Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 21056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Or maybe that was because I was seeing Marcus in a totally different light than I should have?
Since I wasn’t starting at the firm for a while yet, that left my days wide open, and most of them ended up revolving around the house.
Around Marcus.
He’d already started the renovations before I arrived, and so I kept myself busy by going room to room and packing everything up.
But I’d find myself watching him make the place sell-ready. Fresh paint in neutral tones, new hardware on the cabinets, sanding down the scuffed hardwood in the living room and hallway, and replacing a few warped baseboards that had been bugging him for years.
“Gives me something to focus on besides the empty rooms,” he’d said once when he saw me watching him.
I threw myself into packing up a lifetime of memories. I hated how my mother had left so much stuff, but it wasn’t a topic I was going to ask her about, wasn’t something I even cared to know.
My mind was awash with so many questions on how things were permanently changed now that I was just going through the motions. I’d rather help Marcus pack it all up than leave him to deal with the frustration of doing it alone.
Mornings were gentle. I’d wake to the sound of him moving downstairs, smell the coffee brewing, and then hear tools clinking as he prepared for the day.
I’d come down in leggings and an old T-shirt, hair in a messy bun and find him already deep in whatever project he’d picked for the day.
And when I needed a break from packing, he’d stay silent as he handed me a brush or a putty knife like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The first real afternoon we spent working together, we tackled the kitchen cabinets. He’d pulled the doors off, and now we were sanding the frames, dust hanging thick in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
I was on my knees, working a sanding block along the lower cabinets, when he stepped over me to reach the upper ones. His thigh brushed my shoulder. I felt how firm and warm it was through his jeans.
He steadied himself with a hand on the counter right above me. For a second, his leg pressed against my back, solid and unyielding.
“Sorry,” he muttered, but he didn’t move right away.
I glanced up and saw he was looking down at me, his gray eyes shadowed under the brim of his ball cap. Dust clung to the sweat on his forearms, darkening the hair there. My mouth went dry.
“No problem,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
He held my gaze a beat longer then stepped back. Warmth spread through my blood and settled deep in my core, disconcerting but oh so right.
Evenings stretched long. We’d work until the light failed, then clean up, crack open beers or pour wine, order pizza, and sit on the back deck while the cicadas screamed in the trees.
One night after we’d finished priming the hallway walls, we collapsed onto the old porch swing with a bottle of red between us. My legs were stretched out, bare feet propped on the railing. His were planted wide, one arm slung along the back of the swing. Our shoulders almost touched.
I took a sip. The wine was tart on my tongue. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do after you sell this place?” He’d said he wanted something more manageable, something with a little land around it, but I wanted to know more. I wanted to hear all of it.
He shrugged. “Buy something smaller. Maybe a cabin out by the lake. Somewhere quiet. Room for a workshop.”
“Sounds nice.” I tilted my head toward him. “No plans to… I don’t know, date again? Start over?”
He let out a short, dry laugh. “Haven’t thought that far. Been a while since anyone caught my eye.”
I studied the wine in my glass. “Did you ever feel like… something was missing?”
He went still. For a long moment, the only sound was the creak of the swing chains and the distant drone of traffic. He exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Felt it for years before it ended. We stopped talking about anything real. We stopped connecting. Little things first, like schedules, who forgot to buy milk, who was too tired to talk after dinner. Then it was bigger. She needed more than routine. Needed more than I could give her, apparently.” His voice was rough and unguarded.
I felt the weight of it settle in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“I’m glad you didn’t know. That’s not shit you should ever have to worry about.”
I met his eyes. “What about you? Did you ever feel like something was missing even before it ended?”
Another long pause. He took a swallow of wine straight from the bottle.