When he doesn’t take the unspoken hint, I say, “I don’t need help.”
I expect him to turn and go, but he doesn’t. Bracing his shoulder against the doorjamb, he crosses his arms over his chest and watches me. I ignore him, balance the door, line up the hinge with the predril ed holes, and attempt to twist the screws in partway by hand.
The first screw doesn’t catch, pops out of the hinge and flies across the ceramic tile floor, stopping when it bumps against his boot. Without missing a beat I grab another screw and repeat the process, with an identical result. “Holy Moses,” I mutter, which earns a rude laugh from Reid as he leans to pick up the screws at his feet. He jingles them in his hand like Dad does with loose change.
“Any time you want me to hold something, or screw something, just let me know.”
Wonderful. A patented Reid Alexander double entendre.
Final y, the screws catch, and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks while wondering how much trouble I’d be in if I stood up and kicked him in the shin with my steel-toed boot.
Hard.
Chapter 12
REID
I think she seriously wants to strangle me right now. I haven’t decided if that’s how I want her to feel or not.
I watch her attach the third cabinet door—the one with the hinges on the right. She’s left-handed, so it’s easy enough for her. The last thing she wants is my assistance.
I’m weighing the desire to keep her irritation level as high as possible against the suspicion that the longer I loiter in the doorway, the higher the likelihood she’l refuse to sign my timesheet at 3:00.
She sighs before lining up the hinges with the last door, and I imagine the words threading through her head as she pleads with the hardware to cooperate. The first time it begins to angle off course, I step up and take it from her, our fingers brushing. She jumps like my hand is fire, recovers quickly and begins twisting the screws in by hand.
When they’re in as far as they can go without the screwdriver’s assistance, she picks up the tool and drives them in the rest of the way as I brace the door. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
I hate that watching her handle that screwdriver is turning me on.
I hate that I’m waiting for an excuse to touch her again.
I hate that I narrowly resisted begging her to continue singing.
Fol owing her to the next bathroom, I’m staring at the curved lines of her calves and the not-quite imperceptible sway of her hips (hidden under another oversized t-shirt—
this one says D.A.R.E.). I get this sudden impression that she’s psychic because I swear to God—her ears are darkening like she can read my mind. So I concentrate harder.
When she sets the tool on the counter, I pick it up. “I’l do the next one,” I say when she turns and sees me holding it.
“You’re supposed to be teaching me, right?” Her mouth snaps closed and she spins back around to select the door. There are only two doors to instal in this microscopic bathroom that al three Diego kids wil share. The entire room would fit inside my shower.
Two minutes later: I admit that I thought this whole working-with-tools thing would be easier than it is. Getting the damned screw to stay connected with the driver bit is a bitch. One interesting note, though—despite some of my more colorful curses, it’s obvious Dori is enjoying the fact that I don’t have the innate ability to wield a ratchet screwdriver with ease. Her smile is a little too smug for my liking.
“I guess I’m not a natural at this type of screwing,” I say, and my God, her face. I’ve just discovered the secret to spreading the blush everywhere.
***
“Okay, I don’t get it. So… she’s hot, or not?” John asks.
We’re hanging out on the terrace of his 22nd floor apartment on Olympic, lounging on Adirondack chairs, a cold six-pack on the glazed concrete between us.
Downtown is alive and beckoning, but I’ve persuaded him, for the time being, to take a break for one night.
“It’s hard to say,” I answer, and he shoots me a confused look, tipping back the bottle in his hand as I stare out over the cityscape. For some reason, I mentioned something about Dori, and now, I’d rather drop it.
“Tel me more about the apartment,” I say. For the past couple of weeks, John’s been trying to convince me to rent the penthouse suite that’s opening up a few floors above him. I told him I’d think about it, though I’m not sure I want to be that near John 24/7. He starts rattling off square footage and view and party possibilities while I’m trying not to answer his question in my head.
Dori Cantrel : hot or not?
She’s nothing like my usual fare. Nothing at al .
But that doesn’t exactly answer the question, does it?
*** *** ***
Dori
“I miss you.” I try not to sound like I’m pouting, but I feel Deb’s absence more than I ever have. “You’re so far away now.” Technical y, she’s been gone for eight years, but she did her pre-med undergrad and med school close to home.
Now she’s in a different time zone, and the hours she Now she’s in a different time zone, and the hours she keeps are impossible to figure out. Working a mind-numbing eighty hours a week at the hospital, she has no consistent schedule. Texting or cal ing me whenever she has five minutes has become the norm, if she isn’t spending that five minutes eating or sleeping.
“I know, baby girl.” She sounds exhausted and I feel contrite for sulking. “I miss you, too.”
“How’s, um, Bradford?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I read the silence between us. “Dori, can you keep a secret?”