Why did he say that? Itwasa big deal. He’d gotten up extremely early to do something for our mutual benefit. Was he making sure I didn’t attach something to it? That I’d get the wrong idea, like he’d done it just for me, not for the crew? If so, that was embarrassing.
“You’d do it for your sister too, right?” I said, making a weak joke out of what he’d said last night.
He grunted.
We sat at the small kitchen island, side by side, and ate in silence. I felt every slight movement of his large presence beside me. The rustle of his trousers was amplified in my ears. He smelled of dirt and grass and verbena, maybe deodorant. An invisible string pulled me closer to him, to feel his soft gray T-shirt, the tough-looking tan fabric of his trousers, but I resisted the tug.
Instead, I watched his forearms, strong and corded and dusted with hair, his thick wrists, his hands—large and rough and brown from the sun. Only his left forearm was tattooed, and I wondered if that was significant.
A few seconds later, he cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’m going to take this out to my truck. I’ve got some calls to make before we get started.”
What? He couldn’t even sit and have breakfast with me?Great. At least before, we bickered like we had some sort of communication. Now, he can’t even stand to be around me more than a few minutes.My self-esteem was certainly copping a beating.
“Well, enjoy!” I cried out, using an American expression I’d never uttered. Painful overcompensation.
I made a wild, flinging motion, presumably to emphasize the enjoyment, and my hand bashed against his coffee. Brown liquid flew into the air and landed, splat, all over his gray T-shirt.
“Fuck!” he yelled—in pain or exasperation, I wasn’t sure.
“Oh my God, did I burn you?” Without thinking, I leaped off my stool and swiped over his chest, making the stain worse. Then I realized what this seemed like—a reminder of last night, like I was trying to get my hands on him again. As if burned myself now, I pulled away.
I went to grab a clean tea towel from the drawer, but of course, there were none.
He stepped away. “Don’t worry. I’ve got another shirt in my truck.” He turned on a booted heel and strode toward the door.
“Sorry again,” I called after him. “See you soon.”
Or maybe I could live out my days being a hermit or a mole underground or something.
10
Tim
Itrudged back tomy truck parked in the driveway, coffee in one hand, my breakfast in the other.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bushes next to the house move. Then I heard a rustle. From out of the shrubbery, Goatee charged at me.
He butted my leg, splashing the remainder of the hot coffee over my hand. I yelled out in pain as he bumped my arm, sending the beans, sausage, eggs, and toast flying from my plate. Ducking his head onto the gravel, he immediately snarfed it. For God’s sake. I bet that was part of his cunning plan.
For sure, this goat had better planning than I did, so I couldn’t even be mad at him. I deserved that hard butt, and regret hit me harder.
Where had I gone wrong with Tabitha? I’d brought her the ibuprofen and water, hadn’t I? Gotten up at the arse-crack of dawn to hack a path to her front door? But neither of those things came off how I’d intended. It was like I was trying to punish her for some reason, but that was ridiculous. I had to be nicer to her, because we had to appear civilized while cameras were on us, and I was tired of us always bickering. I did want to be friends.
I set the empty dishes on the floor of the passenger seat. First, I had to return an early call from George, my right-hand person. My gut turned over with dread because I suspected what his call was about.
He answered immediately.
“Hi, George. What’s up?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be having a Saturday lie-in?”
“Morning, boss. I wanted to get you before you start filming. The new apprentice has to go. He’s constantly on his phone, has no aptitude for the work, and has no intention of learning anything about the trade. I gave him his third warning last night.”
“How did he take it?”
“Shrugged. Couldn’t care less. Was actually checking his phone while I was talking to him. Says it all, I suppose.”
“Yeah, it does. Sorry. Thanks for stepping in and doing that.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. The kid was one of my best friend’s nephews. Even if the family knew the kid had no work ethic, from experience, I was certain they were going to make it my fault. I thought about all the snarky comments I’d have to put up with, even though I’d hired him against my better judgment, unable to turn down a friend asking for a favor.
