Pen Pal(8)

Kayla





6





I take a while to pull myself together, splash water from the bathroom faucet on my face, and dry my eyes. Then I put a stamp on an envelope, slide the letter inside and seal it, and take it out to the mailbox.

When I return to the kitchen, Aidan is nowhere in sight. I go into the laundry room and finish folding the towels, go back to the kitchen and empty the plastic buckets into the sink, replace them on the floor under the drips, then stare into the fridge in search of something I know I won’t eat because I have no appetite.

Along with everything else, it died with my husband.

I shut the door, rest my forehead against it, close my eyes, and sigh.

That’s how Aidan finds me.

“You okay?”

I look over to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, gazing at me with what might be concern. Or alarm, I can’t tell.

“Honestly? I haven’t been less okay in probably never.” I frown. “Was that a double negative?”

Aidan says, “Doesn’t matter. I got it. You’re not good.”

If he’s anything like most men I’ve known, he’d rather chew his own arm off than hear the details, so I change the subject. “I’ll be better if you tell me you can fix my roof.”

“I can fix your roof.”

“Oh. Really?”

His expression sours. I’ve insulted his manhood again.

“Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t had any good news lately, so I’m happy to hear that.”

He examines my expression. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m not. It was a figure of speech.”

We stare at each other in silence until he says, “You’re gonna be less happy when I tell you how much it’ll cost.”

“Should I be sitting down for this?”

“Dunno. You prone to fainting?”

I lift my brows. “I’d ask if you were making a joke, but I’m pretty sure humor isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

“You don’t know me. I could be hilarious.”

We gaze at each other. Neither one of us smiles. That skull tattoo on his neck looks as if it’s smirking at me.

I ask, “Are you hilarious?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “No.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “Great. So I’m not happy, and you’re not funny. This project should go extremely well.”

“Except I just made you laugh, so maybe I am funny and you are happy.”

When I only stare at him, he says, “You were for a second, anyway.”

Is this weird? I can’t tell if this is weird or not. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, I clear my throat. “Well. Thanks for that.”

“No problem. You’re looking at ten thousand.”

That’s such a sharp right turn, it takes my poor brain a moment to figure out that he’s talking about the price he’ll charge to repair the roof. “Ten…thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“Dollars?”

“No, seashells. Of course dollars.”

I make a face at him. “And you claim you’re not hilarious.”

“I’ll write up the quote.” Without another word, he turns around and walks out of the house.

I have no idea if he’s leaving and will mail me the quote or what, but he comes right back in without knocking and sits down at my kitchen table with a pad of paper. He starts scribbling on it.

He’s so big, he makes the table and chairs look like they belong in a kindergarten class.

When he rips the piece of paper off the pad and holds it out to me, I take it and look it over. “Labor is eight thousand, but materials are only two?”

He leans back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. “If you want, I’ll bring all the materials over, and you can do it yourself.”

Smartass. “What I want is a fair price.”

“That is a fair price.”

“How can your labor possibly be so much?”

“Are you an expert in construction pricing?”

“No, but I am an expert in BS spotting.” I flick my wrist, snapping the paper. “And this is BS.”

He glances at my wedding ring. “Ask your husband if you don’t believe me. It’s a fair quote.”

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. My heart starts banging around in my chest. Holding his gaze, I say stiffly, “I’m perfectly capable of making judgments on my own.”

His eyes narrow. But not like he’s angry, just like he’s trying to figure me out.

Then the kitchen lights flicker, reminding me that this boorish beast is the only person who called me back besides Eddie the pot-loving hippie, so maybe I shouldn’t throw him out of my kitchen just yet.

I pull up a chair and sit across from him. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

He says nothing. He simply stares at me.

Oh, how I’d like to take his quote and give him papercuts with it all up and down his arms.

Not that you’d be able to see the cuts through all the tattoos, but still. It would be satisfying.

“I’m not lying to you, Mr. Leighrite. I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”