Page 82 of Friends Don't

Oh my gosh, I did not say that out loud, did I?

Apparently I haven’t regained all of my wits.

“Um. Time wasticking,”I say, trying to cover for my mouth, which is going off the rails, chugging away from the last of my brain cells that haven’t dissolved in a puddle at the feet of Mack Bradley’s drill. “You seemed very busy,” I continue. “So I was, um, here. Watching you. I meanwaitingfor you. Ready with the make-out.” I pull my lips into my mouth. My face is burning. The train is off the tracks, people. I repeat, the train is off the tracks. “Ready with thetake-out. To eat the take-out. With you. If you need a break. My treat.”

Is Mack somehow closer to me than he was before I started that absurd monologue that will haunt me for the rest of my days? I’m pretty sure he is. Because I can see the bead of sweat that is lazily making its way down his side. And in my head, a siren is wailingobliques, obliques, obliques!

“You okay there, Boo? You’re looking a little flushed.”

I tear my gaze away from the skin of his side when Mack reaches up and traces my cheekbone, tucking a flyaway behind my ear.

My mouth…the traitor…hangs open like I’m a panting poodle.

I snap my jaw shut. “I’m fine. Totally fine. It’s blazing hot out here. I don’t know how you work in these conditions.” I shove the bag of food into his stomach, if only to put a little space between us. I don’t want space between us, but I am in way over my head here. Not in my right mind. Clearly. So I need to buy myself some time.

Serves me right for being all flippant with this plan.

Oh, I’m Poppy, and I’ll casually drop by to see my neighbor and friend on the job. What’s that? He’s a modern-day Superman with a drill? No biggie. I can handle it.

Not.

I cannothandle Mack like this.

“You get used to it,” he says. “Come on. We can eat over here.”

He takes my hand and leads me through some of the framing into a room with a couple folding chairs set up. We split up the food and eat in silence for a minute.

Mack is watching me over the top of his sandwich, and I feel the need to make conversation. I talk to fill the awkwardness. It’s my toxic trait, I guess.

“Tell me about what you’re doing here. What was that thing you were using?” I pop the final bit of my bagel into my mouth.

“You like my drill, eh?”

I nearly choke, swallowing hard. “Um. It seemed to, uh, do the job.”

Mack quirks a brow. “Oh yes. It always gets the job done.”

My face is burning again.

Fortunately, Mack has mercy on me. “It’s called a Hole-Hawg drill.”

Well, there’s a new one.

Never—and I repeat,never—did I think the wordhogwould ever sound sexy coming out of anyone’s mouth, but Mack went and proved me wrong.

“And what were you using the hog for?” I ask, trying to focus.

“Drilling the holes in the studs and joists for the home run wires we’ve got to run back to the panel.” I swear he lights up as he talks about it. No pun intended.

“Home run wires?” I prompt.

“They’re the big ticket wires in a house. One to each main room, and then individual wires from the panel to major things like your stove and microwave. Your washing machine, dryer, garbage disposal, dishwasher. It’s the first thing we do after we have the layout marked.” He crinkles up the paper from his sandwich. “I’ll show you.”

I stand and follow him back into the other room. He walks me around, showing me how he marked certain areas, drilled holes, and his team has the wires pulled to all the rooms. They’ve mounted boxes for outlets and switches, and eventually, they’ll install all the light fixtures. For now, it’s the guts of it, all plain to see.

“It’s like a rainbow,” I comment, noting the different color wires.

“Each wire has a certain job. Those white ones are 14-2s. They go to the bedroom and living room areas. The 12-2 yellow wires are mainly for the kitchen, where you need your midgrade appliances, like a dishwasher and garbage disposal. The orange 10-3 wire there is for the electric dryer.”

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