I let out a shaky breath and enter the kitchen, raking my fingers through my loose, damp hair.
Jesse is outside, doing something to the newly widened opening. There’s sawdust everywhere, a pungent, pleasant smell. Bits of wood and plaster and paint litter my sink, and the new opening seems enormous, stretching from cabinet to cabinet on either side of the sink, and from countertop to ceiling.
Jesse looks up through the open window as I enter the kitchen, and freezes in the act of whatever it is he’s doing. His eyes lock on me, and then rake slowly, deliberately downward, pausing at chest and hips, and then rake upward just as slowly—openly ogling me.
“Have mercy,” he murmurs under his breath.
The open, honest heat in his gaze arrests me as I pause in the doorway. The intensity in his voice freezes my muscles and heats my blood. He still hasn’t looked away, and the tool in his hand drops, forgotten, to the ground at his feet with a thump.
“Uh…hi,” I mutter.
He blinks, remembering he’s staring, and bends to grab his tool from the ground—and whacks his head on the wall on the way down. “Ow—shit!” He straightens, rubbing his head with one hand and clutching the tool with the other. “Hi. You, um. You changed.”
“Yeah, I needed a shower, you know?” Awkward, awkward, Jesus, so awkward. “I hope that’s okay.” Why wouldn’t it be okay for me to shower and change in my own home? I’m acting like a twelve-year-old.
“Okay?” He licks his lips, his eyes raking over me yet again. “Yeah, I don’t mind. At all.”
What to say to that? I have no idea. Flirting is so much harder than it sounds…than it should be…than I remember it being. Because at what point does it stop being flirting and start being overtly hitting on him, or him hitting on me? Do I want him to hit on me? Should I use my ol’ womanly wiles? Bend over just a little to allow a bit of cleavage to spill out? Or stretch to get something from a high shelf so my shorts ride up a certain way? Or should I just play it straight and see what happens?
I have no idea what to do next.
Do something. Say something.
“That’s a big hole,” I blurt, and then immediately wince. “I mean. Um. You widened it a lot.”
He smirks. “Yeah, well, it’s a big window, so you need a pretty sizable opening.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry, though, I always measure three times and cut once. It’ll fit like a glove and look like a million bucks.”
“It looks great so far. There’s so much more light in the kitchen now.”
Really? It looks great so far? It’s a hole in my wall. I growl under my breath at my own stupidity and start pulling out the fixings for dinner. I put some frozen ground beef in the fridge yesterday, thinking I’d make myself a fancy dinner tonight—I have some red and yellow peppers, and some minute rice which, for a single lady, counts as fancy, these days. I try to ignore Jesse as I brown the beef, but it’s not easy.
I feel his eyes on me every single moment. My fridge faces the window, so when I go to retrieve the peppers from the crisper drawer, I have to bend over. It’s a nerve-racking experience. Do I keep my knees together? Should I just crouch? Crouching would be unnatural and awkward. Why did I put these in the bottom-most drawer? I have to bend way over to get them. What’s he doing back there? I don’t dare look—if I look, it’ll be obvious that I’m after his attention. I bet my butt is going to look huge when I bend over. God, this is dumb. Just get the peppers and be done with it, you silly woman.
I’ve never been so self-conscious about doing something as simple and everyday as bending over to get something out of a fridge. But I can feel his gaze; I can feel him watching me. I guarantee he’s not missing a single jiggle or shake as I move around the kitchen preparing this meal. I just wish I knew what he’s thinking. Does he like women built like me? Or is he one of those guys who goes for the stick-thin, fitness model type? If that’s the case, I’m out of luck, because that’s never been me, even at my fittest. Even when I was in the gym three or four days a week lifting and running and doing yoga, I always carried a little extra around the bust, waist, and hips. That extra hit me my senior year of high school and never really left, no matter what I ate or how I worked out, and eventually I just accepted it along with the label “curvy girl.”
I just wish I knew how Jesse likes his women.
