Page 15 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“Because if you know I have your granddad’s drill, you have to show up?”
“Exactly.”
I wind the long cord around the handle and body. “In that case, I will take the drill.”
He chuckles. “Good idea.” He picks up the nailer again. “I have to finish this. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”
“See you.”
I head upstairs and toward the front door, but I don’t get out of the house without passing James again. His eyes land on the drill in my hands, and a deep frown wrinkles his brow.
“Is that…? It is! That’s Franco’s grandpa’s drill.” His eyes flick up to mine. “Why do you have it? He never lets anyone touch that stuff—not even me, and I’ve known him thirty years.”
I don’t know how to answer that without giving him an explanation he doesn’t need, so I just shrug. “Ask Franco. It’s complicated.”
I exit the house and scurry to my car before he has a chance to say anything else, and before any of the guys outside can say anything. I set the drill on my back seat, next to my workout bag—the clunky, rusty old drill looks incongruous on the creamy tan leather of my Mercedes-Benz, and it leaves a funny feeling in my gut.
When I get home from work, I take a long, hot, much-needed shower, depilate my legs and hoo-ha, and then wrap up in my favorite robe—a tiny little terrycloth thing that I’ve had since high school. I do my hair while it’s still damp and workable and then sit on my balcony, sipping a glass of cab sav, and flip through my email and various social media notifications, enjoying the sun on my skin. My apartment is on the top floor and my neighbors on either side never go out on their balconies, and there’s no building across the street from me, just the parking lot and the back of a strip mall, so I often lay out on my balcony with my robe open for optimal sunbathing. It’s my secret to being evenly tanned all over, and one of my favorite ways to relax after work.
Since all I have to do to get ready to meet Franco is put on minimal makeup and get dressed, I let myself relax for a while, indulging in a second glass of wine. I catch up on some light reading—by which I mean my favorite romance author’s newest book, a guilty pleasure I’d never admit to anyone, not even Imogen.
My phone dings and a text message alert slides down from the top of my phone’s screen, rudely interrupting a…ahem…a climactic scene in the book.
Franco: I’m ready a little early. Pick you up?
It’s six forty-five. I’m not ready. Nor am I ready to let him pick me up—and to know where I live.
Me: You just want your drill back.
Franco: Nope. Just don’t see any point in waiting around another 45 minutes if I don’t have to.
Me: Fine. I can be ready in fifteen. Text me when you’re here and I’ll come down. I text him the address to my building, but omit my unit number.
Franco, after a pause: That condo complex is less than five minutes from me. I’ve done renovation work in that building. You leaving out your unit number bc you’re worried I’ll show up early?
Me, after a longer pause. See you outside in fifteen minutes?
Franco: …
Franco: yeah, just go ahead and avoid the question. LOL. ;-)
Me: …
Franco: We can exchange vaguely suggestive ellipses until doomsday, if you want. I’ve got unlimited data.
Franco: … … …
Me: k bye see you soon
Me: … … … … …
Franco: Fine. I’ll let you win this round…For now!
Is he text-flirting with me? Because it definitely feels like he’s text-flirting with me. Why would he text-flirt with me? Did he miss the part where he ghosted on me and then refused to talk about it? Sure he was at work, but still. Plus, I’m mad. Why would he flirt?
Ugh.
I glance at my phone and realize I’ve been sitting here for five minutes stewing on whether or not he was text-flirting with me, and now I only have ten minutes to get ready. And I’m still naked!
I fly into motion, not pausing to think about what I’m doing, just operating on pure blind instinct. Lingerie, a lacy, racy bright crimson set purchased at Fredrick’s of Hollywood the last time I was in LA for a trainer’s conference. I rarely wear it, but I look damned incredible in it, a fact I verify by taking a quick gander at myself in the mirror before putting on the rest of my outfit. My tits are high and huge and firm—all natural, baby, and still pretty much perfect despite my descent into middle age. My ass pops, a nice taut bubble of athletic roundness. My abs are toned and hard, my thighs are muscular and yet still smooth and feminine.
