Griffin: Now the blowup doll I remember. Went to town on that thing.
Reid: Called her Sam. Short blonde hair, glittery makeup. Claimed she loved to read books and was a mom about town looking for a fling. There was an entire backstory.
Brig: Huh . . . that does sound like me. Maybe I was the one who was drunk.
Griffin: GUFFAW!
Rogan: ^^^ Perfect timing.
Reid: Spot on, man.
Jen: My kids play with Sam in the basement, pretending she’s the older sister. They’re always asking why she won’t shut her mouth. Told her that’s what happens when you offer your body for pleasure . . . perma-codfish mouth.
Griffin: What?
Rogan: Uhhh . . . that’s disturbing.
Reid: Do they make her wear a bra?
Brig: ^^^ Curious about the bra thing.
Jen: One of Mom’s breastfeeding bras from twenty-five years ago. Some stains.
Griffin: Fuck *runs to bathroom*
Rogan: I can’t unsee that.
Reid: That’s why you’re a witch, Jen, destroying blowup dolls for all men.
Brig: Am I the only one interested in catching this broad with her shirt off?
Griffin: *still in bathroom*
Rogan: Dude, you seriously need help.
Reid: ^^^ I’ll pay for the therapy
Jen: I think our work here is done, Brig. Good luck with love.
Brig: Thanks, Jen. Love you, sis.
Chapter Six
RUTH
“Come on, you stubborn piece of—ohh.”
The plank of wood I’ve been trying to tear up finally succumbs to my “brutal” force and unlatches from the maddening glue of the floor. While final paperwork goes through, Mrs. Burberry told me I could start any renovations I wanted, which was incredibly nice of her given that I don’t own the shop. I’ve spent all day ripping up the old flooring, and I’m only halfway done.
My hands feel raw from using the hammer and crowbar.
My back is aching.
And I’ve broken out in a very unattractive sweat, because the air conditioner is broken, leaving it humid and nasty in the store.
Whoever put this floor in was definitely glue happy—yes, glue, industrial glue, but glue—and it’s made it quite the task to lift up from the concrete.
Pulling back the first piece of flooring, I was surprised to find there was no subfloor, just concrete, which I think has made this so much harder.
With my forearm, I wipe my forehead and sit back on the floor, crowbar on my lap, sweat dripping down my spine.
And here I thought this was going to be the easy task.
“Wow, someone had fun with flooring glue.”
I whip my head to the side to catch Brig standing in the open doorway, hands braced on the doorframe, his beautiful eyes scanning the space. His black shirt is stretched across his chest, pulling at his pecs, and his narrow waist is accentuated by a pair of dark jeans and brown work boots. He looks so good it makes my heart ache.
He steps into the shop and then steps right back out. “Holy shit, it’s humid in here. Why don’t you have the air conditioning on?”
“Broken,” I answer, wanting to hide my head under a bag. I know I can’t look attractive right now. Beet-red face, hair drenched in perspiration and sticking to the back of my neck, sweat stains on my shirt. Not my best look.
“Broken? Okay, that won’t do.” He holds up his finger and retreats to his shop. I stand, drop the crowbar, remove my work gloves, and try to “fix” my hair and look somewhat presentable. I know it’s a lost cause when I realize I’m wearing a pair of basketball shorts that go past my knees and hang low on my hips and an old black skin-tight tank that’s seen better days.
I need to find more attractive project gear. Dressing this morning, I didn’t even think twice about running into Brig, which was an obvious mistake.
A few seconds later, Brig comes barreling in holding a large AC window unit, taking it to the window near the “register” in the back. He sets it on the already open windowsill, adjusts it to fit, plugs it in, and then flips it on. The machine goes to work and almost instantly, the room starts to cool down.
“There.” He dusts his hands off and shuts the rest of the windows. “That should be better.” He scans the room. “Scare your help away with the heat?”
“Uh, no,” I say, still shocked that he installed an AC unit into the window without breaking a sweat. “Working alone today.”
Brig’s eyes widen and he takes in the floor. “How long have you been working on this?”
“Since this morning,” I answer shyly. “There’s some superhuman glue holding this floor down.”
He goes to an exposed section and rubs his hand over the dried glue and concrete. “I can see that.” Reaching over to my tools, he grabs the hammer and crowbar and says, “This is what you’ve been using?”
“Yeah, why?”
Shaking his head, he tosses the tools to the side, reaches into his pocket, and calls someone. He holds the phone up to his ear and after a few seconds, says, “Hey Rogan, can I borrow your floor stripper? Yeah, right now. In storage? Awesome. Thanks.” He hangs up and nods toward the door. “Come on.”
I don’t move.
I’m not sure I can even feel my legs at this point.
When Brig notices I’m not right behind him, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Uh, are you coming?”
“Wh-where are we going?”
“To get a floor stripper. It will have these floors up in no time.”
“Oh . . . uh, that’s okay, I can just use what I have. No need to bother you.” I reach down and pick up my crowbar and hammer only to kneel on my aching knees and start hammering at the floors. I can feel Brig’s burning gaze on me as I try to make it seem like I don’t need help, but after the tenth crack of the hammer, it’s stripped from me while Brig takes my arm, helping me to my feet.
“I admire your tenacity, but this will take you forever and leave you aching for days. Come with me.”
Keeping his hand wrapped around my forearm, he leads me out the door, shutting it behind us, and guides me straight to his tow truck. Like the gentleman that he is, he opens the door for me, and I awkwardly climb into the tall truck like I’m climbing a ladder. Behind me, I detect a small chuckle before he shuts the door.
Great.
Unlike my horrible display of getting into the truck, Brig hops in with ease and turns on the engine, keys already in the ignition. The rumble of the truck shakes the seat beneath me and without a word, Brig pulls out onto the road.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say feeling guilty.
“It’s no trouble at all. Wasn’t doing anything at the garage, as the boys have it handled. Plus, I don’t think I could go back to work knowing you were over there, chipping away at the floor with your crowbar and hammer.”
“It was working okay. Taking a bit longer than expected, but it was working.”
“Well, with this machine, you’ll be done in no time.”
Clearing my throat, trying not to stare at him, I say, “Thank you.”
“Anytime. We’re neighbors now, Ruthie. We help each other out.”
“I don’t think I’ll have much to return in the helping-out department. I’m not good with cars at all.”