Page 44 of When It's Us
We ate until our stomachs hurt and drank until everything felt warm and easy. Between the two of us, we polished off half the bottle.
Now, hours later, the rain has rolled in. Heavy drops pound against the roof of the van, turning it into a tin-can symphony. The space glows softly—the screens of our laptops and the small overhead cabin lightcasting a warm hum.
Earlier, Hutch showed me how to swivel the passenger-side captain’s chair around, and I’ve been curled up under a blanket ever since, trying to finish up branding work for a client. I’d really like to wrap it all up before we hit Montana.
Once we’re there, I want to be present—just Ginger. Not Ginger the business owner, not Ginger the ex-wife, not the mother trying to balance everything…me.
Hutch sits opposite me on the couch, his laptop open in front of him. He is studying something on his screen through thick, black-framed glasses.
Glasses.
As if Hutch Hayes isn’t already unfairly sexy, he has the audacity to wearglasses, too. What’s next—he plays the guitar? Writes poetry? If that’s the case, I’m screwed. I’ll spiral straight into a lust-induced coma and never return, trapped forever in a fugue state where all I can see is Hutch in those damn glasses, that glossy, untamable hair, and his pierced, monster cock.
Everything about this man—everything—is sexy. The way he moves, his large frame wrapped in muscle like it’s nothing. How he quietly, carefully bandaged my feet and treated my mosquito bites like it was second nature. He doesn’ttryto be hot. He justis. The fuck-me energy rolls off him in waves, and if I thought I was a slut for it before?
I hadn’t seen him in glasses.
I look up at him occasionally, and the line between his brows is a little deeper each time I do. He doesn’t look up; for the most part, he’s quiet and still, except for the clacking of the keys, the occasional raising of his hand to run through his hair, a click of the mouse, or to take a sip of his margarita.
I close out of the program I’ve been working in, satisfied with the work I was able to get done for the night, when he sighs in frustration.
I glance up at him while shutting down my laptop. “Everything okay?”
He looks up absently, as if remembering we’re sharing a space, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, just trying to rework this elevation, but nothing looks right.”
“Elevation?” I ask, snapping the lid of my laptop closed and sliding it back into the bag at my feet.
He nods, spinning the laptop around to show me. On the screen is a 3D rendering of a gorgeous custom home with brick, siding, and window mockups.
“The customer wants different windows, but the layout makes the size they want awkward. I’ve been reworking things for an hour and it’s still not right.”
Standing, I cross the small space and sit next to him on the couch, peering at the screen. My gaze finds his. “Wait…you’re telling me you drew this?”
“Yeah,” he says around a yawn.
“Seriously?” I don’t mean to sound surprised, but I am. This is extremely detailed and not at all what I was expecting when Wren said he built houses for a living.
“Don’t act so shocked.” He chuckles. “I might be pretty, but I have a brain, too,” he says in mock offense.
I shake my head at him. “Will you stop with the fuckboy shit?”
He looks surprised. I know he does it to be funny, but I can’t help but wonder how much of it is true, versus how much he plays into it because it’s what he’s always done. Either way, over the last two days, Hutch has shown me there is way more to him than a big cock and a pretty face, presumed body count notwithstanding.
“This is amazing. When Wren told me you were in construction, I pictured hammering nails and cutting plywood. Not this,” I say, glancing back at the drawing.
“Thanks.” A small smile lifts his lips, and it’s so different from the cocky one he typically hits me with. “I do a lot of that too,” he continues, “but this is my main focus. That and supervising jobs, making sure people don’t fuck things up, and figuring out how to fix it or who’s responsible to fix it when they do.”
“Is there more? Like, the inside?”
“Sure,” he says and clicks around a couple of times before the front door on the drawing generates and the front door swings open. “Move the arrows around to where you want to look.”
I take control of the mouse and start clicking through the house. The technology is incredible, and I love the layout. As I explore, Hutch tells me about the client—a family of five—and points out thoughtful details he added, like a laundry chute in the kids’ bathroom and adjusting cabinet sizes to better fit large pots—things I’d never think to ask for but would absolutely appreciate.
Over the next hour, he walks me through the entire building process, from digital plans to framing, wiring, and inspections. We’re both yawning by the end—me especially—lulled by the rain and the steady rhythm of his voice. He’s still working on a tricky window adjustment, but he’s sure sleep will help him sort it out.
The rain comes down in a steady deluge, and the wind has really kicked up since we ate dinner. I’ve never been more grateful to be camping in this old van rather than a tent in my entire life.
Once Hutch gets his laptop stowed away, he turns his back so that I can change—I’m really too tired, so I slip off my leggings before climbing up into my bunk. It’s much cooler up here, even with the ventilation flaps closed, but I burrow down into the blankets, creating a warm cocoon around myself.
