long enough to make sure I wouldn’t pitch face-first into the pile of dirty snow he’d shoveled to the sides of his driveway. It was impossible to restrain a smile, though, and he answered it with an unguarded friendliness I’d rarely seen. When he was goofing around with his teammates, he unlocked like this, but seldom with anyone else.
He went ahead to open the door, then he stepped back so I could come in. A flick of his wrist turned the overhead light on, and I saw what Avery might complain about. Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, and there were tools everywhere, along with plastic sheeting. Raw beams showed through the wall he’d knocked down, and his kitchen had only a subfloor, while the hardwoods in the living and dining room needed refinishing. But I saw potential in the chaos; I spun in a slow circle. He’d already done a lot, considering it had only been a few months since he bought the place.
“It’s a mess,” he said, seeming slightly crestfallen, as if he’d expected there to be more tangible progress.
“No, I can envision how it’ll eventually look. What’s next in the dining room?”
He studied me for a few seconds, likely checking that I wasn’t feigning interest. Then he started a monologue on moldings, sparkling with enthusiasm for the project. He told me all about eighty versus a hundred grit sandpaper, that you could use a putty knife to work in tight corners, and how important it was to start with paper that fit the wood. I had zero experience with home repair, but he made it seem appealing. Of course, that could be his general hotness talking.
When he finally lost steam, he wore a chagrined look. “But you probably didn’t want to hear all of that. Sorry for boring you.”
“I did or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“You’re a strange girl.” He shook his head, smiling.
“I pride myself on it.” Moving a few paces toward the kitchen, I grinned at Rob. “So basically, when you said you didn’t feel like cooking, you meant heating soup on that hot plate.”
His kitchen was wrecked—no stove, ancient refrigerator, subflooring and all of the cabinets had been torn off. I’d be surprised if he had running water in there. Plastic draped the cupboards, giving the room a serial-killer vibe. But before my dad left, we’d had enough contractors in the house for me to understand this was par for the course.
“Pretty much. Though don’t underestimate the hot plate. You can do a lot in a wok.”
Smiling up at him, I teased, “Tell me more.”
“You’re making fun of me.” The warmth drained from his expression, and I didn’t understand until that moment how it felt to have Rob shine for me until the light went out.
“I am not. I’m seriously impressed you can cook anything on a hot plate.”
“It’s not that big a deal.” He was tentative, and I wondered if he’d always been this unsure of himself.
To the best of my recollection, Rob had never been a talker. He didn’t lead when he hung out with his sports buddies, and he didn’t say much when they joked around. That left me with little to go on, no sense of his ordinary self. Maybe he was always like this?
“Stop trying to decide what amazes me.” I poked him in the side. “I also gasp in awe over monkeys riding bicycles and parrots cussing in Portuguese.”
“Who doesn’t?” But his eyes had lightened, a faint smile playing at the corners of his truly kissable mouth, perfectly shaped in a manly bow.
If I didn’t say something, fast, the next words out of his mouth would be, I’ll run you home. “If you want, I can help with the sanding. That’s low-skill work, right?”
Rob stared at me. “It’s Saturday night. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
I wasn’t dressed for manual labor, but I didn’t want to leave. This had all the earmarks of a scenario I’d dreamt up multiple times in high school. Silently, I chided myself, He has a girlfriend. Be cool. You can be friends with Rob. It’s not a huge thing.
“Debatable. My mom’s out, so I’d just be watching cable.”
“If you say so.” He sounded skeptical, but he got the sandpaper and showed me how to use it like a pro.
I shrugged out of my jacket and glanced down at my sweater. “Do you have anything I could put over this?”
Though I hadn’t meant to draw attention to my boobs, he followed my gaze, and if I weren’t crazy, his gaze lingered for a beat too long, then a flush colored his cheeks, creeping toward his ears. Relatively few guys my age could be embarrassed by that; the vast majority were shameless. I loved that Rob wasn’t. There was a solid goodness about him that reminded me of Nadia, though not in a Single White Female sort of way.
“Sure, let me get you a work shirt.”
Once I had plaid flannel, his favorite thing, apparently, I went into the kitchen to swap shirts. Rob didn’t expect that, so when I came around the corner rolling up the sleeves, his eyes widened. “You could wear that as a dress,” he blurted.
“I suspect I’d be cold.”
“Do you want me to turn on some music?”
“Good idea.”
“What do you like?” That was the second time he’d asked me that tonight, more than any guy I’d ever dated, truth be told.
“Surprise me.”
He clicked his iPod into a dock safely stashed on a high shelf. The dining room had a hutch built into the wall, and I could picture how it would look once he refinished it, gleaming with age and care. It was the perfect place for a woman to display her fancy dishes. Not that I had any, but I admired beautiful craftsmanship. Rob fiddled with his music player, then Blue October popped from the speakers. I’d heard “Hate Me” before, but it wasn’t the kind of song I associated with Rob. If anyone had asked, I would’ve guessed uncomplicated country, maybe Garth Brooks or Shania Twain.
“I like this,” I said. “Sad, though. Do you have ‘Sound of Pulling Heaven Down’?”
He nodded. “It’s next in the playlist.”
I looked forward to learning what Rob listened to, left to his own devices. And he said Avery’s never been here, so you’re learning something about him she doesn’t know. After pulling off my boots, I got to work, sanding as Rob had showed me. It was hard on my back and knees, but there was an odd satisfaction in smoothing away the damage from years of neglect.
After working for a while in silence, I said, “There are deeper scratches here and they’re not coming off.”
Rob stopped what he was doing and knelt beside me to examine the baseboard. “Normally you sand with the grain, but you can go across at a forty-five-degree angle to work those down. We’ll go over the whole thing with a finer grit paper later anyway.”
We? Mentally I questioned the pronoun but I wasn’t silly enough to do it out loud. That would only make him tighten up again and if he let me, I’d definitely help out another time. Though I could build a website from the ground up in my sleep, I was unclear on what he meant—a ninety-degree angle was a
