Page 18 of Happy After All

When I find the toolbox and march back into the laundry room, I realize that the real issue is there’s some truth to what Wilma says. I’m attracted to him, and that makes me feel exposed by these machinations. I feel raw from the last time he was here.

From that encounter, and the near kiss.

“Just ignore them,” I say, setting the toolbox down next to him.

He looks like he wants to say something. There’s a heaviness to the set of his shoulders. The corner of his mouth tilts downward. Not a frown, but there’s a hint of sadness there I can’t quite read.

“I’m not worried about them.”

Something about that feels a little bit insulting, but I decide not to interrogate it.

He looks at the toolbox and takes out a wrench, and then he crouches down, the hardware cupped in his large hand. There’s a spot of sweat between his shoulder blades, darkening the fabric of his white T-shirt, and I realize I probably shouldn’t find that sexy. I do, though.

I can see the muscles on his back through the fabric of that T-shirt. The way his biceps move as he maneuvers the hardware into position,as he tightens it with the wrench. Nothing is going to happen between us. I’m certain of that. I would have to be a totally different kind of woman. One who wanted to ride a man into wild oblivion for the sake of it.

As I have that thought, my internal muscles pulse slightly and beg the question: Are younotthat kind of woman?

I ache right then. To feel pretty. To feel desired. To feel his hands working me as expertly as they are the nuts and bolts of the washing machine. How sad is that?

I catch myself bending over just slightly, trying to see what he’s doing, and right then he looks up.

If there was no chemistry between us ... then this wouldn’t do anything.

I feel it, like a band tightening between us, growing tighter and tighter, making it harder and harder for me to breathe. I want to touch him. I want to reach out and smooth the lines on his forehead, run my thumb down past the creases next to those green eyes. I want him with a kind of visceral need that shocks me.

In my laundry room. In my motel.

I’m the one who pulls away this time. I take a step back, and only then do I start to breathe again.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“It was really not a big deal.”

“Tell me if they rope you into anything else like this.”

“I probably won’t,” he says. “Because I don’t mind. And also ... it was good to get out of my room for a minute.”

“Tough scene?” I ask.

“Something like that,” he says.

He has no reason to linger. I have no reason to keep staring at him.

“Well. I have to go. I have to ... take my shift at the front desk.”

I don’t have to take my shift at the front desk. I’m a liar. But still, I grab the toolbox, forget the wrench, and sprint to the front office. I gripthe neck of my dress and fan it a few times, trying to alleviate some of the heat coursing through my body.

To my chagrin, Wilma is still sitting there, and she laughs. “Hot flash, dear?”

“I’m thirty-one!”

“Hot flashes can be caused by more than just menopause. Though, usually there are hormones involved.”

I look at Elise, who is determinedly examining her manicure and trying not to laugh.

“I should evict all of you,” I say.

They care about me, though. That’s the thing I can’t ignore. That all of this, all the meddling and the antics, comes from a place of love.

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