“I’m serious,” she says between gritted teeth.
“All I said was okay.”
“Yeah, but you smiled like you don’t believe me.”
“Maybe you don’t believe yourself and you’re projecting your insecurities on me.”
She scoffs. “Are you a therapist?”
“No. But sometimes, I feel like one,” I tell her. “I’m a great listener. I’m also very good at clocking people.”
I focus on keeping my layers smooth and straight. Wendy moves the step stool and climbs back up without saying another word. She paints the top half of the wall in long, even strokes, and I cover the lower half. Twenty minutes pass, and they drag longer than any eight-hour board meeting I’ve ever sat through. The stool creaks again, and she’s closer than she was. Her bare legs are at my eye level, so I focus near the baseboards.
“Gran wanted coral,” she eventually says, completely changing the subject.
“This is white.”
“We played a game of Rochambeau, and I won, so I chose this.”
“Really?”
“I’m a champion. And Gran can never pass up a bet.” She pushes the roller through the tray again and rushes to the wall before paint drips. “I used to think some of the best decisions were made by chance.”
“It’s a nice thought.”
Her mouth curves upward, and the tension in my shoulders loosens. She’s amused, and that’s always a good sign.
Around eleven, she asks about the thriller books on my nightstand, and I tell her the plot twist in the first one was so bad that I almost threw it off the balcony. She laughs, and the sound carries upward. How many nights left do I have to hear it?
By eleven thirty, the first coat is finished. We stand back and survey our work. She has paint on her arms and a streak across her upper thigh. I have it on my hands and somehow on my chest.
“We’ll let this coat dry overnight,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag. “Second coat tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to keep helping,” she tells me.
“I know.”
She hands me the rag, and our fingers brush together. “Keep it up, and I’ll have to put you on the payroll.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m on vacation, remember?”
Two hours of careful conversation, and we’re right back at the edge of the line we just agreed to respect. Our eyes meet, and I take a step away from her.
“Good night, Wendy.”
She chews on the corner of her lip. “Good night, Carter.”
I take the stairs and walk away from her this time, but I’m tempted to turn around and taste her lips again. I might be addicted.
The next morning, the sunrise turns the water pink. Wendy crosses the yard below, carrying chemicals for the hot tub from the supply shed, and my grip tightens on the balcony railing before I can stop it. She doesn’t look up, which is probably on purpose.
At seven, she knocks. The tray is set down, sheets are changed, and then she’s gone. The woman who kissed me doesn’t exist before dark.
Around noon, I go downstairs for water. She’s in the lobby at the front counter, sorting through a stack of mail. I stop next to her, and my hip presses against the counter beside her stool. She looks up from the mail.
“Are you busy?” I ask.
