“Who says I’m getting the wardrobe? Why do you get the bedroom?”
This was just how we’d done things so far. When he’d turned up at ten p.m. I’d already set up in the bedroom, and we’d made him a bed from sofa cushions in the wardrobe, then he’d stayed there again on nights two and three…
“I’d like the bedroom,” he said. “We should flip for it.”
Met his steady eyes through the glass. He has crow’s-feet that suggest he liked to laugh once, though I’ve barely seen him crack a smile since we got here.
Wecouldflip for the bedroom. But then, I thought, I might lose. There had to be a better way.
“Here we are again, with the risk avoidance, hmm,” he said, moving away again. “Would you rather alternate?”
I mulled it over.
“Each of us gets one week in the bedroom, one week in the wardrobe, on and off,” he continued. “We could make the wardrobe more habitable, I imagine. A single bed, take out the shelving to create more floor space…”
He was up the ladder now. I heard a soft grunt as he shifted the corrugated iron. After a moment, I leaned forward to get a look through the window, my cheek almost pressed to the glass.
“Are you wearing a tool belt?” I asked, slightly shocked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Where and when did you get that?”
“It’s Rog’s.”
“Right, but…” I trailed off. It was good that he was fixing the roof. I do not know how to fix a roof. But as annoying as it had been when he’d rocked up seemingly unprepared for a deep clean, it was actually more annoying that he was now doing something extremely useful involving tools and…skills.
Skills I very much do not have.
Also, the jeans and plaid shirt weresomuch hotter with the tool belt addition.
“I’m open to alternating,” I said in a raised voice, trying to get back on topic as he banged around on the roof above me. “We could add some plants, some soft lighting…It could work in the short term.”
“Good. We’re getting somewhere.”
He climbed down the ladder again and wandered off, presumably to pick up some more accessories from whatever Mary Poppins bag he was getting all this shit from. By the time he returned—with a box of nails, of course—I’d done the front two windows and the barn door.
“Nice work,” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly as he stepped into the shop again. He lifted his gaze from the doorframe to me. Bam, eye contact.
Felt flustered. Everything Jones says and does is kind ofintense, I think that’s what I’ve been trying to put my finger on. And with him aroundallthe time, it gets a bit stressful. Even the way he talks has an intensity to it—his voice is low and soft, like someone who might read you a bedtime audiobook. The sort of voice that makes you do a lovely little shiver.
We kept working for the next hour or two, mopping the floor three times over and clearing the rubbish around the barn. We didn’t talk much, but I always knew exactly where he was. We’d had our first argument, reached our first agreement, and now we were officially working together. There was an air of “keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer” about the whole thing.
As the sky turned navy outside the windows, I thought about what I wanted from my life here: this unique place, this supportive community, this prepackaged fresh start, as Jones called it. I didn’t have to lose any of it because of this man. He didn’thaveto be the enemy.
Turned to look at him after a good twenty minutes of mopping in total silence. “Shall we just go to the pub for a drink?”
He stared at me, full bin bag in one hand, brush in the other. Realization dawned.
“Oh, God, sorry, not the pub,” I said, cheeks going hot. “Sorry!”
“You can say ‘pub’ in front of me,” Jones said, with slight amusement. “I’m not operating under the illusion that pubs don’t exist.”
“No, but…Sorry. Why don’t we go for a walk or something?”
“You want to go for a walk with me?” He held my gaze, his own unreadable.
“I want to have a conversation with you where we’re not all…snippy. I want to chat.”
