Page 22 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
7
“Are you sure about this?” he groans, stepping back down the rickety ladder and giving me a firm look.
“Absolutely,” I smirk, “you’ve been here a week, I’ve done no work on the house at all, just consumed copious amounts of gin and talked – it is time to tackle the attic. It’s a rite of passage for my houseguests to work on the place. We can get a fair bit done in the next few hours before I head off to my job.”
“Very well, Tess,” he sighs, giving me an indulging smile. “I will begin passing down the things I find up there. But you have to clean out all the dust, I can’t bear it, the smell of old people and dead mice.”
“Not the mice,” I shake my head. “Anything dead is your responsibility.”
“Good Lord, you strike a hard bargain for board and lodging,” he sighs. “OK, but the dust is all on you!”
“Deal,” I smile, reaching my hands up as a signal I am ready to take the first items.
“Wait,” he shakes his head, descending all the way to where I stand, “I’m going to need overalls for this hideous job.”
“Overalls? My God, Lars. What have you been doing these past decades to get by that has kept your hands so clean and made you so soft?”
“Not manual labour,” he drawls, “of that, you can be sure – but I never said my hands were clean.”
I roll my eyes and follow him down the hall.
“To town,” he points out the open door to the car, “to get your house slave some overalls. And you can buy them for me, since your sisters all married billionaires.”
“Only two of them did,” I shake my head, “and I don’t use their money.”
“What? Surely Serena would have seen you made comfortable,” he frowns, tipping his head to one side, studying me.
“She did, Christopher bought me this farm and paid for the solar power. But I’ve never used the limitless credit card they gave me. I earn enough money from my job; I like to be independent.”
“Never used it,” he shakes his head, “no wonder.”
“No wonder what?
“Nothing,” he snorts. “Either way, if I am to labour for you, I’m not paying for the overalls.”
“Come on then,” I laugh, shaking my head.
The drive is short with company, and we make it to the Piggly Wiggly in no time flat. After purchasing painting coveralls made of some flimsy white material, Lars remonstrating the checkout boy for not stocking the fabric kind he was imagining, we head back to the car.
As I slide in the driver’s seat, still laughing at Lars, I notice Shelly from work hop out of her little Kia.Seeing me, she waves, and her eyes turn with interest to my passenger, before seeming to light up with recognition.
“Hey, John,” she shouts, waving at us.
I look at Lars, who shrugs.
“Guess I have one of those faces,” he laughs. “Let’s not stop, I can’t wait to get into this attic.”
I know Shelly won’t think me rude, after all, I will see her in a few hours for work. “OK,” I smirk at his sarcasm, and we turn and head out of the car park and back to the farm, “but you can’t weasel out of the agreement; anything dead is your responsibility.”
“I know,” he sighs.
I glance over to him, and he looks away quickly, out his window. But in the reflection, I can see his face is suddenly serious.
I walk into work with a spring in my step and a smile knowing Lars is still busy cleaning out my attic, much to his disgust. The last of my interior rooms to be renovated.
Shelly looks up from her seat behind the counter, her hair newly died black, and scowls at me.
“Hey, how come you didn’t stop for a chat at the Piggly Wiggly?”
