Page 95 of The Best Laid Plans

Light placement.

Paint colors.

Which way would they lay the new floor?

The tile pattern, the backsplash, the fireplaces, the bathroom floors—we had a different conversation for each.

The color of the grout.

Checking and rechecking before things were done that couldn’t easily be undone.

Sometimes he got that look in his eye—that if someone asked him to make one more decision, he’d lose his mind.

That’s usually when he left to work out. Burke had crafted his own backyard gym on the property, and when I walked the path toward Daphne and Richard’s, I’d catch a glimpse of him doing push-ups or pull-ups on the apparatus that William had built for him about a month earlier. He was always facing the water, no matter what area of his body he was working.

They’d also added a simple wooden bench, which Burke used to exercise his triceps.

The last time I had caught him doing that, I’d tripped on a root coming out of the ground, because he was shirtless and the flex of his massive arms as he pushed his body weight up and down and up and down ... it was good.

Good flexing of good muscles.

I tell you, the Burke Barrett Orgasm Effect was taking over my brain.

I’d almost tackled him to the ground right then and there. The only reason I maintained self-control was because I wasn’t really into exhibitionism and the crew would’ve gotten a great view from the back of the house.

Once he was done working out, he’d come back to the house and shower. That was usually when I was working at the dining-room table—either on some of my virtual projects or on planning out my social media posts for the next couple of weeks.

I’d received a new inquiry for my schedule after I was done at the Campbell House—this one for a Spanish Revival hotel in California. Months earlier, I’d had a call about a 1920s Tudor-style mansion in Des Moines.

I’d replied to the California inquiry, asking for specifics and a timeline, and ignored the pit in my stomach when I hit “Send.”

Our afternoons were a mix of errands—he’d go on his, I’d go on mine—and occasional trips over to the house if William had a question. Burke had taken on the landscaping of the property, and I’d deny it until my dying day, but watching him ride the lawnmower with his shirt off was the strangest kink I’d ever unlocked in myentirelife.

When the workers left around four thirty or five, we’d lock eyes, wait for the last car to leave, and then walk the house to see what had been accomplished that day.

The walls and trim were painted.

Floors were starting any day.

And the more the house transformed into something real and livable and increasingly beautiful as the days passed, the more his eyes took on a haunted quality.

We almost always ate dinner together.

After dinner, I liked to walk over to Daphne’s house for a visit. Sometimes he joined me. Sometimes he stayed back to talk to his sister on the phone.

And it was only when the skies went dark and we pulled the shades on the windows that Burke’s eyes would take on a certain gleam.

Intent and desire.

It wasn’t every night. Somehow we both knew when the mood wasn’t right. And despite the unspoken lines we’d drawn, there was no shortage of variety in the ways we found fulfillment together.

As the days crept into August, the air became damp and heavy and hot, as was often the case in Michigan. I stood in the kitchen of the carriage house and watched Burke talk to William, fanning my face because the outdated HVAC could hardly keep up.

Burke had been gone for four days, back down to Florida to watch his niece and nephew while his sister met up with some college girlfriends.

That’s when I convinced myself that I’d been infected with something.

In his absence, I’d found myself watching a documentary on ESPN that talked about the best defensive players from his era. Richard had sent me a text about it, and despite every single mental protest warning me not to tune in, the remote just ... did it.

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