bathroom, but over the last hour and a half or so she’d gotten a real clear sense, and the fact was, Will’s body was . . . effective. Effective at doing things like holding tools and fixtures, yes. But also effective at looking fantastic while doing such things. Thirty minutes ago, Nora had stood on the edge of this shower with a drill in her hand (Will was also effective at power-tool-use instruction, and at letting Nora do things herself), her partner-in-home-improvement holding up the rod that was destined to change her shower experience forever. One stray glance and Nora had caught sight of the narrow strip of skin exposed at his waist—the curve of his lean, strong hips, the line of dark hair above the button of his jeans.
She’d almost fallen right into the tub.
“Whoa, there,” Will had said, dropping one arm to steady her. So, another point for his hands in the effective column, especially since she was pretty sure she could still feel the spot on her waist where he’d touched her.
She lowered her arms, taking the occasion to use her own decidedly less effective hands to fan her face. She needed to look normal when she reopened this shower curtain, and not like a woman who was wondering about what it would be like to fit a (specific) man into this newly expanded space.
But also, in here, would he be able to—?
“You ever coming out?” he said.
“I might stay in here,” she said, relieved to sound like she was joking, and not like she was halfway to a full set of deeply inappropriate fantasies. “There’s so much new ground to explore!”
Another chuckle, some more tool clinking, and Nora took a few deep breaths before finally settling herself enough to face him. She pulled back the curtain, smiling broadly (innocently!).
He straightened from where he’d bent to close the lid of his toolbox. “Happy?” he asked tipping his chin up toward the rod.
He asked it lightly, casually. But she knew Will better now—not only from the time she’d spent with him over the last couple of hours, but from the weeks she’d watched him and talked to him while they’d been feuding—and she had the sense that things weren’t always what they seemed, even when they seemed effortless. During their first project—the hand-towel fixture—Nora had had a brief but embarrassing moment of pause, and Will had done his best to act entirely unfazed.
“I don’t know why this feels so weird, to do this,” she’d said, Will’s drill resting heavily on her thigh. “It’s like . . . this wall has always looked exactly the same.”
“We don’t have to,” Will had said, shrugging. “You’ve still got that thing over on your counter.”
Nora had looked over at the cord-tangling, toe-crushing towel rack and had taken a deep breath. “Nope,” she’d muttered, and held up the drill. But after that, she could tell Will had been cautious, almost as if he worried that she’d blame him if she ended up regretting any of the changes.
“Still good?” he’d ask, every time they entered some new phase of it. He wouldn’t even look at her as he said it; he’d ask it like it was all part of the checklist. But behind it was something serious, something focused.
Something kind.
Now, Nora stepped over the lip of the shower, determined to alleviate any of his concern over their shared project. She reached out and grabbed the old towel rack from the counter. “I’m thrilled,” she said, holding it up. “Thrilled enough to send this thing to the garbage.”
Probably she wouldn’t actually send it to the garbage; Nonna would hate that. But she didn’t want to say so to Will. She set it gently down on the floor between the vanity and the toilet, promising herself that she’d deal with it later. Surely someone else had need for a deeply annoying, vaguely threatening household accessory.
When she looked back up, Will’s glasses caught the light from overhead, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the lenses.
“What?”
“You’ve got . . . uh.” She pointed in the direction of her own eyes, and Will furrowed his brow, then turned toward the mirror, leaning in.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and she liked the laugh that came out—part amusement, part embarrassment. “It’s drywall dust. Let me clean them off real quick.”
When he pulled them away from his face, Nora could see—small bathroom, striking again!—the pink indentations left on either side of his nose, and for some reason that felt so tender and