"Is this safe?"
"Don't worry about me, peaches. Lead the way."
"Yes, sir."
He stiffens next to me, and I almost feel bad about it.
"I'm glad you know what you're doing with the house," I note as we traverse the parking lot. "I don't know what caulk is, but it sounds a lot like a…male body part. A lot of this stuff is kinda dirty. Stud finders and caulk and nailing."
"That's nothing. Double-hung. A window where two sashes slide up and down. Butt joint is when two ends of wood are flush against each other. Coupling is a metal strip you secure a pipe with. When a length of pipe has threads on both ends, it's called a nipple." I'm cracking up, so he keeps going. "Ball cock. What? It's a toilet valve--get your mind out of the gutter. The waterproofing around roofs and windows is called flashing. The gang box. Rim joist. Beaver board. Should I keep going?"
I'm still giggling when I push the intercom button. "Please don't. You'll get us fired."
The front desk ladies look at us conspiratorially as we pass, and I try not to blush but fail.
When we're out of the office, I shake my head. "Oooh, they are gonna be talking about us."
"Pretty sure they already are."
My smile falls. "Yeah. Probably." The thought makes me feel weird.
When I don't say anything else, he notes gently, "Hey--they talk about everybody."
I find it in me to chuckle. "Does that make it better?"
"Hm." He's still watching me, but for some reason, I don't want to meet his eyes. "Does it bother you? I…I thought about us leaving The Horseshoe together, going to Hal's. Figured people would make assumptions. I'm so used to it, I didn't think twice, but I should have thought about what it'd mean to you. I'm sorry."
Amused, I sneak a quick glance. "How emotionally mature of you. Thank you."
But he doesn't laugh as we descend the stairs and cross the library where my desk and little office are. "Does it bother you?" he asks again quietly.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I mean, nobody likes being talked about. And whatever they dream up probably isn't the truth."
Grey sets the boxes next to my desk, then sort of half sits on it, which puts us closer to eye level. God, he is so intense sometimes, with his brow furrowed like that and eyes sharp and pale.
"What else?" is all he says.
I shake my head. "I'm not used to people paying attention to me like this. I'm usually the invisible one--. Nobody's ever bothered to whisper about me."
"I can’t imagine you're invisible to anybody, Molly." He keeps talking, which is good, because all words leave me with a whoosh. "I've been talked about my whole life. When my parents were in jail or gone for weeks at a time. When I lost a game--first as a player, worse as a coach. I think they had a town meeting when I turned forty and didn't settle down." His smile is small, but encouraging. "They'll always find something. That's on them, not you."
I'm all warm and achy in my chest, and I hope he knows I mean it when I say, "Thank you."
"Anytime, peaches." God, I love it when he calls me that. When he looks at me like that. He stands to unstack the boxes, avoiding my eyes when he says, "Anyway, nobody'd really believe you'd have anything to do with an old guy like me."
My face quirks at that. "I don't think you're old."
A single laugh barks out of him as he sets the last box down. "You don't have to spare my feelings, peaches."
"I'm not. I've never once looked at you and thought you were old."
Grey pauses, our eyes latching.
"Do you look at me and think I'm young?" Instantly, I know I don't want to know the answer to that. But I stand my ground and wait.
He watches me as he puts an answer together. "Sometimes I feel the distance between us. But it makes me think I'm too old far more than the other way around."
My brows gather. "Too old for what?"
