He’s in a hurry to get back down to the garage, but as I take in the space through his rushed tour, I can see that Miles has vision. Most people probably wouldn’t have looked twice at this property, but he’s already turned it into something really unique and special.
He first points at where a big wall was knocked out last summer that originally separated the dining room from the living room. Since it was a load-bearing wall, he put in knotty wood support beams stained a deep espresso color that contrasts nicely with the white shiplap on two of the living room walls. The desired effect is a rustic, shabby chic farmhouse feel that oozes charm and natural light.
His furniture is minimal. Masculine. A leather couch and loveseat face a giant big screen TV. His kitchen is his current work in progress, but the new slate countertops were just installed last week, and now, he’s refinishing the cabinetry. The cupboard doors are all removed and apparently down in his garage awaiting their next coat of varnish.
He shows me to his bedroom, and it has a giant bed screaming practical comfort. But when he walks me around the corner to his master bath, it’s clear where all his money has been going.
A huge two-headed waterfall shower occupies one whole wall of the bathroom with a perfectly clear glass door to showcase his incredible tilework. I may have sprouted a lady boner when he told me he did the work himself. He also removed the wall that separated the bathroom from the spare bedroom so he could turn that space into an attached walk-in closet.
Honestly, his ex is a fucking idiot. This man is husband material right here.
He quickly shows me a spare bedroom adorned with shag carpet and wood paneled walls. He says it’s next on his list, but it’s kind of fun to see because it shows how much work he’s already put into this house. Miles is clearly not someone who sits idle.
As we walk down the interior steps and he opens the door to his garage, he smiles over his shoulder and tells me this is where the magic happens.
You know the kind of sex that’s fumbling and messy and shit gets knocked over a lot, and you feel like you’re apologizing for everything the entire time, but you still somehow manage to have an epic orgasm and break something?
No?
Yeah, me neither…until tonight.
Not only did Miles show me his filthy garage and list all of his tools that seriously sound like they were meant for a sex toy room. He also gave me a hard and rough quickie by bending me over his toolbox and getting my arms all grimy from some spilled brake fluid. I had to wash up in his paint-splattered work sink afterward just to get the smell off me.
Whatever was bothering Miles earlier, the tour of his house and the quickie he gave me seemed to have helped calm him down immensely. And considering I had a glass-shattering orgasm, I’m not complaining one bit.
Before heading upstairs to clean up in that stunning fucking shower, Miles walks me over to his second garage to show me a project he’s been working on.
He pulls on a couple of metal chain switches on the ceiling, and the illuminated bulbs swing over our heads, showcasing a stunning classic truck.
“It was my grandpa’s,” he states, sliding his hands in his pockets, his muscles extra veiny from our efforts in the other garage. “It’s a ‘65 Ford pickup. I just got the white paint completed a couple of months ago, and the interior done last week. All it needs now is this special carburetor that only works in this particular model. It’s really hard to find and crazy expensive because of that. Most of my money has been going into house renovations, so I’m waiting until I have the funds to get it up and running again.”
“So it looks pretty, but it’s not functional,” I state, sliding my hands over the glossy white paint. It’s perfect. The chrome finishes shinier than a mirror. I smile and add, “It’s like art.”
“You could say that,” he replies, watching me curiously from the doorway.
I continue my perusal. “It looks like it belongs in a Pixar film,” I muse with a smile, checking out the front end and imagining the grille opening up to talk.
This makes Miles laugh, which is nice because I’ve missed the happy-go-lucky demeanor he had when we were camping. I should have guessed classic cars were boner-worthy for mechanics.
“You said this was your grandpa’s?” I ask, walking around the hood toward the passenger side door to check out the interior a little closer. The white leather bench inside the cab is beautiful.
“Yes.” Miles nods, his posture visibly tensing as he adds, “He passed away two years ago.”
My eyes lift to his, and instant sympathy casts over me. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He exhales heavily and offers a sad smile. “Yeah, it was a shock to all of us. I mean, he was seventy-seven, so it’s not like he didn’t live a good, long life. But he was one of those guys who seemed like he’d live forever.”
“Never aging? Always just in that perfect grandpa look?”
“Yeah,” Miles agrees. “Do you have a grandparent like that?”
I laugh softly. “My grandma who schedules meetings for me with her priest. She’s going to live forever, I’m sure of it. And if she dies, she’ll definitely haunt me from her grave.” Miles shakes his head, but I stave off his sympathy. “In some ways, I like pushing the old bird. It’s like our special connection, you know?”
He nods, moving to the front of the truck and staring down the hood. “I get that. For my grandpa and me, it was cars. I remember working on this with him as a kid. He taught me so much. I knew the names of tools before the names of my cousins. Drove my mom nuts.”
I giggle. “God, I bet you were a cute kid. Dark hair, bright eyes. I bet you got whatever you wanted from your grandpa.”
Miles lifts his brow. “Well, he always kept candies in the glove box for me.” He walks over to where I stand and moves me out of the way so he can open the passenger side door. Leaning in, he presses the button to the compartment and grabs a bag of round, pink candies.
“Want one?” he asks with a tipped smile, the scent of wintergreen hitting me right in the nose.
I laugh and shake my head. “No. If those were your grandpa’s, they should stay right where they are.”
He nods and replies, “They’re so old, but I can’t bring myself to eat them or throw them away.” He leans back into the truck and puts them back where he found them.
When he pulls back to close the door, I think I see a sheen to his eyes that wasn’t there before. He props himself on the door and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think that brake fluid is still stinging my eyes.”
I reach out and rub my hand on his arm in a smooth, comforting motion, a knot forming in my throat at the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.
“What is it?” I ask, my thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist in slow, gentle circles.
He shakes his head with a sad smile. “Nothing.”
“Miles,” I repeat, looking up at him encouragingly. “Just tell me.”
He exhales and leans his back against the open door. “I wish I had it running already.” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’s trying to get the sprouting tears to go back into his body. “It was kind of a dying promise I made to him, and I feel bad I haven’t finished it yet.”