Page 20 of Mine Forever
He turns and comes back to stand inches from me. “Fine, then why don’t you just go ahead and leave before they close the bridge? I’m not going to acquiesce to your request anyway. Get the hell out while you can.”
Everything he says makes perfect sense. But there’s some part of me that still thinks I can convince him.
It’s a gamble for sure.
I can leave, knowing I’m up shit creek with my business and the trip was all for nothing.
I can get stuck here and he still say no and I lose all the way around.
Or I could get stuck here, do my best to convince him, and he agree.
The fact that I still have some hope is the only reason I follow him.
Well, that and the fact sticking around will irritate him.
The palm tree-lined path leads to a single level, craftsman-style home with a detached garage that has its own beautiful view of the Atlantic.
“Get those screws.”
“Excuse me?”
With his chin, he gestures to a red box sitting on the ground as he lifts a piece of plywood.
“You know, the little pieces of metal that will go into this plywood to cover the windows? We’ll need the drill too.”
He carries the wood to one side of the garage, where there are a couple of windows.
Grabbing the items he asked for, I huff out a breath and follow him, trying not to admire the bunch of muscles in his back.
Or the line of sweat that rolls down his spine and stops at the waistband of his jeans.
Even the dark red scar from his surgery that snakes along the back side of his shoulder doesn’t detract from the hot working-man picture.
“What do you have in here?” I ask.
“A motorcycle, couple of cars, tools. You know, garage things.”
“Are you going to board up the house?”
“Which one?” he asks, leaning the plywood against the side of the garage and picking up the drill.
“Either of them.”
“Don’t need to.”
I look around at the blowing trees and the clouds starting to roll in. “It’s been a while since I’ve been through tropical weather, but I assume they still cause damage.”
“The guest house there has automatic hurricane shutters. The main house has hurricane-proof glass. It protects the best, I don’t have to do any work, and it looks better. But,” he says with a grunt when he lifts the plywood again, “this wood works just fine for the garage here.”
I study the structure he calls a garage. It’s small, but that is relative compared to the main house. Most people never live in a house the size of his garage, much less his other two houses.
It’s a far cry from the tiny dorms in college.
I shake my head. “Whatever you say. So, how am I supposed to help? You look like you got it handled.”
“Bring the screws over here. I’m going to lift the wood up, and you’re going to drive in the screws about eighteen inches apart. Got it?”
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