I lean over, open the drawer, and pull out the bag of peppers—and I feel the shorts riding up. I feel them sliding between the cheeks of my butt, and I feel the air on my backside, telling me there’s quite a lot of bare skin showing, and that it’s probably obvious what I’m not wearing under the shorts.
I hear a soft groan from behind me, which shifts abruptly into a cough, and when I straighten, Jesse is red in the face.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse, his eyes darting everywhere except my face. “I’m—just—um. Sawdust. Choked on some sawdust.”
There’s no sawdust in the air at all. Was that groan I heard before he started coughing one of appreciation and desire? A girl can dream.
I start dicing the peppers, pausing to stir the meat every now and then, and keeping an eye on the rice as it boils. I’m halfway done with the peppers when Jesse comes back inside. He critically examines the opening, measures it, measures the window again, and then nods to himself.
“Time to mount this bitch,” he says, half to himself, half to me.
My eyes widen, and I almost cut my finger off as I shoot him a glance. “Excuse me?”
He blinks, and then pales. “Ah—um. I—the window. I’m going to install the window now…is…what I meant.”
“Oh.” I stand there at the counter, awkwardly holding the knife in one hand and a yellow pepper in the other. “I thought you were talking to me.”
“I was.” he stammers, backtracking. “Um. I mean. I was talking to you, not about you. I’d never say—ah… I was referring to the window, not you. Time to mount the window. I shouldn’t have—um. I mean.” He slaps his forehead. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
I try to lighten the mood, go for a joke. “Well, I certainly hope that’s not how you talk to women.”
“I never refer to women as bitches unless it’s in reference to my ex, and I sure as hell never use the term ‘mount’,” he says, indignant.
“Well, that’s good to know. It’s not an attractive term.”
He’s back on more solid footing. “No, it definitely lacks sexiness.” He’s silent a moment. “Unlike you.” He says this to me with his eyes on mine, his hands idly toying with the edge of the window.
“Oh, yeah?” I say, a little disingenuously.
“Yeah. The term ‘mount’ is decidedly unsexy.” He pauses again for emphasis. “Unlike you.”
“Unlike me?” Is he calling me sexy?
“Yeah. You don’t lack sexiness.”
I decide it’s probably safest to put the knife down for now. “I—I don’t?” I sound even more shocked than I feel, and endeavor to sound…something like confident. “I mean. Neither do you, if we’re on the subject of sexiness.”
Jesse runs a finger along the upper edge of the window frame. “I don’t think I’ll ever see a Bull’s tank top quite the same way, now that I’ve seen the way you wear one.”
I glance down as if I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Oh, this old thing? It’s comfy, and I’ve had it forever, so I guess it has some sentimental value. It doesn’t quite fit anymore.”
His gaze wanders from mine southward, to my cleavage, lingers there, and then travels back up to mine. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d say it fits you just fine.”
I grin, because I can’t help it. His words make me a little giddy with flattered excitement and anticipation. “It does cling in certain places, doesn’t it?”
He hesitates over his reply. “Ah, yeah. Cling is a good way to put it.” He steals a glance at my hips. “Those shorts come with the tank top?”
I twist away a little, straigh
ten one leg behind me, and look back over my shoulder at my own butt. “Oh, these? Um…? No, I think I bought them as workout shorts when I was in college, back when I had both the courage and the body to wear them out of my own house.”
“Well, I can’t speak to courage, but I’d say, for my part, that you definitely still have the body to wear those shorts wherever the hell you feel like.”
I laugh, a genuine bark of humor. “That’s awful nice of you, Jesse, but I was raised to think shorts ought to at least cover all of my butt to be considered acceptable to wear out of the house.” I tap the undersides of my buttocks, which hang below the edge of the shorts. “As you can clearly see, I’ve outgrown that particular stipulation.”
Once again, he doesn’t hide the blatant way his eyes roam my backside. “Well, it’s working in my favor, that’s for damn sure.” He clears his throat, turns to the window. “I—um. I’ll get this in and get out of your hair.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” I say. “You’re not in my hair.”
“Not yet I’m not,” he says, but it’s under his breath and I don’t think I was meant to hear it.
