Page 1 of If You Like It, I Love It

1

Joni

The five-pound hammer feels good in my hand, not too heavy, but weighty enough that I’m confident I can get the job done. No thanks to that condescending salesguy at the hardware store who kept trying to convince me I needed a lighter-weight hammer. I am perfectly capable of deciding what’s best for me, thank you very much. In his ridiculous little orange vest . . .

I swing, and the first crack is brutal. My clenched hand tightens on impact. It sends a jolt up my forearm, shoring up my muscles to land the next blow with even more force.

And I do. I swing again, and again, and again, feeling stronger with every bash and split of this ugly tile countertop I’ve always hated.

“I. Am. Not. Weak!” I declare each word distinctly on its own fierce downswing.

My eyes clock the ceramic shard hurtling toward my face, but not fast enough for me to duck it entirely. I manage to pull my head slightly to the right, but the jagged tip strikes my forehead just above my left eyebrow.

Instantly, a strong hand whips around from behind me, grabs my wrist, and holds it frozen in front of my ribcage, incapacitating my hammer-swinging arm. A sneak attack.

The sneaky hand holding me could probably easily swing a hammer twice as heavy as mine.

The last few seconds replay in my head. I see my final hammer strike and marvel at the clean break. Okay, it’s several clean breaks, more of a shatter effect. For a scant second, I feel nothing but pride for my ability to do that much damage with a single swing, but that too is shattered—by the sharp pain above my eyebrow.

It happened so fast . . .

The firm hand maintains its grip on my wrist as it moves my arm toward the outdated broken tiles on my countertop. Once he has it positioned where he wants it, he says, “Let go of the hammer and turn around so I can see where it hit you.”

I drop the hammer, scattering a pile of smaller pieces.

When I turn, a hot trickle of blood runs down my brow toward the bridge of my nose, cascading off the inner side and into the corner of my eye. I swipe at it, blurring my vision.

Even through a film of bloody tears, his deep brown eyes make me feel foolish and cared for all at once. Like a flashback, which wouldn’t be possible because he’s not a part of my past. He isn’t looking into my eyes at all. He’s examining the slice on my forehead created by the flying chunk of tile.

His sigh is heavy with relief, but it broadcasts heavy annoyance as well.

Both of his hands rest on my shoulders, and I should not feel this comfortable being touched by my general contractor—who I barely even know. And who shouldn’t even be here right now!

Before I can ask why he’s at my house at seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, he steps away from me and snaps a paper towel from the roll, running it under cold water in my sink and then wringing it out. He presses the cool, damp paper towel to my skin, applying enough pressure to stem the bleeding, and says, “Joni, when you said you might start the demo yourself, what did I say?”

“You said it’d be easier if your guys did it all. But I am fully capable of helping, Enzo. I am!”

Again, with the damn sighing.

“Okay. Then where are your safety glasses?” he asks.

“Right. Like your guys wear safety glasses all the time.”

“They better be wearing them when they’re doing shit like this.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“You can watch to make sure they wear them tomorrow while they finish wrecking out your kitchen.”

“Why are you here?” I ask, my tone clearly conveying my anger at being interrupted. Spied on. I don’t know where he thinks he is right now, but this is my motherfucking house, and he can’t just pop by after-hours anytime he wants.

“I was leaving another job and came by to see if you needed any help moving your table out of the kitchen or unloading the cabinets. I know you said you were going to do it all yourself, but sometimes, people don’t realize how big a job that can be. I just wanted to be sure my guys can hit the ground running when we show up in the morning.”

Our eyes lock. We both know that service was not included in his bid.

Great! Another man who thinks I’m incapable of something. He and the asshole in the orange vest should buy each other a beer and compare notes.

“Well, as you can clearly see, I’ve got it handled.”