Page 6 of Bond Strength

“Flannery Contractors appointment, right?” He walked up to me in long, sure strides.

Oh no.

My shoulders squared off a little tighter.

“I’m your contractor,” he said. “Here to do the quote.”

“Bit underdressed, aren’t you?”

Noah lifted a brow. “Should I be wearing a tux?”

A laugh bubbled out of me, one I regretted at once. The idea of a bunch of contractors showing up in tuxedos was ridiculous. Like a huddle of penguins about to set to work.

“Right, so next time I’m showing up dressed to the nines,” he said, his eyes sparkling. His light brown lashes looked longer than usual under the bright rays, and he had somehow edged into my space, standing mere inches from me. I was aware because I always grew aware of him. “However, I don’t need coveralls to give you a quote. And I’m pretty sure you’re standing right by the issue.”

“One of them.”

His eyes bugged out, and while I should be more worried about his reaction, I took a little satisfaction in throwing him off his game. Noah was always smiling, always chill, always happy, and the urge to needle at that, to see if he hid behind masks too, rose to the fore.

“Dec, these are major stresses in the walls of yourhouse.” He stared at me like I was insane, but I ate those looks for breakfast. Delicious and nutritious.

“Well, I haven’t had water pouring in through the walls, so I figured it was fine.” I placed a hand on my hip. “But I am hiring your company for a reason.”

Noah rubbed his chin as he skimmed up and down the wall. “Yeah, this is going to be a job and a half.”

I shrugged. “Whatever you need to do.”

“Just like that?” Noah’s mouth tugged at the edges, threatening to break into a smile.

“This is your field of expertise, is it not? So tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll hire you for the job.”

Noah let out a whistle. “If only all clients were as easy as you. I’m going to inspect around the house, and then I’ll be able to give you a better quote.”

“All right. I’m going to make some tea,” I said, preparing to go inside.

“I’ll take mine with honey,” Noah called to me, passing me a wink. I shook my head, trying to ignore the way my skin prickled. God, being around him irritated me. And before I ever got the chance to figure out why, he’d get whisked away by whatever shiny person flashed his way, and then we’d have to start the process all over again. Rinse, wash, and repeat for well over a decade now. The only reprieve I’d gotten was during college, since I’d been in the city.

The second I stepped into my house, some of the pressure disappeared, though a tingling remained, an awareness that Noah stood outside, examining my house. I’d bought the small two-story home on the outskirts of town, close enough to my family for convenience but far enough that they couldn’t walk over. Because they would.

I scuttled over to my kitchen, which was meticulously clean, less from effort and more from the fact that I used it next to never. Most of the food I cooked was problematic for my digestive system. Mysiblings called it inedible. Pouring the water, starting the kettle, and grabbing the mugs were all rituals I clung to. While most of America worshipped the altar of coffee, I was a diehard tea aficionado. I had over a hundred different types, and fuck, I should’ve checked with Noah to ask what kind of tea he wanted.

It would bother me if I didn’t. My legs already carried me back outside.

He was examining my other side wall, one with another lovely set of cracks. He wasn’t talking or smiling, so he must be focusing on the job. While Noah’s presence irritated me, I could respect he was a good craftsman. Cor and Dad had recommended him before, and they were choosy with their opinions. Ollie would recommend him just for being a nice guy, which ultimately wasn’t helpful in the slightest.

“Is it looking bad?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not looking good.” He clutched the back of his neck. He had one of those long necks, his prominent Adam’s apple setting off his square cleft jaw with nice symmetry.

“What type of tea do you want?”

Noah glanced at me, those eyes bluer than the sky today, which happened to be cloudless. “There are types?”

A groan slipped from me. “Oh god. Do you drink the yellow Lipton bags they serve at diners?”

“More of a coffee drinker.” He flashed me a grin. “But I’m just teasing, Dec. How about you make me your favorite?”

I let out a huff. That wasn’t a good metric of what he’d like. Everyone was different, with wildly contrasting tea tastes. “If you’re a coffee drinker, you’d probably like an Irish breakfast tea.”

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