I pretend I don’t hear it, and go back to cutting up the peppers. The meat is browned now, so I drain it, add the diced peppers, a packet of taco seasoning, and a little extra garlic and cayenne for a kick. A few minutes of tossing that over the heat and it’s done. The rice has been done for a while, so all I have to do now is put together a little salad. Some greens, some cucumbers, celery, tomatoes, baby carrots, some cheese, and it’ll be good to go.
By now, Jesse has the window in and is crouched on the sink fastening it into the space with a screw gun. He has pieces of molding stacked on the counter nearby, and uses a nail gun to fasten molding around the edges, then takes some outside and does the same around the exterior.
Done outside, he returns to the kitchen with a small shop vac, which he uses to suck up all the sawdust and mess, and makes quick work of cleaning up his tools and supplies, returning my kitchen to its original state, plus one new window. This done, he stands in the middle of the kitchen eyeing his handiwork.
“What do you think, Imogen?” he asks, glancing at me. “How do you like your new window?”
I turn the stove off, cover the pan with a lid, and stand beside him. The window is…huge. It lets in acres of daylight, making my little kitchen feel larger, airier, and just…lighter. He reaches forward and rotates the knob to open the window all the way, and immediately a gentle breeze floats through, catching the draft from the open back door and front door.
I just stare at it for a moment, bathing in the cool breeze. My kitchen is utterly transformed, and I’m bizarrely emotional about it.
I try to breathe past it, but I can’t. I’m choked up. My eyes are tearing.
“I know it’s just a stupid window,” I manage, “but you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. Just a little breeze while I’m in here.” I laugh at my own tears. “Sorry, I’m being emotional.”
“It’s more than just the window, I’m guessing.” He bumps his shoulder against mine, as if he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure how or what’s appropriate.
I laugh, sniffle, and wipe at my eyes. “Yeah, you could say that.” I glance at him, and then opt for some of the truth. “When you first came over, you asked if this was a fixer-upper that got away from me.”
“I sure did.”
“That’s fairly close to the truth.” I tug my shorts a little lower and my top a little higher. “My ex-husband had the brilliant idea of buying an older house that needed a little TLC with the idea we could spend our weekends and summers fixing it up. He’s an associate principal at the high school, so he’s got summers off. He’s not exactly a handyman or construction expert, but his idea was that we’d learn together.”
Jesse snorts. “Yeah, that never works.”
“So I discovered.” I sigh. “I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, myself. It seemed like a lot of work, and I’d always had a hard time even getting Nicholas to change a light bulb or fix the leaky sink. Ripping out the linoleum floor and retiling? New windows? New front porch? Sand and restain the hardwood floors? Yeah, good luck. I knew better, but…” I trail off with a shrug.
“But you let him convince you anyway, because you loved him, and nothing ever got done, and finally you divorced his lazy ass?” Jesse guesses.
I laugh. “Pretty close, yeah. Factor in him banging the science teacher and his secretary, consistently telling me I’ve put on a few pounds since we got married…stuff like that. I wouldn’t divorce him just for being lazy. I mean, he worked a lot, but once he got home he turned into a couch potato.”
Jesse’s glare is scary. “He told you you’ve put on weight? He actually said that to you out loud?”
I shrug. “Yeah. A couple times.”
“Is he, like, a super-fit, health-food, gym-rat sort of a guy?”
I laugh until I have to hold my stomach. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” I get myself under control, and try to speak without laughing. “Yeah, no, Nicholas is…he’s Mr. Belding, but thirty-some pounds overweight.”
“But you’re the one who changed?” He shook his head. “The science teacher and the secretary…were they, like, hard up for sex?”
I laugh again, but it’s strained with old pain. “Nope. That’s the hell of it all. The science teacher, the first person he cheated on me with, is thirty, married, and teaches a spin class on Sunday mornings. She’s fit and pretty and her husband is pretty good-looking himself. She has kids, for shit’s sake.” I shake my head and growl. “The secretary is even harder to understand. She’s not even thirty, is a size two, and she has these enormous fake breasts. She could be a contestant on The Bachelor, is what I’m saying. One of the ones who gets voted out in the first two episodes.”
