That Swoony Feeling

by Quinn, Meghan

Chapter Six

  RUTH

  “Come on, you stubborn piece of—ohh.”

  The plank of wood I’ve been trying to tear up finally succumbs to my “brutal” force and unlatches from the maddening glue of the floor. While final paperwork goes through, Mrs. Burberry told me I could start any renovations I wanted, which was incredibly nice of her given that I don’t own the shop. I’ve spent all day ripping up the old flooring, and I’m only halfway done.

  My hands feel raw from using the hammer and crowbar.

  My back is aching.

  And I’ve broken out in a very unattractive sweat, because the air conditioner is broken, leaving it humid and nasty in the store.

  Whoever put this floor in was definitely glue happy—yes, glue, industrial glue, but glue—and it’s made it quite the task to lift up from the concrete.

  Pulling back the first piece of flooring, I was surprised to find there was no subfloor, just concrete, which I think has made this so much harder.

  With my forearm, I wipe my forehead and sit back on the floor, crowbar on my lap, sweat dripping down my spine.

  And here I thought this was going to be the easy task.

  “Wow, someone had fun with flooring glue.”

  I whip my head to the side to catch Brig standing in the open doorway, hands braced on the doorframe, his beautiful eyes scanning the space. His black shirt is stretched across his chest, pulling at his pecs, and his narrow waist is accentuated by a pair of dark jeans and brown work boots. He looks so good it makes my heart ache.

  He steps into the shop and then steps right back out. “Holy shit, it’s humid in here. Why don’t you have the air conditioning on?”

  “Broken,” I answer, wanting to hide my head under a bag. I know I can’t look attractive right now. Beet-red face, hair drenched in perspiration and sticking to the back of my neck, sweat stains on my shirt. Not my best look.

  “Broken? Okay, that won’t do.” He holds up his finger and retreats to his shop. I stand, drop the crowbar, remove my work gloves, and try to “fix” my hair and look somewhat presentable. I know it’s a lost cause when I realize I’m wearing a pair of basketball shorts that go past my knees and hang low on my hips and an old black skin-tight tank that’s seen better days.

  I need to find more attractive project gear. Dressing this morning, I didn’t even think twice about running into Brig, which was an obvious mistake.

  A few seconds later, Brig comes barreling in holding a large AC window unit, taking it to the window near the “register” in the back. He sets it on the already open windowsill, adjusts it to fit, plugs it in, and then flips it on. The machine goes to work and almost instantly, the room starts to cool down.

  “There.” He dusts his hands off and shuts the rest of the windows. “That should be better.” He scans the room. “Scare your help away with the heat?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, still shocked that he installed an AC unit into the window without breaking a sweat. “Working alone today.”

  Brig’s eyes widen and he takes in the floor. “How long have you been working on this?”

  “Since this morning,” I answer shyly. “There’s some superhuman glue holding this floor down.”

  He goes to an exposed section and rubs his hand over the dried glue and concrete. “I can see that.” Reaching over to my tools, he grabs the hammer and crowbar and says, “This is what you’ve been using?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Shaking his head, he tosses the tools to the side, reaches into his pocket, and calls someone. He holds the phone up to his ear and after a few seconds, says, “Hey Rogan, can I borrow your floor stripper? Yeah, right now. In storage? Awesome. Thanks.” He hangs up and nods toward the door. “Come on.”

  I don’t move.

  I’m not sure I can even feel my legs at this point.

  When Brig notices I’m not right behind him, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Uh, are you coming?”

  “Wh-where are we going?”

  “To get a floor stripper. It will have these floors up in no time.”

  “Oh . . . uh, that’s okay, I can just use what I have. No need to bother you.” I reach down and pick up my crowbar and hammer only to kneel on my aching knees and start hammering at the floors. I can feel Brig’s burning gaze on me as I try to make it seem like I don’t need help, but after the tenth crack of the hammer, it’s stripped from me while Brig takes my arm, helping me to my feet.

  “I admire your tenacity, but this will take you forever and leave you aching for days. Come with me.”

  Keeping his hand wrapped around my forearm, he leads me out the door, shutting it behind us, and guides me straight to his tow truck. Like the gentleman that he is, he opens the door for me, and I awkwardly climb into the tall truck like I’m climbing a ladder. Behind me, I detect a small chuckle before he shuts the door.

  Great.

  Unlike my horrible display of getting into the truck, Brig hops in with ease and turns on the engine, keys already in the ignition. The rumble of the truck shakes the seat beneath me and without a word, Brig pulls out onto the road.

  “You really don’t have to do this,” I say feeling guilty.

  “It’s no trouble at all. Wasn’t doing anything at the garage, as the boys have it handled. Plus, I don’t think I could go back to work knowing you were over there, chipping away at the floor with your crowbar and hammer.”

  “It was working okay. Taking a bit longer than expected, but it was working.”

  “Well, with this machine, you’ll be done in no time.”

