“I’m not that short!” But if he heard me, he didn’t react, and I huffed out a sigh. I’d lived most of my adult life on my own, and hadn’t relied on a man for much of anything. I could change a tire, I relocated my own spiders, and I hired a handyman if there was a problem I couldn’t tackle on my own. I felt like a proud feminist every time I did any of those things. But I had to admit that it was nice to have help. Not from someone I’d hired, but from a friend. Someone who helped out because he wanted to, not because I was paying him.
With Mitch’s help, the work went smoothly. After a couple hours I took a break for some water and to check my phone. Caitlin had texted that they’d arrived safely at the vacation rental and were all checked in. I texted back the usual mom stuff: be careful, wear sunscreen, don’t trash the place and make me lose my deposit. Next I did a quick spin through my email. I’d gotten on the local hardware store’s mailing list, and they sent a newsletter out every weekend with sales and home renovation tips. I was looking over their latest installment when Mitch came into the kitchen, peering over my shoulder.
“Those bookshelves would look great in the living room.”
I glanced up at him. “I’m moving out, remember? Why would I be putting bookshelves in?”
“Because they would look great,” he said again. He took the phone out of my hand and scrolled through the instructions and schematics. “These look super simple too. We could knock them out in, like, a weekend.”
“Maybe.” I took my phone back. There was no maybe. My job was to make this house ready to sell. Not make it better or more comfortable. This house was no longer about me.
“I bet your place looks great,” I said a little while later as I rolled another stripe of white primer, talking to distract myself from the pain of covering up the blue paint.
“What do you mean?” Mitch asked from where he stood at the top of the ladder. He’d almost finished cutting in the edges up near the ceiling.
“It’s just, you’ve done so much to help me fix up my place. You do a lot of work on your own house?”
He snorted and shook his head. “I rent. It’s nothing special. I’m not home all that much anyway. Between work and sports after school, and then the Ren Faire stuff in the summer . . .” His voice trailed off and I looked up to see him frowning at the paint he’d just laid down. Then he shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “My place is just my place. Lease gets renewed every February because why not, you know?”
“Oh.” I squinted up the ladder at him. “You stick around here for your parents, then?”
“What’s that?” He threw a glance down in my direction, and I wondered what I was doing. His personal life was none of my business. But that didn’t stop me from asking.
“Just . . . you don’t seem to be putting down roots here or anything.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Nothing to put down. My roots have been here my whole life. You’d rather I lived with my parents?” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and it was my turn to give a weak laugh.
“Not necessarily. But you know. You’re renting, you don’t have any serious relationships here . . .” Come with me, I suddenly wanted to say. Let’s leave this small town together. Live somewhere else. Start over together. But it was a crazy thought, and I squashed it immediately.
“I’ve known everyone in this town my whole life. If I haven’t dated them by now, I’m not gonna. You know . . .” Up at the top of the ladder, Mitch put down his paintbrush and turned his full attention to me. “You’re awfully interested in my personal life all of a sudden, Mama.” That old nickname suddenly felt like a wall between us—I thought we’d moved past that kind of thing. There was a teasing spark in his eye, but his quirked eyebrow was clearly asking me what was up.
“No, I’m not.” I loaded up my roller with more primer and turned my attention back to my living room wall and away from Mitch’s personal life, something I had no right to. “Just making conversation.”
“Uh-huh.” But Mitch’s attention was still on me. “No reason,” he said.
“Huh?”
“No reason,” he said again. “No reason to leave, you know? Things are good here. I like the kids.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. “The kids?”
“Yeah.” He turned back to the wall, starting to paint again. “At first it was kinda funny, coaching my friends’ little brothers, watching them grow up, knowing I’m having a part in making them better people. Same with the Ren Faire, you know? Kids who were in middle school when I started, getting older and becoming adults. I don’t know, some crap about helping along the next generation. But bottom line, the kids are fun. This life is fun, you know?” He glanced down at me while reloading his paintbrush. “Why leave?”
I couldn’t help but stiffen at the question—it was like he’d directed it at me. But it was plenty obvious that Mitch had a lot more fun in his life than I did. And a lot more reason to stay in Willow Creek than I did. “Sure,” I said, making an attempt at agreement.
“Doesn’t mean I want a mortgage, though,” he said, the cheer in his voice telling me that our serious conversation was over.
I didn’t push it. Instead I got back to work. “Still not doing those bookshelves,” I muttered, just to be contrary and to see if I could get him to laugh.
It worked. A chuckle floated down from the top of the ladder. “We’ll see about that.”
By the time the sun had started to dip in the sky, we’d put a coat of primer over the entire living room, and all there was to do was wait for it to dry. My stomach rumbled obscenely while we cleaned up, and I realized I hadn’t even thought about dinner. Thank God for my takeout menu collection.
I tilted my head at Mitch. “Do you like Thai?” It was my secret favorite, something I treated myself to for lunch at work because Caitlin’s palate hadn’t developed past that neon-orange sweet and sour chicken from our local Chinese place. But she wasn’t here, so I could indulge at home.
I expected Mitch to have a similar reaction to Cait, but he considered it and nodded. “Not my first choice, but I could go for that. If you want to finish up here, I’ll go pick it up.”
“You don’t have to—” But I bit my tongue. This was going to be the ladder argument all over again. “Thanks, that would be great.”
I knew it would take him at least a half hour to pick up dinner, so I used that time to take a long, hot shower. My mind wandered as I shampooed my hair. Today had gone so much better with Mitch here. Just the primer would have taken me the entire weekend. Of course, thinking about Mitch while I was in the shower brought back memories of when Mitch was in the shower with me. My hands started to wander along with my mind, pretending my hands were his, remembering the way he’d touched me. The way he’d made me feel.
I shouldn’t think like this. That had been a one-weekend thing, brought on by heightened emotion and being in an enclosed space with a man who looked like that. It certainly wasn’t going to happen again. He had a revolving list of women on his calendar and I was too old to give him those kids he liked and would certainly want someday. But even those thoughts didn’t cool me down, so instead I indulged myself, retreating into the memory of his hands, his mouth on my skin while the hot water beat down on my body in time with my fingers between my legs. The orgasm that rushed through me shook me so hard I leaned against the cool shower wall for support, and I turned the shower to cold to calm myself down. Mitch would be back soon. I needed to get a grip.