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 full corner, so...
“Like this?”
“Almost.” He put his hands over mine and adjusted my strokes. His palms were big and rough, completely covering my fingers. Until just then, I didn’t realize how much I liked big guys; in Michigan, I’d mostly dated lean, pretty ones, though that was a kind interpretation of my social life. I specialized in partying and in hookups, not relationships. My mom’s misery biased me early on against the wisdom of letting a guy matter deep down.
“Okay, I’ve got it.” My arms actually hurt from the pressure, however. Bonus, helping Rob might tone my biceps. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” He retreated to his corner to work, and the iPod cycled through five more songs, an eclectic mix of David Gray, Josh Ritter, a band I’d never heard of—Good Old War—along with Snow Patrol, and most surprising of all, Enya. When she came on, singing about the evening star, my head jerked up and I stared at Rob. Never in a thousand years would I have credited this; I wondered if his football buddies knew.
He met my look with a sheepish shrug. “Her voice is haunting.”
I didn’t disagree, even if my tastes ranged more toward top forty. “I’m not a music snob, dude. In fact, I’ve lost all credit with most of my friends because, if it comes on the radio, nine times out of ten, I like it, even if critics say it’s terrible.”
“Miley Cyrus?” he challenged.
“Hey, ‘Wrecking Ball’ rocks. And I’ve been known to scrub my bathtub to ‘Party in the U.S.A.’” I wasn’t ashamed of liking popular tunes, so his grin didn’t bother me.
“Ke$ha?”
“Not my fave, but I don’t hate her. The duet with Pitbull is catchy, even if it doesn’t make any sense.”
As we sanded, he asked about random artists until I disclosed that there were only three pop songs I’d shut off: “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, “Barbra Streisand” by Duck Sauce and “Loca People” by Sak Noel. Otherwise, I didn’t have elevated tastes or think some bands were cooler or more important than others.
“For some reason, I thought you’d be more like Nadia. She’s into stuff that hasn’t been discovered yet.”
“Are you calling her a hipster?”
Rob lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “If the chunky ankle boot fits...”
Given my best friend’s penchant for indie music and microbrewed beer, he wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t let him get off scot-free. “Like you should talk. I never heard of Good Old War until you played that song.”
“‘Looking for Shelter’? It’s a good one. And actually, Nadia was listening to them before she left for college. So—”
“You disclaim any credit for finding them. Suspicious.” I pretended to narrow my eyes, studying him in mock assessment. “I bet you could dig up indie bands if you tried.”
“Luckily I don’t have to. Nadia sends me emails with playlists she’s made, stuff she thinks I’ll like. She gets it right half the time.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He tilted his head. “Why would you?”
Once he asked, I felt like a dipshit. “You make a valid point.”
At that point, silence seemed like the best option, so I worked my way to the corner. The molding looked a lot better just from what I’d already done; Rob had finished two walls to my one. When I sat back on my knees, he straightened and came over to give me a hand up. With an easy tug, he hauled me upright. The motion brought me a little too close; I thumped against his chest and for a confused moment, I breathed in the clean scent of him, an incredible mix of wood shavings and wintry air.
“Sorry about that. We should take a break or you’ll get cramps. Want a beer?”
“Not really. Water’s fine.”
Rob opened a bottle and got me a glass of ice water, then he beckoned from the stairs. Curious, I followed him up; the hall was dark and cold, but then he opened a door, and I discovered the one room he’d completed. It was a good size, divided into living and sleeping, which made sense. I suspected this was where Rob spent his time if he wasn’t working. On the opposite wall, beside the window, he had a full-sized bed with a nightstand beside it, and he was using a bookshelf at the foot to divide the space. A couple of chairs sat centered on the other side, facing a small entertainment center to the left of the door.
None of the furniture in here was prefab; everything was real wood, polished to a high gloss. The floor gleamed around the edges of the area rug, and I dug my toes into the green plush. He’d painted the walls caramel, though he’d call it light brown, and there were blinds on the windows, unlike the rest of the house. An electric fireplace hung on one wall, providing light and warmth. I walked across the room to run my hand over the table, admiring the smooth finish.
“You like it?” he asked.
“Definitely, it’s great.” There were no drawers, only a lower shelf, but Rob didn’t have much clutter. The bookshelf held only a few magazines, along with a handful of change, receipts, bits and bobs he must’ve pulled out of his pockets.
His smile twisted me up. “That was the first thing I ever made. The bed’s mine, too. I put it together from salvage.”
Startled, I took a closer look; it was a slatted headboard, stained dark, attached to an impressive platform bed. But on closer inspection, I could see how he’d taken two railroad ties and covered them with plywood. Ingenious, really.
“Wow, you could seriously design furniture.”
“That’s the dream.” But he didn’t sound like he believed anyone would pay him for it. I totally would, though. It was solid and beautiful, just like Rob.
“How much to build me a bed like yours?”
I’d surprised him in the middle of a swig of beer. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, how much? My mom and I were just talking about redecorating my room.” We hadn’t mentioned a new bed, but it was my money.
“Twin or
