Screwdrivered
Page 55
“Be open. Got it. Drive safe.” I laughed, giving her a little salute as she got into the car. “And thanks for everything, all joking aside. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she asked, deadpan.
“Thinking about it,” I shot back.
She laughed, backed out of the driveway, and honked cheerily as she headed around the corner. Then she was gone.
And I was alone. With Caroline’s words echoing in my hangover head.
It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.
If this were a made-for-TV movie, I’d walk toward the edge of the cliff and watch the breakers roll in, casting a strong but sad silhouette against the backdrop of steely blue. The camera would pull back slowly, taking in the beautiful but empty house.
I went into the kitchen to make a peanut butter sandwich.
But those words worked on me all day. And damn if they didn’t work my belly into a mess of knots.
Chapter fifteen
I paced. I plotted. I plotzed.
I padded in circles around the house, adjusting Post-its on the wall where Caroline had left notes for the contractor, making sure they were at ninety-degree angles and flush with the others in their row.
After Caroline left, I couldn’t stop thinking about her parting words. Damn her and her witchy ways.
I stared down the dolls in the dining room that Jessica still hadn’t taken home, and fired off a text that said that if she didn’t come and get the psychotic army they would be marched lemminglike toward the cliffs. She responded with a very specific finger gesture.
I organized the Johnny Mathis albums, which had been relocated from the fireplace to the built-ins on either side. I arranged them by style (Christmas and otherwise) and then by date, making them easily accessible whether you were searching by time line or by season. Alphabetical when possible. Did I Dewey decimal myself in order to keep my brain occupied? Perhaps. But Dewey brought to mind a very particular person who was determined to cross-reference himself right out of the stacks, smack dab into the romance section.
There was a sudden crack of thunder, and when I looked out the picture window I saw lightning stab the sea. Great. The rain that had been promised all week was finally rolling in. The wind was picking up, assaulting the hanging baskets of ferns on the back porch.
I curled my knees underneath me on the couch, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and huddling inward. I’d changed into my pajamas when I realized I wanted nothing more than a good sulk tonight. But the white V-neck T-shirt and cotton panties weren’t keeping me very warm. Luckily I knew where to find a giant pair of tube socks, and I’d pulled them up past my knees, tugging them up even farther now to fend off the chill.
My eyes roamed the room and stopped on the fireplace. Hey, Contractor Joe told me the chimney was sound and safe to use. Hey, there’s a bunch of wood there that looks dry and brittle. Hey, Viv, make a fire.
So I did.
I grew up camping, so I can make a fire with three sticks and a string. I opened the flue, crumpled up some newspapers, and shoved them underneath the old iron grate, which could hold a fire large enough to roast a beast. I stacked kindling, breaking off some of the smaller bits of bark to make a little fire nest, making sure there was enough room for the air to get through.
That’s what novice fire builders forget about. For the fire to burn long and bright and stay hot, you need a little space. A little room to breathe. But not too much space, or the fire will go out.
Shaking my head as deep thoughts began to poke through again, I struck a match and lit the paper below the grate. The kindling above began to catch, crackling and popping. Laying two larger logs on top, and continuing to feed twigs and snapped-off pieces below, within minutes I had a large blaze going, sending out its warmth and beginning to take the chill off the room. Keeping the area clear in front of the fire, I set the screen to the side so I could enjoy the view.
I curled back onto the couch, watching as the fire grew, illuminating the approaching dusk with a radiant glow. Embers gleamed brightly underneath the blaze, ruby red and cheery orange.
But I wasn’t cheery. My stomach was still in knots. No one else seemed to see the romance novel that I was still convinced I was starring in. Or they did, but they didn’t think the cowboy was the hero. Was I still convinced?
Dammit. Double dammit.
Confusion whirled with anger and frustration. Resignation?
But when I saw Hank’s truck speed around the corner of the house and stop next to the barn?
Pure, unadulterated lust took center stage.
I thought about nothing at all as I crashed through the house and out the back door, crossing the yard with a single intent.
Must. Have. Now.
He’d already stripped down, the shirt tossed casually aside as you do when you have hay to pitch, and the sight of his suntanned skin and muscles for days made me quicken my pace.
The chickens knew better than to get in my way; they cleared a path straight through to the barn as I walked so fast my boobs jiggled. They’ll do that when you’re a double D and you left your bra on the floor upstairs. See, it’s all how it’s supposed to be! Did I randomly forget my bra earlier that day, or did some unknown hand guide me, eliminating bra clasps for frantic fingers to fumble over?
Predestined. Preordained. There just better not be any premature what-have-you, ’cuz this shit was going down. And God willing, so was he.
I entered the barn, striking what I thought was a particularly fetching pose with one hand poised over my head, the other on my waist, leaning against the doorway, hips jutted forward, back arched, girls pitched forth like an offering.
He was pitching hay down from the loft. So strong, so virile, sweat already gleaming on his stunning hand-of-God-etched back, his hips narrowing into a waist I wanted to wrap my legs around and ride off into a sexual sunset.
Speaking of sunset, it cut through the impending clouds, golden and glowing across the barn floor, highlighting the scattering of hay, the rustic planks, the brown poop.
Um, what?
It’s a barn. That’s where the poop lives.
Well, I could breathe through my nose. And pretty soon I’d be panting, so no matter. I returned my gaze to Hank.
Yeah, concentrate on him. His hands sliding up and down the handle, gripping the shaft and turning into the upstroke. Aw yeah.
I waited for him to turn around and see me, to see me and leap down from the hayloft, his eyes burning hot and wild, his blood racing throughout his body and concentrating into one big, thick, hard, throbbing missile of seed.
