“Nice place,” he says, looking over the top of my head at my house, and happiness that he likes it engulfs my chest, making it warm.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
His head tips down toward me, and his eyes go soft in a way I wouldn’t think possible coming from him. But I see it, and I want to see it again and again and again. Before I can do anything—probably something stupid, like throw myself at him—he turns and opens the back door, grabbing the pizzas.
“Lead the way.”
Without a word, I turn on my sneaker-covered feet and head up the stairs and right inside, where I stoop to pick up Dizzy before he can escape.
“You need to lock up when you leave,” he rumbles behind me as he follows me inside the house, shutting the door, and I look at him over my shoulder.
“It’s light outside,” I tell him.
His brows draw together, making him look sinister, and I hold Dizzy a little closer to my chest when I feel his scary energy fill the room. “The sun being out isn’t going to stop some sick motherfucker from breaking into your house. Do you know what will?” he questions, not giving me a chance to answer before he does, leaning in close. “A fucking locked door.”
“I’ll lock up,” I whisper, and he nods then leans back.
Yikes.
“So.” I clear my throat. “This is it.” Apparently still angry about the door not being locked, he doesn’t look around. Instead, he heads toward the butcher-block island in the kitchen and drops the pizzas there carelessly. “I have some beer,” I tell him, walking around the island to the fridge and opening it up. “Well, I have apple cider beer.” I bite my lip and turn to look at him, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“That’ll do,” he says, taking off his vest and dropping it next to the pizzas on the counter. Setting Dizzy down, I grab two bottles from the fridge then turn around to find Harlen in all his giant glory holding my pup gently against his wide chest, petting the top of his furry head. Taking a mental snapshot of him and Dizzy, I twist off the tops from the beers then grab two plates from the cupboard.
I go to the opposite side of the counter from him and set down the plates then hand him a bottle, which he takes with one hand, still keeping hold of Dizzy with the other. Dizzy, who is not okay with the lack of petting, starts trying with all his might to lick the underside of Harlen’s jaw. Ignoring the way my stomach is dancing, I open the boxes of pizza and discover they’re both the same.
“Two or three slices?” I ask him. When he doesn’t answer, I look up and find his eyes on the pizza but a million miles away. I want to ask him what he’s thinking so hard about, but I don’t. Instead, I slide two slices on each plate then scoot one across the island toward him. “We can eat in the living room. I still need to find some chairs for the island,” I mutter, picking up my plate and beer, taking both with me around the island to the couch.
Finding the remote for the TV, I flip it on to fill the silence then settle in against the arm of the couch, watching him take a seat. Dizzy, who he set down, runs in circles in front of us, wanting a reward for just being cute—a reward he knows he’s not going to get. I don’t give him human food, or I don’t anymore, since the last time I took him to see the vet they informed me that he was overweight and, if I wasn’t careful, would get diabetes. I didn’t even know dogs could get diabetes, but apparently they can.
“No pizza, Dizzy. I’ll find your treats after we eat,” I tell him, and he stops spinning and sits on his rump to glare at me.
“Dizzy?”
Looking at Harlen, I bite my lip, and his eyes drop to my mouth before lifting to meet mine. “He spins in circles when he’s excited. He’s done it since he was a tiny puppy. It used to make me dizzy watching him,” I explain, and he looks from me to my dog then back again and grins.
Okay, his soft look was good. His scary look was… well, scary. But his grin makes my insides curl up and something deep inside of me tighten in a really good way.
Needing to do something to get my mind off the way my body is feeling, I ask, “How’s work been?”
Chewing and swallowing a bite of pizza, he rests his plate on the top of his legs before answering. “Been good, busy, which means we are finally making a name for ourselves in town. Hasn’t been easy.”
“It hasn’t?”
He takes a pull from his beer, which I can tell he’s not really enjoying, so I make a mental note to stock normal beer in the fridge. Not that I know if he will be back, but just in case.
“The town’s small. People tend to stick to what they know. It’s taken a while for people to realize we’re not in the business of fucking people over. Unlike some of the more established shops in town.”
“What do you mean?” I question before taking the last bite from my first slice, leaving the crust.
“We don’t fuck around with fixing cars or bikes. If you come to us with an issue, we take care of the issue. We don’t do a half-ass job so you have to come back in a week or a month for something else. We also don’t mark up the prices on work or parts to get more money.”
“That’s nice.”
“No, that’s good business,” he says, and I nod in agreement.
“I’m glad things are picking up for you guys.”
“Me too,” he agrees, and I take a pull from my own beer then turn toward the TV to watch the show that’s on, not really seeing it as I eat. “You want another slice?” he asks, and I turn to look at him, seeing his eyes on my now empty plate.
“Two more,” I reply, and he grins then unfolds himself from the couch, taking my plate from me. Sipping my beer, I watch him go to the kitchen to get us each more pizza, thinking I also liked the feeling of having him in my house and wonder if I can convince him to come back again after tonight. Then I think it’s stupid to wonder that, because he is obviously just here because he is a nice guy. Okay, a scary guy, but still a nice one, who wants to pay me back for looking out for him.
***
“Thank you for helping,” I tell him four hours later, standing in my open front door with Dizzy against my chest, watching Harlen slide on his leather vest. After we ate pizza on my couch, we unpacked, and then we took a break to eat my dessert pizza while standing in my kitchen, before unpacking some more. He didn’t talk much, but I found that he was easy to talk to, easy to be around, and funny. Not in-your-face funny, but still funny in a way that made me laugh and do it often while we worked.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, moving past me to stand just outside the door, close enough I can smell a hint of something intriguing, but not close enough to be in my space.
“It was. We got almost everything done,” I tell him, looking back into the house. Most of the boxes that were stacked up in the living room and kitchen are gone, emptied and broken down in the spare bedroom, ready to take to the dump. And the stuff that’s left has been stacked up to drop off for donation. All I have left to do is put away my clothes and hang some of my photos and art. “I feel like I owe you payback now,” I add truthfully, meeting his gaze once more.
“Tomorrow, come by the compound,” he says, and my head tips to the side.