Page 11 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
Laurel blushes and laughs. “Well, as a little guy just learning to speak and having just been weaned, he was constantly grabbing my chest. So I kept saying no-no to him whenever he grabbed at my boobs. Which led him to call them no-no’s, and it just stuck even at an age where he knows what they’re called, plus a few other slang terms for them.”
I laugh. “Ah. Kid logic.”
She nods, laughing. “Yep, kid logic.” She shoos me out the door. “Now go on with you. Take your big ol’ no-no’s and go to work.”
“I’m actually off today. I’ve got some work to do around the house, and I have to talk to Jesse and Imogen about finding someone else to finish planning their wedding.” I wince. “That’s gonna suck. I hate letting them down, but it’s just too hard for me.”
“They’ll understand, especially if you give them some backstory as to why. The abridged version, at least.”
I hesitate on the steps, thinking. “I don’t know, but maybe now that I’ve told the story once, telling it again doesn’t seem so insurmountable.”
Chapter 3
The next morning, I’m finishing up laundry and tidying my bedroom when my phone rings.
I answer it, propping the phone between shoulder and ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Nova. It’s Imogen.”
“Hey, Im. How are you?”
“Fine. So, um, I had some thoughts about the centerpieces. Do you have a minute for me to run them by you?”
I stifle a sigh. “I…um…actually, I wanted to talk to you too. Are you home? I could pop over.”
“Yeah, I’m home. Come on over.”
Imogen’s house is an adorable little place, sided with white vinyl, a dark roof, a red front door and red shutters, all recently redone, thanks to Jesse and the guys. I park in the driveway behind Imogen’s car and head for the front door. Imogen welcomes me with a hug, and leads me inside. Her house smells like new paint and sawdust. There’re power tools everywhere, sheets of drywall stacked near the back door, and a tarp over the kitchen table.
“Wow, more construction, huh?” I say. “Didn’t the guys just redo your roof and siding?”
Imogen laughs. “Yeah, but the roof was thirty years old and starting to leak into the attic, and the siding was warped in places, so that had to be done.” She gestures at the work being done inside. “This is a different prospect. My kitchen used to be separate from my dining room and living room, and I guess it bugged Jesse. So he decided to knock down the walls and put up a giant beam across the ceiling so I don’t need posts to support the roof, and voila, open concept house.”
She gestures at a thick, dark wooden beam running the length of the room, with another equally large beam running crossways. The house is now open-concept, and it seems like Jesse isn’t just knocking down some interior walls, but pushing the back wall of the kitchen outward to create a few extra feet of space for the kitchen.
I admire the job being done here. I know that Jesse and the guys are builders, but I’ve never actually seen any of their work. At least, not work in progress. I know they did James’s house, and that’s beautiful, as well as Ryder’s, which is also gorgeous…but seeing Imogen’s house in the process of being torn apart and rebuilt makes it more…real, I guess. The remodel opens the home and makes it feel more breathable and airy.
I’m kind of jealous, actually. I bought a little ranch on a huge lot a few miles from here, and I’ve been wanting to open it up a little, pretty much exactly like this. I have quite a tidy sum saved for the remodel, but I’ve just never got around to doing anything about it.
“Can I get you anything—coffee or tea?” Imogen asks.
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Imogen has a folder out and open on her coffee table, and the folder is stuffed to overflowing with magazine pages, printouts from online articles, and Pinterest boards…her vision for the wedding. My gut churns as she excitedly spreads out Pinterest board printouts of various centerpiece ideas.
“So, I know we’d talked about white roses, but I think I like this look better,” she says, tapping a printout showing bursts of white lilies with a single brightly colored accent flower in the middle.
I let out a breath. “Imogen, I…”
Her face falls. “You’re quitting.”
“I thought I could do this, Imogen. I really did. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “I wondered.” Her eyes go to mine. “Can I at least know why?”
I hesitate over how much to say but then, once I start, I end up relating the story in full again, and this time it’s easier. Still painful, but not quite as hard to talk about as it was with Laurel last night.
