Page 4 of Summer, in Between
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‘YOU okay?’He reachesabove me and grabs the door, holding it open.
I step back, looking up past his (perfect) pecs into his (perfect) face.I’m gaping at him like I’ve never seen a walking god speak.
‘Yeah, good thanks, you?’I have a visceral urge to kick myself, hard.The cringe factor is next level.
‘Yeah, good, a bit dusty.It’s Cat, yeah?I’m Paul.’
As I step through the door, he lets it close and holds out a hand.I shake it awkwardly, acutely aware that he’s gripping my clammy palm.His wrists are twice the size of mine.
‘Cat,’ I say and release his hand to wave at Sadie at the counter, her rheumy eyes watching some young teenagers lurking around the lollypops.I walk across the store, past the ice-cream freezers and the dine-in tables straight to the drinks fridge and stare into it as if the contents are the most intriguing sight I’ve ever seen.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’says Paul.
I turn away from the fridge to look at him.He’s standing with his thumbs tucked into the waistband at the back of his deep blue board shorts, right behind his hipbones.
‘Can you buy me a drink?’I repeat, rolling my eyes.‘That’s one I haven’t heard in Sadie’s before.Thanks, but no.I’m all good.’
‘Really?You look hot,’ he says.
‘Seriously?’
‘I just meant it’s hot,’ says Paul.‘Not that you’re not hot, of course you’re hot, but it’s hot, you know?You want a drink?’He’s blushing, which is almost as startling as him apparently flirting with me.
‘No thanks, I’ve got to get my brother.’I open the door.The bell jangles, reminding me of why I’m even at Sadie’s in the first place.
‘Forgot the foil,’ I say to no one, and I wind my way around the two aisles scanning the shelves.
Paul is leaning against the counter, two glass bottles of water in his hand.I pay Sadie for the foil, my breath hammering around in my chest like I’ve been dumped by a wave at the very thought that Paul Lightwood, the most ridiculously good-looking member of the male species in the entire history of the male species, knows my name.I know he’s nothing more than a massive flirt, yet I’m one more ‘can I buy you a drink?’from collapsing into a Jane Austen-style swoon.I drop my change into the charity tin beside the register and Sally smiles at me in gratitude, patting the back of my hand with hers, age spotted and crepey.
‘Here you go.’He hands me one of his bottles.‘Tell your old man I’ll catch up with him tomorrow, yeah?’
‘My dad?’
‘Yeah, Mick.Your dad.I was happy to kick off today, but he said New Year’s and all that.’
‘Kick off?What are you talking about?’Now I really am on the brink of hyperventilating.
‘Your reno?’
‘You’re going to work with my dad?At my house?But how?What?’
‘You probably know more than me,’ he says.‘Your old man spoke to my boss about needing another set of hands for a build and look at this.’He flips his hands, palms up.Callouses dot the base of each finger and the deep lines would be a palm reader’s dream.‘How’s these for hands?’
