“Nope. Just a wife.” His curt tone is as jarring as his words.
“You’re married?” I glance down at his left hand. It’s as bare as it was the other day. Not even a white line where a wedding band should be.
“Divorced.” He impatiently sets down the toolbox, and I realize I haven’t moved since he said the word wife. “Do you need me to do that?”
“No. Sorry.” I twist the key and push open the door. A burst of honeysuckle fills my nose, thanks to the candle warmer I have plugged in. The scent is my favorite because it reminds me of the plants that hang along Doreen’s wooden fence surrounding the pool. Mom always let Doreen have me one month out of the summer, and my cousins and I would splash and play until our fingers wrinkled. I quit going when I turned fourteen, too interested in boys and friends to be bothered with family.
“It’s clean, so go ahead and do whatever you need to,” I mutter, wishing I could go back and knock some sense into my younger self. Apart from coming to my pawpaw’s funeral, for fifteen years I let my only contact with Doreen be quick phone calls and an occasional Christmas present. Yet, despite my neglect, she took me in and lifted me onto my feet without a second thought.
I set my purse on the kitchen counter and watch as Dillon hauls in a six-foot ladder. He’s careful not to bump or scrape the floors or walls, which makes me understand a little why Doreen gives his family all her business. Well, that and his dad being Uncle Jim’s fishing buddy.
The reminder nips at my conscience as Doreen’s admonishment comes back to me: “I would think that you, after all the hurt you’ve experienced over the past few months, would offer a little grace back to someone who is hurting, too.”
Yeah, yeah, okay. Dillon is divorced, and having watched my mom go through three nasty ones, I know it’s a vicious way to end a relationship.
I grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge and go to offer him one when I hear a rattle and a curse coming from the bathroom. “Need some help?” I call, determined to be the bigger person.
Another rattle and then a grumbly, “Yes. Can you hold this ladder still?”
“Sure thing.” I make my way to the bathroom and have to hold in my amusement. Dillon is standing on the second-to-top rung, bracing himself against the wall while the ladder is teetering to the left. I quickly hold it secure. “You should really be more careful, you know.”
He glances down at me. “And here I got the impression that you wouldn’t mind seeing me fall a few notches.”
“Whyever would you think that?” I ask innocently even though the image is rather appealing.
He stretches out and makes his first mark with a pencil. “Our last encounter didn’t exactly lend to your being the newest member of my fan club.”
“True, but I’ve chosen not to hold your bad behavior against you.”
“See, that’s where we differ.” He finishes half of the circle and has to readjust to get to the other side. “You think telling someone the truth is bad behavior, whereas I think skirting your real thoughts and feelings is the most hateful thing you can do to another person.”
I shouldn’t take his words as a snub, but I do. “Sometimes the truth does more damage than a lie.” Or in my case, a small little white lie that isn’t hurting anyone. In fact, it’s helping a whole group of people.
“So says every liar I know.”
“Hey! Do you want me to hold this ladder or not?”
He actually chuckles, and it surprises me with how nice the sound is. “Tell you what, you give me one example of how a lie made a situation better and I’ll stand corrected.” He finishes his pencil loop and straightens his body so that I can let go of the ladder without him falling.
I’m still trying to come up with an answer that won’t incriminate me when his work boot hits the tile floor. Sandwiched in the tiny bathroom, he’s closer than I expect, our hips only a foot away. I try to back up, but my backside hits the sink.
“Can’t think of anything, can you?” His voice is smug, as if he doesn’t notice our awkward proximity.
Unfortunately, I do notice, a little too much. I slide to the left, eager to put even an inch more of distance between us, when a flash of color makes me freeze. “They’re brown,” I say with a catch to my voice.
“What?”
“Your eyes.” I study them, fascinated, and lean in close enough that I feel his breath come faster. “With gold flecks that look like little floating stars.”
“Little floating stars?” His surprise is mixed with jest, and I’m immediately horrified.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Good, because it sounded like you were about to write a sonnet about my eye color.” He’s still grinning, which only causes my face to flush.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” It’s then that I realize our chests are practically touching and I stumble back. “My awe has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the weird way my mind works.”
“Sure it does.” He draws out his words, and even though I can tell by the glimmer of amusement in his gaze that he’s messing with me, I still succumb to his goading.
“Seriously. I never notice eye color. Ever. I’ll notice a tiny scar someone got when they were three or a stray hair they missed when they shaved. But never the color of their eyes.”
Dillon rests his elbow on the ladder rung, and I swear his eyes get warmer, like a thick cup of hot chocolate I want to swim in. “So you’re telling me that in twenty-nine years you’ve never once noticed the color of someone’s eyes?”
“Not unless I make a mental note to do so, and even then, it’s a quick check mark. Blue, green, hazel. Usually a very dull detail.” I search my memory bank for Cameron’s and come up empty. It bothers me, almost as much as the fact that Dillon pegged my age to the year. Add in his wealth of knowledge regarding my new employment and suddenly his earlier comments about lying feel very personal. “How is it you know so much about me?”
“I ask.”
“Well, stop.” Stupid Uncle Jim. He raised two boys and obviously requires a lesson in a woman’s need for a little anonymity. “Unless you want me poking into your personal life, too.”
“Go ahead. I have no secrets.” He says it as if he wants me to ask, and it bothers me that I want to know.
Bothers me so much that I slide to the corner, as far as I can away from him, and say, “Well, some of us like our privacy. Please try and respect that.”
“Whatever you want.” His face morphs back into the same irritation he’s worn since I moved out here. He lifts the ladder, turns it sideways, and hauls it through the bathroom door. “Watch the stain tonight and let me know if it grows any.”
I follow him into the living room and out the front door, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill I suddenly feel. “Okay.” I can’t quite place the sick feeling in my stomach. Guilt? Shame? A little of both? Is it really so heartless to ask the guy not to pry into my life? We are strangers after all.
Dillon tosses the ladder into the back of his truck without another word and gives a two-finger salute before he disappears behind the driver’s door.