He grins. The sound of his nail gun shooting a nail through the wood startles me for a moment, but I like to think I quickly recovered. “Cute. Where did you get that name?”
“He told me,” I deadpan, and he tosses his head back on a laugh.
“You really do hate making conversation, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate conversation,” I bristle, my tone haughty, and I’m on high alert. “But this is not a get-to-know-you. I’m helping you frame the greenhouse because you said you can’t do it alone.”
I expect him to get defensive. Maybe try to be all macho and state that he could do it on his own but would rather not or some other bullshit. But he doesn’t. His slow smile tells me he’s totally unaffected. “So why not chat a little while we work? It could make the day go by a little faster. Make it more fun.”
I scoff loudly at that. “This is work, not fun. Is that what Oakley’s Crew does? Just stand around and chitchat all day?”
His laugh is unexpected, and I don’t know why. I’m angry. I know my tone says I’m irritated. And there he goes, just chuckling away as he moves to the next post, and I follow him begrudgingly, scowling. “That’s part of the fun of Oakley’s Crew, yeah. We’re fully capable of talking and working. Most of us are friends.”
I roll my eyes. “Friends. You’re coworkers.”
“Two things can be true,” he says, his face fixed in a permanent unnerving smile. “What do you do for work?”
“I work from home.”
“I figured.” I want to be offended by that, but it doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be rude or even get under my skin—though he most definitely is. “So you work on the computer?”
Again, my eyes roll as I stand there and brace the piece of wood as he works to put it together. “No. I just sit in my houseand money magically goes into my bank account,” I deadpan again, fully aware I’m being an asshole.
“Don’t want to talk about what you do for a living, huh? What else can we talk about?”
He moves to the next post, and I try like hell not to ogle his ass when he bends over to pick it up. But just because I’m allergic to human interaction doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes notice when a man is beautiful. And Gabe is beyond beautiful. The man is a work of art.
“Nothing. Soon you’ll be getting far too personal.” I surprise myself by saying that out loud, but I don’t call the words back. It’s true. I don’t want him prying into my life. It’s bad enough that my dreams were focused on the handsome, way-too-friendly man last night. Heat crawls up my neck to my cheeks, just thinking about it while standing here with him.
I don’t even know if the dreams were particularly sexy. I just know he was the star of my night, and I don’t like that. It’s not like he’s even an option for me. He’s straight. The man has a kid, and I’m sure a very pretty blonde wife. She’s likely who his daughter takes after.
Not that I want to date him or anything.
It’s been a ridiculous amount of time since I’ve gotten laid. But when you barely leave the house, that kind of just happens. It’s not like there are gay bars around here, and there’s no way in hell I’d take a chance hitting on anyone around here.
I was tormented in school, always small for my age. Feminine-looking, according to my classmates, and they somehow assumed I was gay before I even knew what gay meant.
If Gabe knew I was checking out his ass, it’s likely he wouldn’t be all that friendly anymore.
“Personal?” His brow raises at me in question, and I stiffen... pleading with him to just shut up and work. I don’twant to talk. “What? Like asking you what kind of toothpaste you use?”
A startled laugh leaves my lips, and the sound is almost totally foreign to me. How long has it been since I’ve laughed? Gabe looks taken aback for a minute too, staring at me with wide eyes and a large smile. I want to crawl into a hole and hide. But instead, I just grit my teeth. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, continuing to work, but he most definitely does not shut up. “Nothing more personal than oral healthcare.”
I sputter. Is this guy for real? He winks at me, and I feel even more off-kilter than I did at the beginning of this morning. “Jesus. No. I didn’t mean toothpaste.” I roll my eyes at him for the millionth time today because the man is straight-up ridiculous. “I meant like you grilling me about why I insist on only one worker here at a time.”
“Oh,” he says easily, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“What?” I sputter again. “No.” I raise my one free hand up in a huff. “See, this is why I don’t engage.”
He just chuckles. “Look, you don’t have to tell me why. We figured it out. You’ve been a great help today.” I huff again, but he just keeps going, “I don’t believe in pushing people to talk about things they don’t want to.”
I don’t understand this man at all. I really don’t get why he doesn’t just give up on me and maybe bring earbuds to listen to music or something instead of trying to get me to chat with him.
I really don’t know why I open my mouth to ask him a question—just allowing him to pull me into a conversation. “Did you play sports in school?”
“Of course,” he answers like it’s a no-brainer.
