Page 13 of Joy
“Thanks.”
“So… I guess you fix bridges?”
“Restoration,” he corrected.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
I looked up at Silas. “Come on. Ten minutes ago you were Chatty Cathy.” I grinned when he looked at me. “Why do you like it?”
“Covered bridges are important to our heritage and a source of income during tourist season,” Silas replied.
“You’re the sort who likes to help, aren’t you?”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” I said, shrugging.
No more conversation until we passed the antique shop and turned off Main Street. Then Silas’s deep voice broke the silence. “What did you do in California?”
“Do? Nothing worthwhile. Dead-end shit that got me nowhere. I quit my last job.”
“I see.”
“I was working at a tattoo parlor.”
“Surprising.”
I snorted and laughed. “I know, right? I started apprenticing under the owner. He does fucking amazing work. He did my hands,” I said, holding them out for Silas to see. “Anyway. There’s always someone bigger and better than you in LA.”
“Is there?”
“Sure. It’s cutthroat. Someone else’s skills rocked his world more than mine and I lost the position. And I wasn’t going to be his receptionist forever…. Anyway, the rest is a sob story that ends up with me totaling two cars and screaming obscenities at a moose.”
I heard the tiniest chuckle come out of Silas and felt unreasonably accomplished for it.
When we reached the B&B, Silas came to a stop. His eyes were all over the place, meeting my gaze a few times before looking at my forehead, my hands, his feet, the door behind me. Was he… hoping to get some tongue? Because he was definitely acting like a nervous teenager eager for a kiss.
“Good night,” he said quickly before turning and going back the way we’d come.
“Wait! I—good night,” I answered, watching him disappear into the dark.
Or… maybe fucking not?
Chapter Three
“HELL!”
I paused in the kitchen doorway at Eatery, watching George slam down the phone. “Everything okay?”
“My little girl just projectile vomited in gym class. I have to go pick her up, and the damn lunch orders are coming in!”
“Wife?” I tried.
“She’s a nurse at the hospital. Can’t get ahold of her during her shift,” George explained as he untied his apron. He glanced at me and then smiled. “Can you cook?”
“M-me? No, no. Ask Nancy.”
