Page 41 of A Stealthy Situation

“Ah, after work, you’re putting me to … more work?” Harrison asks.

“It’s your fault for giving me an appetite.”

“You’re lucky I like cooking.”

That gets me stupidly excited, which I should have learned my lesson about by now. I’d been looking forward to today all week, thinking it’d be slow and easy and Harrison and I would be able to hang out for the day, but between the hard work and the loud lawn mower, the flirty conversations I’d been envisioning are few and far between. By the time we climb into the car after each job, neither of us can be bothered to talk much.

At least by having dinner together, we might get some of the fun I’d been hoping for.

It’s four by the time we finish up this lawn and head to our last one of the day. When we pull up, I nearly sob with relief.

It’s a tiny grass strip in front of a garden bed.

“People pay you for this?”

He gets out of the car and heads for the back of his truck, where I meet him. “Not this one. I didn’t have the heart. She’s an old bird whose husband died last year, and the garden was his baby—he was very proud of his bougainvillea. She was terrified she wouldn’t be able to handle it on her own and was willing to pay anything, even though she doesn’t have much, so I do it for her.”

I eye the nice cottage. “Pretty house for a poor lady.”

“Shut up, Benny. All people have stories. You can’t tell just by looking. Even if she is lying and doesn’t want to pay, who cares? If we all stop doing nice things for people just in case they don’t deserve it, then the ones who do will end up missing out as well.”

Ooof. Straight to the heart. “Way to say I’m a shitty person without saying I’m a shitty person.”

“You’re not a shitty person.” He looks genuinely confused. “Jesus, first dumb, now this. You play confident, but I’m getting the feeling it’s a lie.”

Dumb? When did I say I was dumb? It’s exactly the type of thing I’d say as a joke, though, but apparently, he took it to heart. “My confidence is fine. I took you shooting me down in my stride, didn’t I?”

He suddenly looks away, and for the first time, I’m getting uncomfortable vibes from him. It throws me because that was the least flirty thing I’ve said all day.

“It’s not like … I didn’t shoot you down though, did I?”

Okay, now I’m confused. “That’s exactly what happened.” I eye the way he’s fidgeting with the shit in his truck. “Why are you being weird?”

“Eh. Nothing. Come on, let’s get this done so I can feed you.”

I’m not going to argue with that, but if he thinks I can just let that go, he’s wrong. I flirt with him because he’s given me all the signs he’s cool with it. It’s empty flirting, just like what he gives me right back.

At least, that’s the impression I was getting, but maybe it’s changed?

Maybe the flirting is too much for him?

The last thing I want is to make Harrison feel weird around me, but now I’m having to go through and rewire all my natural responses to him. We built our friendship up one way; now, I have to unstack those building blocks and start over, I guess.

Jesus. This is why no good comes from friending straight dudes. And from crushes.

I mow the strip of grass while he plays with his plants, and I can’t stop glancing over his way.

Dammit, why does he have to be so hot? Like, on the inside too. He’s whistling as he tends to the plants, and I’m even finding that attractive. There’s something wrong with me. Something seriously, seriously wrong to be standing here sore and sweaty and cranky and still be swooning over the guy who put us in this situation.

I finish mowing and switch the machine off, then fake sob as I hit my head against the metal handle.

“What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be happy we’re done.”

“I just really, really hate you. That’s all. That’s the story.”

I ignore his laugh as I wheel the mower back to his truck and load it in again, then open the passenger door and throw myself into the seat to wait for him. The cab is stifling, there’s no breeze, and I hate everything about sitting here waiting, except for the view of Harrison doing what he loves best.

Fuck, maybe I should turn myself into a tree? I wonder if he’d take a blow job from one of those flytrap thingies.

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