“Is your ex good-looking despite being overweight?” Jesse asks, sounding genuinely baffled. “Like, what is it?”
My laugh is even more pained and forced. “No, not really. Average in pretty much every way. I mean, he’s not downright ugly, but no, he’s not especially good-looking.” I laugh again. “Really makes me wonder what’s wrong with me, and what I was thinking.”
Shit. Self-pity is not attractive.
Jesse winces. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. None of this is my business, and I clearly stepped in a pile of painful crap.”
I touch his bicep. “You’re not an asshole.”
“If you married him, you clearly saw something in him, and I was calling that into question.”
“As well you should. I’ve called it into question myself any number of times.”
“Still, it’s none of my business, and I’ve got no call asking you questions like that.” He gestures at me, a sweep of his hand from head to toe. “I just—I don’t get it. I look at you, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how the hell he justified cheating on you. He’s got all this—” another gesture at me, this time an angry or frustrated stab of his hand, “—waiting for him at home, and he’s banging married women and skanky secretaries?”
I lean against the counter, back to the window, facing Jesse. “Look, I don’t like labeling people. Just because she has fake tits and fucked my husband doesn’t make her a skank. They do seem to actually have a thing, honestly, because they’ve been dating for a while now. Maybe there’s something about her I don’t see—I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve ever tried to get to know her, obviously, I just…I don’t like name-calling or labels, unless I’m talking about Nicholas.”
He shook his head, frowning at me. “You’ve got more grace than I do, if you can say that about the girl who fucked your husband.”
“I just…I’m trying to be the better person. I was loyal. I stayed with him until it was obviously no longer going to work, until it was clear it wasn’t just an indiscretion or two, but an ongoing choice. And yeah, those girls made the choice to sleep with a married man, so they’re not innocent, but the real blame lies with him.” I sigh. “Him, I give a
lot less grace to.”
“Don’t blame you there.” He smiles at me. “Not only is he a lazy, stupid, useless son of a bitch who took on a project he didn’t have the skills or balls to see through, he bought a fixer-upper he couldn’t fix up.”
I laugh, but can’t quite meet his eyes. “That’s funny and sweet of you to say. I’m sure I wasn’t innocent in the situation, though.”
He blows a raspberry. “Oh bullshit. I mean sure, none of us is ever totally innocent. There’s always something we could have said or done or been better at, or something we missed, but in situations like you’re describing, there’s just no excuse. There’s nothing you could ever do to justify or excuse the way that deep-fried bull testicle of an ex of yours treated you.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I turn around and look at my new window. “I love my window, Jesse. I can’t thank you enough. Really, it’s…it’s too much.” I laugh. “Now I have to figure out how to fix the rest of my windows to match.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stand in silence, which Jesse eventually breaks. “I, um—your food is getting cold, and it smells pretty good.” At that moment, his stomach rumbles loudly, and he laughs to cover it. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to stop for lunch today, and my stomach is letting me know it doesn’t appreciate it.”
I would like to say I hesitated, that I thought it out, that I asked myself if I was really in a place to be doing this, but…I can’t honestly say that’s the truth.
The moment his tummy rumbled and he murmured his excuse, I was formulating in my head how to ask him to stay.
I gesture at the pan. “I, uh…I have more than I can eat by myself.” It’s true, although I’d done it on purpose out of habit, so I’d have leftovers during the week; I meet his eyes, tendering a hesitant, nervous smile. “Do you want to stay and eat with me?”
He blinks. “I—” he broke off, hesitating.
“If you don’t have other plans, I mean. I, um—I guess you have other plans, huh? A hot single guy like you is probably on a waitlist for dates,” I stammer, fumbling to cover my nerves. “I mean, it’s nothing special, but you’re—you know. You’re more than welcome to eat me. Eat with me! Shit. I mean—I mean eat with me.” Mortification rolls through me. “God, shoot me.”