Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Dylan turns on his heels and moves quickly up the staircase. I wait until I hear his door close.
I exhale harshly, the weight of the world sinking onto my shoulders.
My coffee doesn’t sound appetizing anymore, and I turn toward the sink to dump it out. Before I can take a step, my gaze is drawn out the window and across the lawn.
Jay stands in front of his garage, watching me.
I give him a little smile.
He gives me one back before disappearing inside.
CHAPTER SIX
JAY
How in the hell do I collect all this junk?” I ask the empty garage.
I survey my day’s work. Three filled garbage bags, many empty boxes, and a Christmas tree that stopped lighting up two Christmases ago sit beside the open garage door. It took me most of the day to comb through the shelves lining the back wall. I could’ve been quicker, but cleaning always helps me feel more in control.
It also proved to be a good distraction.
Every time I stood still without particular focus, my mind would drift to the house next door.
I grin as I remember Gabrielle’s fieriness this morning. The way she stomped onto the deck with wild hair and sleep in her eyes. The coffee that stained her tank top. Her nipples pressed against the fabric.
My muscles tighten in my core. That woman is something else.
I dig into the final drawer in my toolbox, sorting nails and screws. With each bolt dropped into the proper bin, I’m reminded of another part of Gabrielle that I like. That I can’t stop thinking about.
The brightness of her smile when she’s teasing me.
Her full lips form a perfect pout when she’s thinking.
The richness of her personality, the sound of her laugh, and the look on her face when her son stormed into the room.
My stomach tightens at the memory.
“Their dad, his name was Christopher—he passed away.”
A screw pings against the container as it’s placed inside.
“So that’s what’s going on with the kid,” I say, heaving a breath.
It must be a total nightmare for the kids and Gabrielle not to have a male figure in the boys’ lives. They have no one to turn to for help when testosterone rages and questions arise about shit they don’t want to talk to their mother about. And Gabrielle has to deal with that on her own. I can only imagine how hard it is to navigate the emotions and situations—that is, I could imagine it if I wanted to.
I don’t.
I glance at the calendar hanging above my workbench. Next to the month’s inspirational saying is her picture. Big brown eyes. No front teeth. A smile as big as Texas. And like it always does, the image punches another hole in my heart.
“Hey, mister.” Gabrielle’s little boy stands in the driveway, holding a basketball. “I’m Carter, and I live by you. Do you have a pumper for my ball?”
Freckles lie across his nose and cheeks. His dark-blond hair is messy and curls at the ends. There’s a hole in the knee of his jeans, and his blue-and-white-striped hoodie is dirty.
“A pumper?” I ask.
“Yeah. Watch.” He drops the ball to the ground. It lands with a thud. “See? It doesn’t have enough air in it to bounce.”
“So you’re looking for an air compressor.”
He peels his hoodie off and tosses it on the ground. “Is that a pumper?”
“Yes. That’s a pumper.”
“Okay. Do you have one? Because my new friend Hayes is really good at basketball, and so are his friends. But I stink. I need to practice bouncing it.”
“Dribbling it.”
He tilts his head to the side like I speak a foreign language.
“When you bounce it, it’s called dribbling,” I say.
“Oh. So, can I use your pumper?”
I want to tell him no, to go home and forget I live here. The last thing I want, the last thing I need, is to be marked as the guy next door who can help with shit. Even though I’ve already done that. Twice.
Ugh. These people are going to drive me nuts.
I start to speak, but his toothless smile gets the best of me.
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. I walk over to my air compressor and flip the switch. It kicks on. “We have to let it get to pressure first.”
“Okay.” Carter picks up his ball and comes into the garage. He gazes around with wide eyes. “Wow. You have a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah.”
He points at a table saw in the back. “What’s that?”
“It’s a saw.”
“For what?”
I sigh. “Cutting wood.”
“Do you cut a lot of wood?”
“I’m a carpenter, so yeah. It’s my job.”
“Cool.” He nods, moseying around like he owns the place. “That’s a good job.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Do you think it’s a good job?”
What is this? An inquisition? “Yeah. I guess.”
“When I get older, I’m going to be a fireman.” He giggles, looking at me over his shoulder. His green eyes, the same color as his mother’s, twinkle. “Can I tell you a secret?”