Page 29 of Delay of Game
“She has good taste,” I said, setting pen to paper. “How about we condense this list? You don’t need to write down every ding in the drywall. We just need to skim coat the room.”
“I like crossing things off lists,” she admitted shyly.
“And yet, I don’t see anything that’s been crossed off.”
Her cheeks burned pink as she studied her whiskey. Her attention perked when I ripped out a blank piece of paper. “And you’re adding more?”
“I’m streamlining.” I scribbled on the paper. “Repair drywall.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Are any of the holes bigger than a fist?”
She laughed. “You think we’re punching walls around here?”
“No, of course not.” Astrid hadn’t so much as killed the wasps on the front porch. “Are they bigger than a golf ball?”
She shook her head.
“I have a vat of spackle and patches, so it won’t cost anything unless there are enough that we should replace the drywall entirely.”
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her glass. “I don’t want pity repairs.”
“Pity repairs?”
Her lips thinned into a line. “Pity repairs. Pity dinner invitations. Pity conversation. I’m not a charity case.”
“You think you’re the charity case?” I couldn’t hold back a low chuckle.
Her mouth pursed, tiny lines forming at her brow. “I’m not trying to be funny.”
My stomach flipped, the laugh dying away. “I’ve got bad news for you, Astrid. In this particular instance, we’re both charity cases.”
She scoffed.
“I’m serious. Sure, you need help with this house, and I need help with…everything else.” I gulped down the whiskey.
“Everything else?” She raised an eyebrow.
My jaw tensed, working the words over in my mind before I forced them out. “Conversation, general public etiquette, interacting with other people. Fuck if I know. But my mom’s convinced that us hanging out would be good for me, even though…”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of the sentence. And waited. And waited.
Damn. For a kindergarten teacher, she was shockingly patient in the face of silence.
“You’re way too young, and I have a kid and a demanding job.” I blew out my excuses in a single breath.
“Way too young for conversation and public interaction?” She laughed. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Exactly.”
“I think we’re allowed to interact in public without someone calling the police.” She rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I meant. I was pointing out that this is a two-way street. You’re not a charity case.”
Her index finger looped around the rim of her glass, eyes following it before she huffed out a laugh. “Comparatively.”
I tilted my head, accepting the insult. “Besides, I like handy man shit. I either help you out or Mila talks me into building a dance studio in the backyard.”
