Page 27 of When We Were Us
“Yes, Wrenley. Tom was my dad.”
The man’s bushy brows come together. He gives a knowing nod.
“Well, Wrenley, it’s good to have you back in Timber Forge, even if it is under these circumstances. I was sorry to hear of Vern’s passing.”
“Thank you.” I wait, hands folded in front of me, and hope that the man quickly moves on to finding my supplies because I really do not feel like talking about my father. Or my mother.
I let out a quiet, pent-up breath when he turns and moves down the aisle.
“Now, is this knob that needs to be replaced on an interior or exterior door?”
“Interior. It’s a bathroom door.”
He nods and continues to hobble down the aisle.
For the next few minutes, I follow him around while he shows me where things are. Then, he directs me to the back of the store, where I can just see the edge of a bulletin board on the wall near the restrooms.
I thank the man and head in that direction, mentally running through each of the rooms in the house to make sure I haven’t forgotten to grab something that didn’t make it to my list. I won’t bother with paint or painting supplies just yet, but getting a head start on the prep work should make things go faster once I’m ready.
My phone dings in my purse and I reach inside, digging to the bottom and pulling it out. When I round an endcap of rubber boots on the next aisle, with my eyes cast downward, I slam right into a solid wall of man, chest to torso. My phone drops and skittersacross the floor, coming to a stop across the aisle.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching?—”
One strong arm reaches out to steady me. The other arm is bent at the elbow, holding an 80 lb. bag of concrete on a thick shoulder.
My eyes travel across the man’s chest, up his neck, and then land on stormy gray eyes and dark eyebrows that are pulled low.
One side of Hank’s mouth quirks up and my skin flushes when his eyes take a long sweep of my body. He moves his gaze to the basket cradled in the crook of my elbow. He scans the contents: doorknob, masking tape, light bulbs, a small tub of wall compound, a putty knife, and a box of nails.
“Doing some home repairs?” His amused smirk and his stupid scruff annoy me. So do those damn veiny forearms and lickable biceps. Ok, maybe annoying is a strong descriptor. They distract me. Unnerve me.
Damn.
“You know I am,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
I move to step around him, bending to grab my phone. But even with that giant bag of concrete on his shoulder, Hank is faster. He easily bends and scoops up my phone before I can take two steps in that direction. I hold out my hand, but he doesn’t move to give it to me, just drops his eyes to my basket again and then back up at me.
I make a little frustrated sound and glare at him. “What?” I say, flipping my hair over my shoulder and plastering what I hope is a look of annoyance on my face. I’m not annoyed because he’s here. I’m annoyed because he’s deliciously distracting, and I like it.
“What are you fixing?” He lifts his chin at me and asks, “Specifically with those nails?”
I drop my head to the side and pin him with a look. Is he screwing with me?
He just continues to stare at me.
“That stupid shutter,” I admit and shuffle my feet.
That amused look crosses his face again. “You can’t nail it. You have to use a special hinge called a lag pintle, or it'll look like shit.”
Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know that?
I eye him for a minute and huff out, “Ok. So, where do I get thesespecialhinges?”
He considers me for a few seconds and then says, “You’ll probably have to order them online, given their age.”
Well, shit.
I have no idea how to even begin to look for something like that, but I will die before admitting that to Mr. Fix It here.
