Page 17 of Love In Translation

The woman had her job and her apartment, the life she’d so carefully created.

Rheo could get it back.

She just needed to get her ass into gear and get back to the organized, rational person she’d been six months ago.

So much easier said than done...

Rheo shoved a cup under the spout of her coffee machine and used the back of her hand to hit the button dispensing magic juice. Coffee-scented steam hit her nose as she carried the cup over to the enormous wooden dining table, one end covered in books and magazines.

Sitting on one of the twelve mismatched chairs around the table, she cradled her cup in her hands and wondered how to act when Fletch returned to the kitchen. She wished she could be sophisticated and oozing with sangfroid, but it wasn’t her style. When working, listening, translating, speaking, and listening again, she was a machine, but she’d left her conversational skills in Brooklyn.

Rheo rested her forehead on the wooden table. What lesson was life trying to teach her? And why wasn’t she getting it? It would be so much easier if life or God or the universe would just post directions on Instagram or TikTok.

Rheo! Plan the work and work the plan...

You are saving less than fifteen percent of your take-home salary, Rheo! Fix this now!

Turn off your mic when the general assembly isn’t in session...

“Mind if I grab a cup?”

Rheo jerked. Fletcher stood in the doorway, filling the space with his bulk. Rheo tipped her head to the side. He really was the most gorgeous specimen.

When Fletcher frowned, Rheo realized she was staring...again.Please start acting like a rational human being, Whitlock.

She recalled his question and lifted her cup to point it at the coffee machine. “Help yourself. I’m not sure if there’s milk, but the sugar is in the blue canister on the shelf above your head.” Right, good job sounding completely normal.

Now carry on in the same vein, Rheo.

“Where are the mugs?”

Of course. A mug would be helpful. “In the cupboard above the coffee machine.”

Rheo watched him take a pottery mug from the cupboard, one of her favorites, and place it under the spout. He pushed the start button and turned to face her, leaning his butt against the counter, his feet in well-worn hiking boots, crossed at the ankles. A hot guy was hanging out in her grandmother’s kitchen...

Fletch’s eyes met hers, and she caught the hesitation on his face. His eyes, no longer shot with lust, were now a matte, impenetrable, seaweed green. Unreadable.

“Can I make a suggestion?”

She lifted her eyebrows and waited. Rheo fully expected a lecture on gazebo construction, everything she did wrong, and why it collapsed. She hoped he’d keep it to under ten minutes.

“For the sake of yourself, your grandmother, and anyone else in your life, please stay far away from power tools, wood, and anything that requires construction. Someone,you, could’ve been seriously injured. Just pay someone next time, okay?” he added, his eyes and expression serious.

That was all he had to say on the subject? She’d take it, and God knew, his comments were more than fair.

“Okay.”

His expression reflected his surprise at her lack of argument. She lifted one shoulder to her ear. “I’m just glad it happened now and not later with Paddy. I fully accept I have the DIY skills of a goat.”

“But you can translate four languages expertly and can get by in another two. We all have different skills. But yours will never be woodwork.” A small smile accompanied his words and he turned his attention back to the coffee machine. “Why did you even attempt to build it in the first place?”

Rheo easily recalled Paddy going on and on about wanting a pretty gazebo in a wild garden after a vacation in England when Rheo was twelve and thought it might go some way in earning her forgiveness for her lack of transparency (i.e., the illegal occupation of her house). She’d looked online, wineglass in hand, bottle close by, and within a few hours had not only ordered the plans for an elegant structure, but also the equipment and materials she needed. The next morning, seeing the dent she’d made in her credit card, she’d felt obligated to attempt to build it herself.

Not her finest moment.

“A bottle of wine and spending too much on my credit card made me overconfident,” she informed Fletch.

He didn’t pursue the subject, and she was grateful. She didn’t want to discuss her complicated relationship with her family and her need for Paddy’s approval.

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