Page 15 of Rules to Love By

“Why? Because I’m telling the truth?”

“Marc—”

“It is the truth.”

“Maybe it is. Or was. So what?”

“So why pretend it was ever anything else?”

“Maybe just give yourself a fucking break and don’t lean into it so hard, yeah? Shit happened. It’s behind us, and what’s ahead can be whatever we want.”

Marcus wanted that to be true. He really did. And yet the first cute guy to cross his path in a few weeks and what did he do? All but threw himself at him, embarrassed them both, and maybe screwed himself out of a good job. Without getting actually screwed, which might have made it worth it, even if that feeling only lasted a hot minute.

“Marc?”

“Nothing.” Marcus swept the papers off the counter as he stood. “I’m gonna go talk to Ozzy.” He rattled the sheaf at Tris. “See if I did this part right, at least.”

As he strode across the adjacent backyards of the B and B and the shelter, he tried not to relive every humiliating moment of the morning. He reminded himself that even if he didn’t get the job and both the Benson men wanted nothing to do with him, at least he’d come away from the experience with a better idea of how to write up an estimate for the next one.

“Not every guy wants a piece of your stupid ass just because you wave it their face,” he muttered at himself as he pulled at the screen door leading into the shelter’s kitchen.

The place bustled with activity, and he recognized Andre, the crew’s rotund little electrician, and Keith, the guy whose job it was to make everything pretty with paint once the rest of the work was done. Keith leaned close to a door frame, easing the point of a scraper slowly down a joint in the wood while drywall dust floated around the rest of the room.

“Ah! Mon ami! Bonjour, Marc!” Andre said something to his workmate in rapid-fire French, patted the other man on the back, then fell into step beside Marcus. “Ça va?”

“Eh.” Marcus see-sawed his hand in the air. “Comme ci comme ça.” He’d been practicing what little French he knew because Andre lit up when someone tried to speak his language.

“Coffee.” Andre nodded sagely. “Sur la table.” He waved in the direction of a card table in the corner of the kitchen. It did its best to hold up the huge coffee pot Kreed had loaned them, but needed the help of both walls to remain upright. The mugs had been moved to a rickety, but less precarious, pile of lumber.

Marcus nodded. “Merci. C’est genial.”

“Ah! Bien!” He clapped his hands, then Marcus’s shoulder. “Great, yes. That is a good word. Your accent is very bad, but”—he waved a hand—“pas de problem. Youtry. C’est très bien.”

“I do try. Um. Où est Ozzy?”

Andre grinned. “En haut.” He pointed at the ceiling.

“Upstairs. See? This French thing’s not so hard.”

Andre laughed, said something long, fast and completely incomprehensible.

“Yeah. Okay. Well, whatever.”

Which only made Andre laugh harder as he wandered off to do whatever he’d been on his way to do.

Marcus chose a pink mug with a unicorn and the words “Why yes, my piss is magical” on the side. Seemed Tris was branching out from cheeky T-shirts to rude tableware. Once he’d filled the mug, he went upstairs in search of Ozzy.

He found him under an upper-floor bathroom sink, swearing, while Farida, the plumber, stood with her hands on her hips and muttered what was probably Finnish profanity under her breath.

She glanced up when Marcus stopped in the doorway. “Hey.” She pulled a string of hair out of her face and tucked it behind an ear. “Ozzy. Your boyfriend’s bestie is here.”

“What?” Ozzy hauled himself out from under the counter, huffing and puffing out more curses—these ones in a language Marcus knew—as he tried to fold his linebacker shoulders small enough to fit through the tiny vanity door. “Oh. Hey, Marcus.” He held out a hand for Farida to pull him to his feet, which she did, effortlessly. “You were right.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tietysti olen helvetin oikeassa, koska tiedän helvetin työni, kiitos paljon.”

Marcus blinked at her, sipped his coffee, then looked at Ozzy.

Ozzy frowned. “What?”

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