Page 19 of Follow Your Bliss

I smiled, too used to that reaction to be insulted. “It’s got just the right amount of shtick, which works in my favor. But I admit it’s a little too close to ‘dick daddy,’ which has caused more than one massive misunderstanding to come my way—and more than one massive dick pic.”

She’d almost recovered from her laughing fit, but that set her off again. After a minute, though, she was sitting back up and scrolling. “Okay, okay. I found you. And, followed. Helloooooo Deck Daddy.” Her eyebrows went up.

I caught my face in a mirror leaning against the wall. I’d turned bright red, for some reason.

“Wow. The women and gay men on Instagram eat you up, don’t they?” She looked up. “Oh, a quilt? Yeah, lemme grab it.” She stuck her phone in her back pocket and dug in another box, pulling out a comforter. It was covered in, of course, roses.

“How did you come up with Deck Daddy? It’s brilliant.”

“Well, I didn’t get a lot of followers on my old handle,WoodworkingwithJason, until one day my reflection showed up in the sliding glass door beside a deck I built—and my shirt was off.” I scratched my beard, a little embarrassed to be talking about this in her bedroom. She billowed her comforter onto the bed and sat down on it, going back to scrolling my account. “The post blew up, and one of my followers called me ‘Deck Daddy,’ and I kinda ran with it. So now I give the people what they want.” I grinned at her, but she stared back at me. “What?”

She breathed out, returning her eyes to her screen. “I mean you were always good-looking, but goddamn. HA! One of these women tagged you, #WILF: woodworker I’d like to fuck.”

I smiled at the compliment. And the hashtag. And at her blushing furiously after she said them.

So…did Rose have a boyfriend?

Nope, that wasn’t something I needed to know.

“Okay, but I have to buy some Deck Daddy merch.” She burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I love this shirt.”

I leaned over her shoulder. “Which one?”

“This blue one.” She tapped on the screen with a pink nail. “With the hammer and nails: ‘#nailed by @DeckDaddy.’”

“I’ll give you a shirt. You don’t have to buy one. What size you want?”

“Um, large. I like ‘em big.”

I miraculously held back a snort, but she didn’t.

“They’re on order, but it’s yours when it comes in.” Among the cardboard boxes in the living room, I’d seen a few pieces of furniture like a dresser, a desk, and a nightstand. But I didn’t remember seeing any kind of worktable or sewing machine. “What do we have to do to get you set up to work?”

She stood and shoved her phone into her back pocket again and pressed both hands to her stomach. “You’re so sweet, but you have better things to do than to spend all day holding my hand.”

“Nah, what else is a landlord for?” I followed her back into the living room and picked up my water bottle.

“In my experience? Lying about repairs and trying to cheat you out of security deposits. Oh, do you want a security deposit?”

I swallowed my water. “No, that’s okay. Seriously. What can I help you with? You have a table for your sewing machine? I cleared the room out yesterday.”

“Thank you! Yes, that folding table against the wall. Let me find my sewing machine.”

I grabbed the six-foot folding table she pointed out and brought it into the room, but I didn’t have high hopes for it. It was mostly held together with duct tape and good vibes—literally, a sticker that said “good vibes”—and she’d wrapped the top of it in pink satin. I managed to get it open, but it was shaky as hell.

“You don’t have another table?” I asked as she walked in with a box.

She shook her head. “No, Strawberry Jello’s all I’ve got.”

“Strawberry Jello?”

“The table.” She set her box on it and gave it a shove, and the whole thing swayed.

“Let me see if I have another—”

“No, it’s totally fine. I’m used to it, I promise.” Hands pressed to her stomach again.

“You can’t work on this. I could build you a table.”

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