ChapterTwenty-Five
Jackson
“What the fuck…?”My eyes scan the living room of our apartment as my brain tries to compute what I’m seeing. I’ve just arrived home after a rare Saturday stint at the garage to find the place transformed into what appears to be the love child of Home Depot and Petco.
There are timber planks of varying lengths strewn across the carpet, with a bag of metal brackets tossed on top; nearby, a can of paint is sitting on what looks suspiciously like the auto-cleaning litter box Skyler’s been eyeing for several months; at least four or five plush velvet cat mats have been parked on the kitchen table, next to some kind of netting; several tall, leafy plants are sitting in large ceramic pots in front of the TV where the coffee table should be, with a cluster of smaller pots holding a less impressive grassy type thing scattered around them; the coffee table has been pushed right up against the breakfast bar, and the couch has been moved up against the opposite wall to make room for what appears to be Skyler’s disassembled bedframe, although I have no idea where the mattress is. And right next to the pile of slats that used to be the base of Skyler’s bed is a shopping bag bulging with cat toys.
“Skyler!”
A few seconds later, he emerges from his bedroom, a familiar expression of innocence painted on his face, which is half-shadowed under the yellow hard hat he’s wearing for god knows what reason.
“What….?” I break off, shaking my head. “Why are you wearing a hard hat?”
He reaches for the brim of his hat and raises it, swiping his forearm across his brow to wipe away non-existent sweat in a gesture I’m pretty sure he’s only ever seen in porn. “Safety first, Jackson. It’s important to protect yourself when you’re working with tools.”
I shake my head in exasperation. “What the hell do you need tools for?”
Before he can answer me, Rocket prances out of the bedroom, demonstrating his own apparent commitment to workplace safety.
I stare at the animal for a long moment. He’s not adorable; he’s the fucking devil. “Skyler, why the fuck is the cat wearing a hard hat?”
Skyler glances down at Rocket for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “He’s also very safety conscious.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.” Stepping carefully around the maze of DIY supplies and feline paraphernalia littering our living room, I approach my boyfriend and reach up to pluck the hard hat off his head. “Much better. Now I can see your face properly.”
He smiles and tilts his head forward to brush his lips against mine. “I missed you today.”
“Uh huh. I cam see that—you mind telling me what’s going on and why you decided to turn our apartment into a home depot stock room? And why did you disassemble your bed?”
He flashes a bright grin and grabs my hand, tugging me into his bedroom. “I’m redecorating Rocket’s room.”
“Wh—the cat has his ownroomnow?” Jesus Christ.
“Of course,” Skyler says brightly. “I mean, I’m not using it. This is the only thing that makes sense.”
I give a wry shake of my head, offering a fond smile. That’s a statement that could only be true in Skyler’s world.
Glancing around the room, I’m relieved to see the “tools” Skyler’s been using appear to be an Allen key and a hammer. For a moment I’d been worried he’d let his enthusiasm get the better of him and retrieved my power tools from our storage locker. But thankfully that doesn’t seem to be the case. His construction work looks to have been confined to assembling flat pack furniture. Although, judging by the mess of timber pieces, screws and bolts still scattered on the floor, he didn’t get very far.
“What do you think?” he asks, spreading his hands out proudly.
“Um…” As well as the half-finished flat pack, there’s also fresh mint green paint on three of the four walls; or, two and three quarters of the walls if we’re being more accurate. The only furniture in the room is a cabinet made of the same pale timber as whatever it is Skyler’s currently attempting to assemble; the door of the cabinet is open and Rocket’s litter box—the regular, non auto-cleaning one—is inside. Gross. “It’s…a start,” I tell him, unwilling to see the smile vanish from his face.
“Yeah. Charlie was here helping before because I wanted it all to be done by the time you got home, but then got called away for an “emergency”,” Skyler says, lifting his fingers to make air quotes and offering a knowing smirk. “Pretty sure that’s code for a booty call with my boss, but whatever.”
My brows creep up. “Why would you think that? I thought you said they hated each other?”
He shrugs, offering an impish grin. “Let’s call it a hunch. All I can confirm at this stage is he was in a very good mood for someone on their way to deal with an “emergency”.” He does the air quotes again, this time adding a snort of amusement.
“Well, I think it was a little ambitious—even for you—to attempt to get this all done in one day. They don’t even do that on HGTV.”
“Yeah, but I’m more awesome than the people on HGTV.”
My lips twitch in wry amusement and I take a step toward the incomplete flat pack, bending down to pick up the Allen key from the floor and then holding it up. “Skyler, what’s this called?”
He gives a casual shrug, not letting the confidence slip for even a moment. “A turny thing.”
I let out a soft chuckle and toss the Allen key aside. “I think you should stick to your day job, babe.” I glance around the room again, assessing the mess. I’m not exactly sure what Skyler’s ultimate vision is here, but I’m assuming four painted walls and properly assembled furniture is a start. “Do you want me to help you finish all this?”
