Yes, let’s go with that. Much more likely scenario.
I’d meant what I said to my sister; I didn’t have low self-esteem. My face was symmetrical, I actually likedmy freckles, and in some lights, my eyes looked closer to aqua than blue. I was tall, in good shape, and while I sometimes wished I had a little more in the chest area, for the most part, I was happy in my own skin. I was pretty. Just a fact. Ben was gorgeous. Also, just a fact. We were not on the same level in the looks department. And that was okay. I’d dated men both more and less attractive than I was, and it had never been an issue.
Maybe I had built Ben up so much to create distance between us that now the thought of him being attracted to me didn’t compute. Which was good, because if it did, I might take a flying leap at him.
I gave myself a mental shake and walked to the kitchen. The doors of the hallway stood open, revealing all the progress we’d made. The sitting room now had a full set of furniture. Gone was the dark couch we played cribbage on Christmas Day. An off-white rug with a minimalist pattern took up most of the floor. On top of it sat a much more comfortable replacement that Ben had ordered from Ikea. It was cloth instead of leather, and white instead of brown. He worried about white at first, but then I reminded him that the covers were removable and there was this thing called bleach.
We’d arranged the furniture in a horseshoe pattern, with the couch facing the fire. On each side of it were a pair of armchairs. The ones on the left had light gray cushions and wooden armrests. Those on the right were a light brown leather that matched the color of the armrests, tying them all together. In the center of the horseshoe sat an industrial style table with a wrought iron base and distressed wooden top. The light fixture that hung above it was also wrought iron, with antique bulbs that bathed the room in a soft glow.
Artwork hung on the walls. Soft linen curtains framed the windows from floor to ceiling. Throw pillows and blankets artfully draped over a few of the armchairs lent the space a cozy, inviting feel.
I grinned, proud of our work, as I peered into the dining room next. Another rug with a muted color palette protected the flooring. The farmhouse style table that sat above it was an antique Ben found on Etsy, made of an old barn door that had been stripped, lightly stained, and sealed. The seating didn’t match, but that was the intent. Instead, they complemented each other. At the head and foot of the table were round-back wood chairs painted black. On one of the longer sides wasa bench, and on the other, three straight-back chairs, also black. The chandelier that hung low over the table was in the shape of a wagon wheel, wrought iron, with the same antique bulbs as the one in the sitting room. A roughhewn oak buffet stood on the far wall, with a black and white painting of a longhorn steer above it.
I walked into the kitchen. The space was exactly what I’d imagined the first time I visited. It gave me serious dream home vibes. To the point that I made Ben promise to come help me tear mine apart after we were done so I could copy a couple of his design choices.
A glass of water waited for me on the butcher block of the kitchen island. I picked it up and chugged it. It did nothing to quench my thirst.
“I’ll go get the boys settled,” Ben said.
Normally, I would offer to help, maybe play with the puppies a little, take some video of their adorable floofiness to send to Jack or Megan and Stacey, but right now, I needed about fifty feet between Ben and me, self-enforced restraining order style.
He re-emerged several minutes later. “Ready?”
“Yup!” I said, a little more manic than the cheerful tone I’d been aiming for.
He headed upstairs. I followed slowly after him, my focus on the steps beneath my feet to keep myself from staring at his ass. The room we were painting was two doors down from his own, which I still hadn’t seen and now had no desire too. Didn’t need any accurate images of his bed popping into my mind, thank you very much.
He opened the door and motioned me in. It took up the entire front right corner of the house, with large, double aspect windows looking out at the driveway and forest. Crown molding and baseboards framed walls painted a heinous mauve. It was a color straight out of the seventies – the lost decade of home design. Ben had alreadylaid out throw cloths to protect the flooring and brought in his toolbox and the paint supplies.
“Yikes. What are we covering this with?” I asked him, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
“A kind of cool off white with a hint of blue,” he answered. “I’ve already cut the power to the room. You want to help get these lights down?”
“On it,” I told him, keeping my eyes averted. Right now, he was the sun. If I looked directly at him, I might burn out my retinas.
I grabbed a screwdriver from the toolbox and made my way to a lumpy, brushed gold light fixture hanging four feet up on the wall. There was another one a few feet away for Ben to tackle. Most likely, they were meant to be reading lamps.
“Your brass is grass, sassafras,” I said, placing the tooltip to the screw.
Ben chuckled from a few feet away, a gloriously deep, rolling sound more suited to summer storms than this bright winter day. My pulse picked up in response. I ignored it and got to work.
Five minutes later, I was stuck. I needed one more hand than I had to hold this stupid light fixture in place and get the last screw out. I stood there and spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to find some way around asking Ben to help me. The room was full of the heady scent of his cologne. If he brought it over here, I might try to lick him to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.
My subconscious was clearly winning this war.
He got his light off and started applying painter’s tape to the edge of the baseboards, while I remained where I was, deciding whether or not I could stomach the idiocy of holding the light fixture in place with my forehead.
I sighed in resignation. I was going to have to ask.
“Little help here?” I said.
“No prob,” he responded.
His words were casual, because, until today, that’s how our working relationship had been. We’d assisted each other dozens of times during the reno, our shoulders brushing against each other’s, our hands bumping together. It had never been awkward or tense. Until now.
“I just need you to hold the fixture in place so I can get the last screw off without dropping it,” I told him.
He approached from behind. The air stirred as he stopped, bringing with it a tantalizing hint of vetiver. His hands slid into view, coming to rest just above mine, his arms on either side of my head, so that I was caged in by them. I took my hands away, and the light fixture slid sideways a little. He stepped closer to hold it steady, his chest pressing against my back, his –
