. “Maybe if you talked more, you wouldn’t be here,” I say, trying to engage in a different direction. It’s rude to dodge questions, but he didn’t ask any questions. Not flat out, anyway.
“It might be a good thing I’m here,” he replies almost before the statement leaves my mouth.
“I talk all the time, and my life is easy,” I argue.
He grins, it’s sharp and full of an emotion I can’t put my finger on. “I think you just proved my point, darling. That said, it seems your life isn’t well-rounded either. You don’t have a boyfriend, or he’d be here rolling paint,and you have a hard time making decisions.”
My brush drops into the paint tray. “Excuse me? I make thoughtful decisions. You’re just a brute and a bully.” I have to remind myself how this man got inside my house to begin with.
“Ah, so no boyfriend. Gotcha. What happened? Was it him, or was he just not that into you?” He grins.
“I didn’t invite you in to let you insult me,” I snarl. “You annoyed your way in here. The least you can do is act like a civil gentleman!”
He drops his roller so the end hits the floor and faces me. “I didn’t come here to be interviewed,” Tyler replies, and his eyes narrow as he lets his gaze slide from the top of my head down to my feet, leaving a trail of fire on my skin. “And I’m not civilized.” Tyler licks his lips, then shakes his head. “Not anything even close to a gentleman, either.” He leans his head to one side and then the other, like he’s stretching after a workout. I’m left breathless, in a state so unfamiliar, my body feels like a traitorous enemy.
“Why did you come here?” I raise one brow, challenging him to do something he doesn’t want to do. Talk. And because I’m breathless, wondering how in the world this man can affect me so swiftly when no other man in the past has, and surely they’ve tried, right?
He pauses, stares me down once again, and then turns away and starts painting again. I clear my throat and sigh to the roof. “Boyfriends take time. Time is precious to me. I’d rather be doing other things. Like flying planesor working on engines or helping my parents. It’s my choice to be single, and quite honestly I enjoy doing house projects on my own,” I say, slinging one hand on my hip. “Key words: on my own.”
He nods, his face thoughtful, and dips the roller again. A drop of white paint lands on his burly, tattooed forearm. I watch it slide a few centimeters as he works the roller up and down.
“I came here because it’s fun to…annoy you, and believe it or not, I don’t have very many friends here,” he replies, smiling. That brings my gaze to his face.
Pressing my lips together, I remark, “You don’t say? Most people respond better to kindness than intimidation. Just for your information.” I offer him something to drink, and he declines. I offer him to sit down on the sofa and take a breather, and he declines. I give up on trying to talk to him or trying to get anything more from him than an arm with a paint roller in it.
After I finish painting the baseboard against the longest wall, I start making dinner. “Are you hungry?” I call across the room. It’s an open floor plan. One huge room with everything except my bed and bathroom, which is behind a half wall in the far corner. My damn Southern hospitality kicks in as I envision my mother telling me to be a good host.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Tyler replies, appearing from the side. “Please, that is. If you’re cooking, I would love to eat.” His smile widens, then he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.
Before he sees me blush, I look away. “So you’re nice when I leave you alone for a while? Noted. I was going to make a grilled chicken salad,” I explain, opening the fridge and then the freezer just to see what supplies I have. “Is that okay?” I pull the ingredients out before he has time to respond.
