Page 9 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
She jumps a foot into the air, and I’m glad I waited until she put down the knife, because she’d have stabbed herself in the eye.
“Holy shit, Audra! You scared the crap out of me!” Imogen lowers the volume on the sound system installed under a cabinet—we are now able to hear each other without shouting, which is nice. “I wasn’t expecting you till later.”
“I was going to go home and shower and change, but if I did that I’d never leave the house again, so I came right here.” I indicate the food. “Can I help?”
Imogen laughs. “Oh no, no way. I remember what happened the last time you tried to help me cook.”
“That was an accident!”
“You almost burned my house down!”
I huff. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”
She laughs, eyeing me skeptically. “You set my oven on fire.”
“I don’t bake my chicken, I grill it on my George Foreman. I forgot it was in there. Sue me.”
She waves a hand. “Fine, whatever. Just pour us some wine and tell me about Franco.”
I uncork a bottle and pour us each a glass. “Nope, not talking about that. I’m here to NOT think about or talk about that situation.”
Imogen takes a sip of her wine and goes back to cooking—she’s making something fancy and Italian, it looks like, and the minced garlic goes into a pan filled with tomato sauce. “A-void-ing!” she says in a singsong, stirring the sauce.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Which is unhealthy.”
I roll my eyes, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Whatever. You eat donuts, I avoid things. We all have our vices.”
Imogen laughs. “Well, if avoidance is the emotional version of carbohydrates, then you have the biggest ass on the planet.”
I flip her off. “You can go to hell.”
Imogen stirs the sauce and then checks on the pasta. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.”
I’m about to clap back with something biting and witty when Jesse clomps in through the front door.
“FOOD,” he growls. “Donger need food.”
Imogen turns from the stove with a red sauce-smeared wooden spoon. “Hi, babe,” she says. “Yeah, my day was great, how about you?” She answers herself in a funny impersonation of Jesse’s growl. “My day was awesome too, I spent it thinking about how much I love my girlfriend.”
Jesse is dressed for work in dusty, faded blue jeans, heavy work boots, and a Metallica concert T-shirt with the sleeves cut off; he grabs her wrist, tastes the sauce on the spoon, and then curls his arm around her waist, yanking her up against him. “Don’t be petulant. I did spend my day thinking about much I love my girlfriend, but I’m fucking hungry and it smells good in here.”
“I’m not petulant,” Imogen says, between kisses. “I’m just irritated that you went to work when you were supposed to be off.”
“Hey, if the boss calls, I go.”
“Your boss is also your best friend, and you haven’t had a full day off like, ever.” She wiggles out of his arms. “I was just looking forward to spending the day with you watching Netflix.”
“Yeah,” I say, sarcastically, “Netflix and chill, heavy on the chill.”
Jesse’s gaze slides over to me. “Hey, Audra.”
“Hi, Jesse.” I nudge the bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”
He shakes his head. “I drink wine with her when that’s what she wants, but if it’s up to me, I’ll opt for beer or whiskey every time.” He goes into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of something locally brewed. “So I’ll leave that for you two.”
“Yay, more for us.” I want to ask about Franco, but I don’t.
“By the way, Jesse, Audra is joining us for dinner,” Imogen says.
Jesse laughs into the bottle. “I figured. Fine by me.” He slumps tiredly into the chair across from me, setting the bottle onto the table and unlacing his boots. “The bastard owes me,” he says, groaning.
“Who, James?” Imogen asks. “Yeah, he does. He swore you’d have at least today off.”
Jesse thumbs off his socks, stuffs them into his boots, and then tosses the boots out into the back patio. “Nah, not James, Franco.” He sighs, wiggling his toes as he sits back down and swigs from the bottle of beer. “James is paying me overtime and a half for today, so I’m fine with that, and you and I can make up for lost time tomorrow.”
“What does Franco owe you for?” Imogen asks, eying me warily.
I sit and keep quiet and hope this doesn’t come back to me.
“He was a real tool at work today,” Jesse says. “He was cranky all damn day. Barely said two words, and when he did speak, he was a dick. By the time we were ready to knock off for the day, he was dragging ass. I tried to haul him out for a quick beer before coming home, but he pussed out and wouldn’t go.”
