11

A Fixer-Upper

When Mari showed up at his door, Jack’s first thought was, Thank God I wear headphones when I watch porn.

He hadn’t been sure until just now if she could hear his TV as well as he could hear hers.

His second thought was more incoherent. Mostly four-letter words jumbled up in his head while he stared at the woman in his doorway. Her hair was back in a loose, messy bun, her breasts soft and round under an old T-shirt, and yoga pants smoothed lovingly over her strong legs.

All that hiking must be dang good exercise.

He cleared his throat, wanting to ask her to repeat herself because no way had she just asked if she could come in. To his room.

Except she was holding two long-necked beers hooked through her agile fingers, and she didn’t seem like the kind of woman to double-fist her drinks. He stepped back, figuring if this was some alternate universe, it wasn’t a half-bad one.

“Yeah, sure. Course. You can, uh . . .”

He glanced back at the room, and all the things he hadn’t noticed before were glaring at him. His open suitcase, vomiting boxers out onto the floor. A take-out container from last night perched on top of the microwave. His French press sitting prissily by the sink, making him look like a city boy who couldn’t even drink plain coffee without whining about the brand.

Something cold pressed against his chest and he took the beer automatically. Mari breezed past him and hopped onto the bed, nodding at the TV.

“You ever notice how the guy on this show uses the same three things to describe all his favorite houses?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Expansive.”

“Sunny.”

“Feels like home,” they finished together, and Mari laughed.

Distracted by looking at her, he tried to crack off the beer cap and nearly ripped his palm open when it wasn’t a twist-off. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he used the opener on his keychain to pop his cap. He threw away the take-out container and kicked the lid of his suitcase closed on his way over to open Mari’s beer for her. Once he did that, he was already mostly onto the bed, and it seemed like it’d be weird for him to sit in one of the chairs by the tiny table. Especially since they were tucked into the wrong corner to see the TV and had preacher-straight uncomfortable backs.

He let his weight settle gingerly on the bed, one leg still slung over the side and his bare foot brushing the hard carpet, waiting to see if she’d protest.

She didn’t.

“You think they always pick the third house they look at,” she asked, “or do you think they edit it to look that way?”

He took a sip of the beer. Good. A solid porter, none of that pretentious, fruit-infused shit he’d seen the bios drink sometimes.

“Edited,” he said. “Leroy dated a girl one time who sold houses. She said people’d look at every damn house in their price range, then ‘just peek’ at the more expensive ones, then end up offering on one of those. She’d have loved if it only took three houses to get them to buy.”

Great. Put a girl in his room for five seconds and he suddenly couldn’t stop running his mouth. Telling her the life story of a girl Leroy had fucked a grand total of maybe twice, and she didn’t even know Leroy.

“Sounds about right. Is Leroy that mustache guy on the crew, the one who thinks he’s a smooth talker?”

“Nah, that’s Kipp. Leroy’s my brother. Back home. Well, I think he’s still back home. Haven’t heard from him in a while, so I ain’t sure.”

Why had he added that? It wasn’t like she cared where Leroy lived, or that he wasn’t exactly the kind of family that remembered to send birthday cards, or even text messages, really. Jack changed the subject.

“Figured you’d know Kipp by now. Practically have to put him on a leash to keep him on the job site instead of off talking to you.”

“He does a lot of talking.” She cut her eyes his way as she took a slow sip of beer. “Doesn’t mean I’m listening.”

Jack snorted out a laugh. “That’s the best way to be when it comes to Kipp. Not listening.”

She held up her beer without looking over, and he clinked the neck of his to hers.

A surge of something weird and unfamiliar swept through him. Like pride, or . . . something. He wasn’t that good at talking to women, usually. Too rough, so they took everything he said the wrong way. Or he didn’t have anything to say because he spent most of his time working.

Then again, Mari spent every day out on the job site with him. She wasn’t working steel, no, but she was in the same dust and ruthless sun as the rest of them. Sweating through her shirt just the same. Maybe it made a difference.

He sat a little more squarely on the bed. Tried leaning back against the wall next to Mari but keeping her in the corner of his eye so he could read if he was crowding her. She didn’t budge, just pointed the neck of her beer at the screen. “Oh my gosh, the porch on this one? I could live on a porch like that. Forget the house.”

Jack did not know what to do with a woman on his bed, watching his television.

However, she didn’t seem to be unhappy, so he figured it was easy enough to sit and throw out a comment or two on the show they were watching. He started to fidget when the credits rolled, but Mari stayed put like she didn’t mind watching the next one, too. Besides, the next show was a fix-it-up, which were his favorites. Quickly, it became apparent that the snarkier comments that slipped out were the ones most likely to get a laugh out of her.

He didn’t quite relax, not really. He got her a second beer from his own fridge when hers went dry, but he never got past the neck of his own, too nervous that he’d catch a buzz and say something to make her tense up, the way she had that day at the fox burrow with Ricky.

Besides, he could already feel every inch of his skin that was on the Mari side of his body, ripples and tingles running up him that he couldn’t seem to squash. So he was plenty busy trying to keep his hard-on from growing to noticeable levels.

After the third show, she set down her empty beer and swung her legs off the bed. He jumped up to walk her out, even though it was only a few steps. His mama hadn’t lived long, but long enough to teach him a manner or two.

Also, something was bothering him, and he hadn’t had enough time to figure out how to phrase it the right way. She reached to open the door and he was out of time.

“Hey, uh, Mari? Don’t do this with the other guys from the crew, okay? Might not be a good idea, you tapping on their door with a couple of beers.”

Her face fell. “My ex always said I was too much of a flirt, and it’s been a long time since I had any neighbors. I’m probably going about this all wrong. I’m sorry, if I—”

“Hey, no. Not what I meant. All the guys on the crew would be happy as pigs in shit if you wanted to spend time with them. Probably even the married ones. Just ain’t sure if you were alone with them, if they’d mind their manners. Is all.”

She looked at him oddly. “But not you?”

He shoved his fists into his pockets. “Hell, I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

She just kept gazing at him, like she wasn’t sure what to think.

He was pretty sure he had messed this all up and made her feel bad, so he swallowed down a big gulp of nerves and pride and said, “Was nice. Having the company. Even if you were wrong about the tiles on that countertop.”

“They looked pretty!”

“Wouldn’t look so pretty after the first time you got hot sauce in the grout and it stained for good.”

“That’s what Comet is for.”

“What’s a comet? That a housecleaning service?”

She laughed. “And that’s why you can’t get the hot sauce out of your grout.” She turned back to her room. “See you in the morning.”

“Yup.” He kept leaning against his doorframe after she was gone, and it wasn’t until his cheeks started to ache in an unfamiliar way that he realized he was smiling.