Page 25 of Handy

I huff and scowl at the board. I shouldn’t have told him that the old lady whose kitchen we’re fixing up offered me, and I quote, “a rip from her bong.” I turned it down, obviously. I’m not much of a weed guy on a normal day, and I’m definitely not stupid enough to try to do construction work stoned off my ass. But I slipped up and told West about it and now I’m about to have a full bingo. Maybe I can get one of the other ones I marked disqualified. I mean, the “sex dungeon” was really more of a bondage playroom, so that one shouldn’t count. And if I want to get really technical about it, I never should have marked off “walked in on a client naked” because in reality, he walked in onmewhile he was naked.

I’m still glowering at the board when West gets tired of waiting for me and follows through on his threat, scrawling my name across the final square in the top row. Maybe I don’t like him as much as I thought, because he doesn’t stop there.

He recaps the marker and then hollers loud enough for all the guys to hear, “Griff got a bingo.”

All talk of Ev’s daughter’s first date comes to a screeching halt and Cole, Ollie, Ev, and Ridge all poke their heads out of the office.

“Oh, hell yeah! We haven’t all gone to Wooley’s in ages.” Cole pumps his fist. “Let me shoot a text to the rest of the guys and my man to meet us there, then we can call it a day.”

“Tonight isn’t great, actually.” I try to protest, but no one is listening. Or, more likely, they’re ignoring me on purpose because they know I’m just trying to wiggle out of all of this forced workplace bonding.

If I just didn’tshow up at the bar, would they track me down at my house? It might be worth it to find out. I consider that option as they all pull out their phones to text their partners. A fleeting thought flickers through my head of what it would be like if Ledger was my boyfriend, a flash of a silly fantasy of joining in with the rest of the guys to text him to meet us at Wooley’s. He seems like the social type; he’d probably love it. I huff under my breath and shake my head.

He’s not my boyfriend.

If Iamgetting sucked into this tonight, I do actually need to text him though. I stuff my hand in my pocket and drag my thumb along the smooth edge of my phone, still considering how hard I should try to get out of this. On the one hand, I know it’s going to be nothing but camaraderie and laughter and back slaps.Ugh. On the other though, maybe one more day before I face Ledger again will help cool off those swirling thoughts I was left with after our last… encounter.

I texted him yesterday that I thought I pulled something and needed to take my day off to ice it. Lie. Because I’m too big of a fucking coward to admit that whatever this thing is—a fling, or whatever the kids call it these days—might be too much for me to deal with.

With another quiet grunt, I pull my phone out and fire off a text.

GRIFF: Sorry, I’m not going to be able to make it over tonight either. I know I left your place a mess, but I promise you’ll at least have new walls and a ceiling before the end of next week.

LEDGER: That’s fine. Is everything cool? Is whatever you hurt really serious?

LEDGER: I could always come over and massage it if you need…

I bite back a groan. How does he manage to make a text sound so damn suggestive. I swear I can see that sexy little smirk of his in every word. And it’s tempting. Fuck, it’s tempting.

GRIFF: I’m fine. The crew at work is just insisting I come join in on some forced revelry at Wooley’s tonight.

The text bubble pops up to show that Ledger is typing a response, but it disappears after a few seconds, and he just gives my message a thumbs-up instead. What the hell does that mean? Is he pissed?

No. I can’t imagine Ledger getting pissy about something like that. Besides, weird, momentary thoughts aside, he’s not actually my boyfriend. He’s my neighbor who’s cheeky enough to trade me handjobs for handiwork. And I’m the touch-starved idiot willing to accept.

When it’s clear he’s not going to say anything else, I shove my phone back into my pocket, then finally go to drop my stuff in a locker. Luckily, no dildos or buttplugs spill out when I open the damn thing. It wouldn’t be the first time. I do notice a new addition to the decor in the hallway right across from the main office when I step back out though.

I frown at the pathetic, serial killer inspired board hanging on the wall with scribbled ‘evidence’ pinned to it and randombits of string connecting pictures with blank question mark faces on them. As shoddy as it is, it’s obviously about my secret admirer mystery.

“Stone’s been watching too many detective shows lately,” Ollie says with a shrug when he notices me staring at it. “Want me to take it down?”

I scowl at the board for a second, trying to figure out why it’s making my stomach feel so tense. It was nice to get those flowers and the fruit. And it was flattering to find out that maybe they weren’t sent to me by accident. But honestly, what would be the point in finding out who’s sending them?

“It’s pointless, but it’s fine.” I’m sure the fruit was the last of it anyway. And knowing Stone, he’ll get bored with this on his own in another few days, so there’s no point making a fuss about it.

Ollie studies me a beat longer, then nods and pats me on the shoulder. Surprisingly, the friendly gesture chafes less than it usually does. I suppose getting laid really does improve a guy’s mood. Or maybe I was trying so hard before not to think about how much I needed to be touched that shit like that used to irritate the hell out of me by reminding me of what I didn’t have.

Not that Ihaveit now. I’m borrowing it for just a little while until Ledger moves on. Maybe if I can remember that it’ll be easier to deal with it when it’s over.

Wooley’s is only a short drive from Four Bears, and since it’s only just five o’clock, we’re the first ones to fill the bar for the afternoon. West’s husband, Sawyer, owns the bar. He greets him by climbing halfway over the bar top and dragging him in for a sloppy kiss that the guys all teasingly cheer.

“Griff’s drinks are on my tab tonight,” Cole tells Sawyer once West lets his husband up for air.

“Another bingo champion?” Sawyer guesses with a grin.

“An eighty-year-old offered me some weed.” I shrug, as if that explains everything. The understanding smirk on Sawyer’s face makes me think that he actually does get it though. He chuckles and asks what I’m drinking.

“Whatever’s on tap is fine.”

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