meets the wall.
“You said yourself you aren’t handy. I just want to make sure the backsplash and counters aren’t ruined today.”
“Wouldn’t it have been smarter to put the backsplash and the counters in after you painted?” I check out the paint color he chose for the kitchen. The smoky-blue color will go great with the speckled gray, silver, and blue granite of the countertop and the glossy white tile for the backsplash, which has pieces of blue and gray glass mixed in.
“That was the plan, but the counters showed up, so I put them in, and then I couldn’t stand looking at the yellow backsplash anymore, so I ripped it out and put in the new stuff.”
“Wait, you did all this yourself?” I look around his kitchen, and I’m seriously impressed. The space is open all the way to the living room, and a large peninsula divides the two rooms. He has state-of-the-art appliances, a double fridge that I would never be able to keep stocked, an oven built into the wall, a microwave under the counter, and a five-burner gas range in the peninsula. This morning he made me french toast, bacon, and eggs on a cast-iron griddle after I showed up, and we ate while sitting at the island in his kitchen. I don’t know if it was his cooking or just being in his company, but it was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.
“Baby, I’m a contractor. It’s my job to remodel shit. I’m not going to pay someone else to do work I can do myself.”
“Okay, but it’s still impressive,” I mutter, and he smiles at me as he adds a sheet of plastic and even more blue tape to the backsplash. “I’m starting to get offended by the amount of plastic and tape you’re using.”
He laughs, tossing back his head. He has a great laugh, rich and deep. I could listen to him laugh forever. I also like how he looks when he laughs, the way his big shoulders shake and his eyes light up. Frick, I just really like him.
“Just being safe. Anyway, I’m done.” He rips off the tape and tosses the roll to the counter. “Are you ready to paint?”
“I guess.” I shrug.
“Do you wanna borrow a shirt?” I look down at my old T-shirt, the same one I had on last night when he came over, and shake my head. “Then let’s get to work.” He comes over to where I’m standing and takes the can of paint from me. He then pries it open, mixes it, and dumps some into a painting tray. When he’s done, he hands me a small angled brush. “We’ll start on the edges. You take the bottom, and I’ll take the top. Once we get them all done, we’ll add another coat; then I’ll hit the rest with the roller to finish it out.”
“Sounds easy enough, and I’m a pro at highlights, so this can’t be much different.”
“Not sure coloring someone’s hair and painting a wall are the same, but I guess we’ll find out.” He grins. I grin back, then watch what he does before I start on the other side of the kitchen. “Did you let your family know I’m coming to dinner?”
I bite my lip hard at the reminder he’s coming to my parents’ house with me this evening. “Not yet, but I’ll let my mom know after we’re done here.”
“I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
I stop painting so I can turn to look at him. “She cooks for an army. I always end up taking home leftovers. Plus, she loves feeding people. She’ll be happy to have another person to push food on.”
“Your mom sounds like my mom. Being southern, she thinks of food as love.”
“It kind of is, isn’t it?” I go back to painting. “My parents’ kitchen was where we congregated when I was growing up. It was where we talked, where we spent time together, even when we were all busy doing our own thing. It’s where we got advice when we had a problem, or just spent time laughing. Most of our time together as a family was spent over a meal or while preparing one.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” I say smugly.
“You’re a woman, so I guess you probably think that’s true.” Even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Word of advice: you might not want to annoy me when I have a paintbrush in my hand,”