“This is humiliating.” He tuts and huffs. “Are you this filthy with any half-decent-looking guy that catches your eye?”
“I’m this filthy with you. Only you. And you’re not just ‘half-decent.’ I’ve seen Michelangelo’s David in Florence. You make him look like a pin-dicked garden gnome.”
“Done, guys?” Truly calls out.
I wave my hand in panic. “Nearly! Let’s talk about something really neutral. Like, the house renovation. How’s that going? Tell me all about it.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding encouraged.
“Talk about the guttering or the vents. That big water stain on the kitchen ceiling, how’s that coming along? Or the . . .” I dig deep. “The trellis. The pipes. The architraves and the finials and the—”
He cuts in, despairing. “I think you saying vaguely architectural terms is making it worse.”
“You weirdo.” I hear myself a little differently now. Is it really a sexy voice? I’m pretty sure the most response I’ve ever elicited from Tom has been dilated pupils. Now I’m in a room that contains his hard dick.
Safer. Keep him safer.
Another minute ticks by. “Okay,” he says, strained. “Do it.”
I take about ten shots and before I even tell him we’re done, he’s bending over, jamming his legs into his pants, still wearing the Underswears. He explodes out of the room, almost knocking over Truly.
“You owe me more than a steak dinner,” Tom says to her as he departs at speed. “You owe me a steak dinner on a cruise ship.”
Truly comes back inside. “What did you do to him?”
“I’m really not sure,” I say, patting sweat off my brow. “But I don’t think we’re getting those underpants back.”
Chapter 14
Status update: So tired I’m possibly dying. And it’s only Thursday.
I stand in the bathroom with my hands on my hips and look at the wall. I’ve never intentionally demolished a room before. “Ben, can you give me an outline on what I’m supposed to do?”
The strangest words trigger me back to the Underswears photo shoot. Like outline.
Ben’s the one I can trust to give me advice that won’t result in my fucking something up. Alex only knows how to carry heavy things and laugh at jokes. Colin’s still on my shit list and I am almost certain he’s Jamie’s mole. I’ve been feeding him bogus information in an attempt to flush him out.
“Getting the tiles off the walls would be a good start. Use . . . this.” I try not to look at Ben’s shiny dome while he rummages in a box of tools. He gives me a short crowbar. “Carefully, now. It’s easy to put a hole in the wall if you just start smashing.”
He toes an empty cardboard box over to me. “They’ll be sharp. Wear goggles, too. There’s a bin outside, but Alex will do the lifting. Then after that, take up the floor tiles.”
“Fine. Thanks.” Having a clearly defined task is like heaven. I knot my baggy tank at my hip and pull my jeans up a little. Gloves on. I put the goggles on the top of my head.
Tom passes the door and halts. We make eye contact, then he looks at the crowbar in my hand. His eyelids flutter and his body misses a step, like he’s just seen something he can’t bear. Do I look ridiculous? Is he imagining me hurting myself?
Actually, I remember what he got like when I talked to him about architraves. I swing the crowbar. “Is this a look that works for you?”
He swallows and nods. “Ah, yeah.”
From up his ladder, Colin shakes his head at us wearily. We never learn.
By now, this same little loop is becoming ingrained: Tom walks past and gets distracted by me, and something in another part of the house fucks up. I am a human curse.
I jerk my thumb. “Keep walking.” He does, looking flustered.
Colin says, “I don’t think he expects you to actually demo.”
“I think I’ve explained several times that I am part of the crew, right?” I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm. I’ve had to accept that I am forever glistening. “Did you get your tax details to Tom?”