Page 52 of Love In Translation

Rheo reached for her glass, lifted it, and eyed the pale gold liquid. “Tequila would be better,” she mused.

“Oh yeah.” Abi grinned. “I’ve got you covered, girlfriend.”

Because wasn’t tequila like duct tape, able to fix anything?

The next morning, Rheo sat on the kitchen steps and prayed the little men digging trenches in her head would put down their tools and strike. Her stomach pitched and rolled, and she was lightheaded from too little food and way too much alcohol. What did she think she was doing tossing back tequila shots like there was no tomorrow?

Tomorrow had arrived and it was kicking her ass.

Ooh la, j’ai la gueule de bois.She’d never understood what having a wooden mouth felt like before today.

She nursed the cup of hot black coffee Fletch had pushed into her hands when she stumbled into the Pink House a half hour ago, having passed out around three at Abi’s. Along with her pounding head, she was pretty sure sleeping on Abi’s couch dislocated her spine and put her hip out of alignment.

Rheo pushed her hand through her hair and longed for bed. She wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep off her hangover, but Rheo believed part of being an adult was accepting the consequences of her actions. She might be on a sabbatical, but she couldn’t sleep the day away.

Rheo looked across to where Fletch worked in the sunlight. He’d designed a new gazebo, bought additional supplies, and dug holes for the four posts. He was another reason she couldn’t trundle up to bed. She’d promised to be his apprentice today, and he wasn’t going to let her skulk away.

“Feeling a bit rough, Whitlock?” he asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Rheo stuck her tongue out at him. While Rheo looked—and possibly smelled—like a ratty dishrag, Fletch looked revoltingly healthy, energetic, and vital. He wore old jeans, a T-shirt, and a ballcap over his blond-brown hair.

“I hate you,” Rheo informed him, resting her cheek on her knee.

“You know the old saying...one tequila, two tequila, three tequila,floor,” Fletch told her, laughing. He poured water on a pile of concrete he’d heaped on an old piece of board, and, using a shovel, started to form a gray, lumpy paste.

“It wasn’t one of my brighter ideas,” Rheo admitted. She tapped her fingers against her mug. She stared down at her coffee, looking for her words. “So, I talked to Carrie last night.”

Fletch lifted his eyebrows but didn’t stop turning the concrete and water mixture.

“Good talk or bad talk?” he asked, not breaking his stride.

“It was better than I expected,” Rheo admitted. She hadn’t spoken to Carrie for any length for ages, yet her cousin had behaved as if they’d spoken only last week. There’d been no embarrassment or stilted conversation...not from Carrie anyway.

“Did you tell her you’re hiding in Gilmartin, and you’ve taken a break from your job and life?”

“I did. She wasn’t too fazed, to be honest.”

“She wouldn’t be. Carrie doesn’t sweat the small stuff.”

Rheo jerked, and her head rolled—ow, ow ow!—annoyed at Fletch calling jeopardizing her job and lifesmall.

“She said she might be here sooner than she thought,” Rheo said.

“Hmm, I know. She called me soon after she spoke to you,” Fletch told her, dropping the spade and walking over to the pile of posts. He lifted one and pushed it to a standing position, and Rheo enjoyed the flex of his biceps. “I’m going to need your help here, Rhee.”

She needed all her energy to remain sitting upright on the kitchen step, and he expected her to do manual work?

“I have a hangover, Fletch,” she whined.

“Get your pretty ass over here, Whitlock.”

It took Rheo ages to climb to her feet and walk the few yards to where he stood. She yawned as Fletch tipped the post into one of the four holes he’d dug and told her to hold it straight. When he turned away to shovel concrete into the hole, she allowed the post to rest on her shoulder. The sun on her head and face made her eyes flutter closed.

“Shit, Rhee, hold it straight,” Fletch told her. He picked up a small, plastic thingamajig and placed it on the pole, staring at the bubble in the window of it and making minor changes to the pole.

“I’m using a spirit level to make sure the pole is straight.”

Okay...but she so didn’t care.

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