Sam grins into his overalls. “I like the man. Bring him over next time.”
“Don’t get too attached, he’s leaving in two months,” I tell him, heading toward the living room.
“There’s nothing a grown man loves more than to be talked about like he’s an elderly pet, one paw in the grave,” Carter grumbles.
“It’s the truth. You’re going to be pen pals? Write him about your busy week or how your stocks went up?”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” he says, sounding pleased.
I did. It was a much-needed reality check. My mind is playing a dangerous game ofwhat else can Carter do to turn you onwhenever I’m near him.
“Had to be sure you weren’t on the Most Wanted list.”
“So. What’s the plan here?” He waves his hand around the dusty place.
“I’m going to turn it into my perfect tiny home. It’s faster, cheaper and it’s all I need for myself.”
Carter, who up to today hasn’t used the words “tiny” and “house” in the same breath, hums unconvinced.
“What?” I snap defensively. “Maybe I’ll meet my soulmate and build a bigger house together. Or I’ll grow old alone here and get a parrot to keep me company,” I say, lifting the sledgehammer I borrowed from Finn.
My foreman is cute. He’s the type of man who would feel like cool aloe on my bruised heart. His interest is obvious, but he’s not been overly flirty with Sam or Thomas hovering all the time, two nosy helicopter wingmen. He’s got the two men in the back of his pocket, rooting for him for the past few weeks.
Before I take a swing at the first wall my phone pings with a text.
CARL: It’s not too late to change your mind.
I’m still figuring out how to get my last paycheck without landing in the middle of another town drama. What’s so wrong with me that most people abandon me or make me feel worthless?
The first blow makes a large hole, clouds of dust swirling around me. I lift the hammer again and my tense muscles strain, a headache blooming in the back of my head, my heart pounding in my ears. I swing again and again, my arms screaming in protest. Every hole in the drywall brings me closer to spilling the tears of frustration prickling behind my eyes.
I’m not sad. It’s a collision of dark particles twisting into a tornado inside my chest.
“Remind me not to make you angry.” Carter scans me with a strange expression. Surprised I’m capable of tearing these walls down by myself.
“I’m not. I’m sweating out my frustration.” I never get angry because I had to be grateful and keep my mouth shut. “Can you take the debris outside?”
“Isn’t this fun? I’m paying you and still doing hard work.”
“Isn’t this a rich guy thing? Paying some fancy trainer to make you suffer? At least I’m not yelling at you.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I’m not the type.”
After taking a break to enjoy Sadie’s famous sandwich I start to sort through the pieces of furniture I want to keep and fix.
“What are you going to do with them? They’re old”—he picks up a banged-up wooden stool—“and some are broken.”
“I’ll fix them. Give them a new purpose so they don’t end up in landfill.”
“Why? Isn’t it easier to get new ones? Do something else with your time?”
Living in the smallest, darkest, dampest rooms or corners, I had little stuff of my own. “It’s part habit, part hobby. I mostly got old and broken furniture. I had to improvise.”
“Where did you learn to fix them?”
“I started small. A little glue. A lick of paint. When I moved in with the Millers, I’d always linger around Sam’s garage next door. He’s a carpenter and taught me a lot.” I also loved TV shows about home improvements and picked up a few tricks. It’s still my comfort activity when I’m upset.
