Page 44 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
“Yes, you do,” Franco says, kicking Jesse’s foot. “You’re helping me with the armoire, remember?”
Jesse isn’t letting it go. He glances at me, winking. “Ohhhh, I see what’s going on. You guys want to be alone so you can pretend to not like each other some more.”
James hurls a clamp at Jesse. “You are such a jackass.”
I smirk at James. “I mean, it was kinda funny.”
James frowns at me. “Do NOT encourage his dumb ass, Nova.”
I snicker, and James rolls his eyes, trying to hold the frown, but he can’t. Eventually he starts laughing, and waves at Jesse. “Get out of here, moron.”
Jesse tosses the clamp back to James and heads for his truck. “If I’m a moron, what does that make you?”
There’s a chorus of diesel engines coughing, snarling, and grumbling to thunderous life, followed by thick-knobbed tires crunching in gravel, and then James and I are alone. James has a canister of antibacterial wipes, and he’s wiping down the benches; I take a couple and wipe down the bars and plates and rerack everything in its own place.
“You don’t have to help,” James says.
I just shrug. “Thanks for letting me crash your workout.”
“We’re here Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday mornings at six,” he says. “You’re always welcome.”
I look at him, gauging his sincerity—in my experience, people sometimes offer things but often half hope you’ll decline. I kind of do want to accept; I’ve been working out alone for years, and I miss the camaraderie of having friends to razz me into finishing the rep, friends to shoot the shit with between sets.
But I don’t know that being around James that much is a great idea. Honestly, I’m being pulled in opposite directions right now: half of me wants to throw myself at him, and the other half wants to bolt for the door.
The weights are racked, the barbells are slotted back in their holder, the benches are wiped down and pushed in; James shuts off the lights and heads outside, and I follow. He rests his forearms on the hood of his truck, and his eyes fix on me.
His gaze is speculative, filled with thoughts and feelings I don’t know how to read. “Gonna make a protein shake. You want some?”
I do. I want to be in his kitchen with him. I want to talk to him. Be near him.
I want a repeat of what happened in my kitchen.
I want more than that.
But I’m scared. Of him—of my feelings. Of his feelings. Of him not returning my feelings. Of him being unwilling to indulge in his feelings out of guilt or loyalty to Renée. I can’t compete with a ghost, and I will not try.
I stare at him steadily, and decide to try. He’s making a step toward me, letting me crash his workout, and now inviting me, alone, into his kitchen.
“Sure,” I say.
“You off today?” he asks, opening his truck door.
I nod, climbing up into my own truck. “Yep. Next three days. Longest stretch I’ve had off in months, actually.”
“Got plans?” he asks, hesitating before turning his engine on.
I shake my head. “Not really. Organize some closets, maybe. Catch up on reading, and maybe catch up on a few shows. I’ve got some episodes of Schitt’s Creek I’ve been saving for a stretch of time off.”
“Sounds exciting,” he says with a laugh. “Meet you at the house.”
I head out first, and he follows, hopping out after he’s pulled through the fence to close and lock the gate behind himself. I park at the end of the driveway, the nose of the truck facing the street. When I go in through the side door into James’s kitchen, I find him chopping the heads off fresh strawberries.
I watch. “You said you were making a protein shake?”
He nudges a giant canister of whey protein. “I am.”
“I thought you meant, like, in a shaker bottle.”
He taps his blender, which is filled, so far, with chunks of banana, handfuls of spinach, blueberries, and apple slices; he’s finished with the strawberries and tosses them into the blender. “I like to blend. Makes the shake more fun. If I’m on the go, sure, I’ll just toss some protein in a bottle with water and shake it up. But if I have time, I like to fancy it up a little.”
He adds almond milk, half a dozen scoops of berry-flavored whey, some ice cubes, and then fastens the top on to the blender and starts it up. A few seconds of noisy clatter as the ice breaks up, and then the mixture begins to smooth out. Once it’s done, he pours the shake into two large plastic tumblers and hands me one; we tap our tumblers together, and drink a few sips in silence.
I wait for James.
He’s looking at me like he has something on his mind but, so far, hasn’t said anything.
