Page 58 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
He rockets to his feet, stomps across the room; yanks open a bureau drawer, snags a pair of shorts, steps into them, and exits the room in a skirl of male scent and pissed-off energy.
I’m not sure what just happened. Maybe he’s getting a drink, or taking a breath in the kitchen. He said he needed a minute, so I don’t want to follow him. God knows this is a crazy situation, and I understand he might need some time to process it all. But I’m confused. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
He was married?
We just had unprotected sex. It was the first time for both of us, even though we’re both over forty. I’ve never had sex without a condom.
And now…I have.
Despite all that, the memory of it makes my heart palpitate and squeeze because of …our connection. The kisses, and the sheer intimacy of the sex.
But I refuse to think about that other word that’s bubbling around in my head. I won’t say it, won’t think it, won’t even entertain the notion of it.
That’s not what it was.
I hear a door close.
He’s gone?
I feel a bolt of panic at the idea he might have left.
I tell myself to calm down. Just relax. Breathe. This is his house. Where would he go? Talking a walk, getting a breath of air?
Yet still, there’s panic inside me.
After all that just happened between us…he just walked out?
Several minutes pass and then the panic and anger and fear spur me out of his bed. I open his closet and grab the first button down I see—a white long sleeve dress shirt that looks nearly new. I slip my arms in the sleeves, button it up, and then roll the sleeves up. Just putting on the shirt, knowing he’s worn it, makes me feel calmer.
I take a deep breath and leave his room. Exiting the hallway, I find myself in the open-plan main area; it’s clear Franco has done major remodeling here. It’s simple, clean, neat, and beautiful. Dark floors, light walls, simple decor, with a few personal touches here and there—photos of Franco with the other guys in various stages of life: as kids, teenagers, young adults, adults, and current. There’s a woman in a few of the photos, and I assume it’s Renée, James’s wife and Jesse’s sister. I see no photos of Franco’s family, though. No siblings, no parents, obviously nothing of his ex.
I head into the kitchen, peering through the window over the sink, which overlooks the backyard—I see the garage door is open and a light is on. His workshop. I’m already out the side door ignoring the fact that I was giving him time. But I’m already across the driveway and standing in the open garage door, watching Franco. Still clad in nothing but his shorts, he’s bent over a mammoth slab of wood balanced across two sawhorses. He has a simple tool in his hand—damn if I know the name of it—and he’s running it across the piece of wood, moving with the grain in long, slow, smooth, precise strokes. Little curls of wood peel away, and he brushes these away between strokes. Every ounce of his attention is on his work, and each movement is as slow and precise and methodical as the last.
I don’t know how long I stand there, leaning against the side of the garage, watching him. But I realize I’ve calmed down, the anxiety and concern are gone, and I’m totally relaxed.
I could watch him forever, says a little voice inside me.
Chapter 10
After several minutes, he looks up and sees me. “Sorry, I just…” He lets out a breath. “You wanted to see my workshop, sometime. Well, here it is.”
I look around—the room is quite large and it is filled with all sorts of tools and equipment. Everything is arranged in the neat, obsessively orderly fashion I would expect of him. The tools are all old, made of wood and handworked metal. There is a stack of wood on the floor in one corner—a castoff pile, it looks like as all the pieces are different sizes and kinds and shapes. There are also several crates and boxes of metal parts—handles, knobs, pulls, hinges, hooks, knockers, locks, and other parts I don’t know the names of—as well as stacks of wrought iron spindles and sundry other larger pieces of metal.
“It’s amazing,” I say, with unfeigned candor. “I love the way it smells in here.”
He smiles. “Me too. Reminds me of Grandpa.” He crosses the garage and hangs the tool on a peg, making sure it hangs just so before leaving it in place.
I spy a stool tucked under the workbench, which runs along the rear wall beneath the pegboard of tools. I go to it, slide it out, and sit on it, crossing my legs as demurely as I can—this isn’t going to be a sexy conversation.