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she asked, deadpan.
“Thinking about it,” I shot back.
She laughed, backed out of the driveway, and honked cheerily as she headed around the corner. Then she was gone.
And I was alone. With Caroline’s words echoing in my hangover head.
It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.
If this were a made-for-TV movie, I’d walk toward the edge of the cliff and watch the breakers roll in, casting a strong but sad silhouette against the backdrop of steely blue. The camera would pull back slowly, taking in the beautiful but empty house.
I went into the kitchen to make a peanut butter sandwich.
But those words worked on me all day. And damn if they didn’t work my belly into a mess of knots.
Chapter fifteen
I paced. I plotted. I plotzed.
I padded in circles around the house, adjusting Post-its on the wall where Caroline had left notes for the contractor, making sure they were at ninety-degree angles and flush with the others in their row.
After Caroline left, I couldn’t stop thinking about her parting words. Damn her and her witchy ways.
I stared down the dolls in the dining room that Jessica still hadn’t taken home, and fired off a text that said that if she didn’t come and get the psychotic army they would be marched lemminglike toward the cliffs. She responded with a very specific finger gesture.
I organized the Johnny Mathis albums, which had been relocated from the fireplace to the built-ins on either side. I arranged them by style (Christmas and otherwise) and then by date, making them easily accessible whether you were searching by time line or by season. Alphabetical when possible. Did I Dewey decimal myself in order to keep my brain occupied? Perhaps. But Dewey brought to mind a very particular person who was determined to cross-reference himself right out of the stacks, smack dab into the romance section.
There was a sudden crack of thunder, and when I looked out the picture window I saw lightning stab the sea. Great. The rain that had been promised all week was finally rolling in. The wind was picking up, assaulting the hanging baskets of ferns on the back porch.
I curled my knees underneath me on the couch, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and huddling inward. I’d changed into my pajamas when I realized I wanted nothing more than a good sulk tonight. But the white V-neck T-shirt and cotton panties weren’t keeping me very warm. Luckily I knew where to find a giant pair of tube socks, and I’d pulled them up past my knees, tugging them up even farther now to fend off the chill.
My eyes roamed the room and stopped on the fireplace. Hey, Contractor Joe told me the chimney was sound and safe to use. Hey, there’s a bunch of wood there that looks dry and brittle. Hey, Viv, make a fire.
So I did.
I grew up camping, so I can make a fire with three sticks and a string. I opened the flue, crumpled up some newspapers, and shoved them underneath the old iron grate, which could hold a fire large enough to roast a beast. I stacked kindling, breaking off some of the smaller bits of bark to make a little fire nest, making sure there was enough room for the air to get through.
That’s what novice fire builders forget about. For the fire to burn long and bright and stay hot, you need a little space. A little room to breathe. But not too much space, or the fire will go out.
Shaking my head as deep thoughts began to poke through again, I struck a match and lit the paper below the grate. The kindling above began to catch, crackling and popping. Laying two larger logs on top, and continuing to feed twigs and snapped-off pieces below, within minutes I had a large blaze going, sending out its warmth and beginning to take the chill off the room. Keeping the area clear in front of the fire, I set the screen to the side so I could enjoy the view.
I curled back onto the couch, watching as the fire grew, illuminating the approaching dusk with a radiant glow. Embers gleamed brightly underneath the blaze, ruby red and cheery orange.
But I wasn’t cheery. My stomach was still in knots. No one else seemed to see the romance novel that I was still convinced I was starring in. Or they did, but they didn’t think the cowboy was the hero. Was I still convinced?
Dammit. Double dammit.
Confusion whirled with anger and frustration. Resignation?
But when I saw Hank’s truck speed around the corner of the house and stop next to the barn?
Pure, unadulterated lust took center stage.
I thought about nothing at all as I crashed through the house and out the back door, crossing the yard with a single intent.
Must. Have. Now.
He’d already stripped down, the shirt tossed casually aside as you do when you have hay to pitch, and the sight of his suntanned skin and muscles for days made me quicken my pace.
The chickens knew better than to get in my way; they cleared a path straight through to the barn as I walked so fast my boobs jiggled. They’ll do that when you’re a double D and you left your bra on the floor upstairs. See, it’s all how it’s supposed to be! Did I randomly forget my bra earlier that day, or did some unknown hand guide me, eliminating bra clasps for frantic fingers to fumble over?
Predestined. Preordained. There just better not be any premature what-have-you, ’cuz this shit was going down. And God willing, so was he.
I entered the barn, striking what I thought was a particularly fetching pose with one hand poised over my head, the other on my waist, leaning against the doorway, hips jutted forward, back arched, girls pitched forth like an offering.
He was pitching hay down from the loft. So strong, so virile, sweat already gleaming on his stunning hand-of-God-etched back, his hips narrowing into a waist I wanted to wrap my legs around and ride off into a sexual sunset.
Speaking of sunset, it cut through the impending clouds, golden and glowing across the barn floor, highlighting the scattering of hay, the rustic planks, the brown poop.
Um, what?
It’s a barn. That’s where the poop lives.
Well, I could breathe through my nose. And pretty soon I’d be panting, so no matter. I returned my gaze to Hank.
Yeah, concentrate on him. His hands sliding up and down the handle, gripping the shaft and turning into the upstroke. Aw yeah.
I waited for him to turn around and see me, to see me and leap down from the hayloft, his eyes burning hot and wild, his blood racing throughout his body and concentrating into one big, thick, hard, throbbing missile of seed.