  Clearing my throat, trying not to stare at him, I say, “Thank you.”

  “Anytime. We’re neighbors now, Ruthie. We help each other out.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have much to return in the helping-out department. I’m not good with cars at all.”

  “You’ve always been really sweet, but I don’t think I’d ever let you near one of my cars.” He chuckles. “I’m sure there’s something you can help me with.” He snaps his finger as if something comes to mind. “I know, you can show me how to make your coffee cake.”

  “My coffee cake?”

  “Yeah. I, uh . . . want to send some to someone, but it would make more of an impact if I made it.”

  Who is this someone?

  “That’s uh, a family recipe. How do I know you’re not going to give it to your family to sell at The Lobster Landing?” Oh God, Ruth. Why the hell did you say that?

  He stops at a stop sign and turns to look at me. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

  There’s hurt in his eyes, and I immediately feel bad for accusing him of something I know he’d never do. Knightlys aren’t like that. They support the people around them, they don’t steal from them.

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I’m just . . . ugh, I’m not good at this.”

  “Good at what?” Brig asks, making a right toward Rogan and Harper’s house. I’ve been there a few times for girls’ nights.

  “Good at accepting help.”

  More like good at accepting help from the guy I can’t stop thinking about. The guy who’s starred in my dreams for the last several years. The guy I just wish would look at me as more than the girl who serves him coffee.

  Brig is silent for a moment before he says, “Is it because you’ve been on your own for a while?”

  The basic facts of a person’s life in this town are never off the table. It’s no secret everyone knows my parents died, just like it’s no secret the Knightly boys went to New Orleans and came back with a “curse.” Word travels quickly and instead of talking about the weather for small talk, we discuss the latest gossip.

  Sharon and her botched nose job.

  Peg and her cat addiction.

  Jim and his penchant for getting struck by lightning on the beach.

  It’s fair game when you live in Port Snow, so Brig knowing about my parents is no surprise, especially since we grew up together.

  N
ot wanting to dive too deep into this conversation, I say, “Probably. I’m just used to doing things on my own and taking care of myself so if I seem ungrateful, it’s not because I am. It’s because accepting help is hard.”

  “I can understand that,” Brig says, turning down Rogan and Harper’s long driveway. “But it’s okay to give in, to let others help you. That’s the beauty of Port Snow; we’re one big dysfunctional family.”

  “Dysfunctional is a great way of putting it.”

  Brig pulls up to Rogan’s shed where he keeps his vast array of construction supplies and moves a few things around. I help him shift some lumber to the side and then he eases out a decently sized machine that looks like a snowblower.

  He loads it up on the truck, straps it down, and then we’re back in the cab and driving toward Main Street. It feels like a whirlwind mission, but when he’s supposed to turn right toward the garage, he turns left.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, feeling confused. “Did you forget something?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I could really use some ice cream and since we’re already driving, figured you wouldn’t mind if we stopped at the Freeze Stand for a quick second.”

  “Oh sure, yeah. Whatever you want.”

  “You’re going to have to get some ice cream too. I don’t like to eat alone, Ruthie.”

  “I like ice cream,” I say lamely, only to see him smile in my peripheral vision.

  “It would be horrifying if you didn’t. What’s your favorite thing to get at the Freeze Stand?”

  “You’ll judge me.”

  “Probably, since I can be an ice cream snob, but tell me anyway.”

  I love how easygoing he is. Holding a conversation seems simple for him. Always the social butterfly. The guy everyone wants to be around because he puts a smile on your face.

  He puts a smile on my face.

  And even though I feel like my lungs seize whenever he’s around, I still feel warmth spread through me when he starts talking. His humor is infectious and his overall teasing personality makes me feel like I belong . . . belong somewhere.

  Feeling stiff, I tell myself to loosen up, to have fun, to live in this moment. From the look of it, Brig might inject himself in my everyday life when I’m at Piccadilly Parlor, so I need to seize these opportunities to be close to him.

  “Okay, but I warned you . . .”

  “Can’t be that bad—”

  “Blackberry soft serve on a cone dipped in a peanut butter shell.”

  He pulls into the parking lot of the Freeze Stand, puts the truck in park, and then turns toward me, arm draping over the bench seat, eyes blinking. “What?”

  “Blackberry—”

  “No, I heard you. I’m just wondering why? Why would you choose that?”

  “It tastes like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  Blinks.

  “What?” I ask, feeing nervous under his stare. But I also can’t hold back my smile at his confused expression. “Don’t you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

  “I mean . . . who doesn’t?”

  “But if we’re confessing here, I do prefer peanut butter and Fluff on rye bread, if we’re getting specific.”

  Blinks some more. “On rye bread?”

  Chuckling now, I nod. “Yes, have you tried it?”

  “No, I have taste buds.”

  “Apparently not refined ones,” I say with a lift of my chin.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, did you just burn me, Ruthie?”

  God, I love that he calls me that. I love it so much.

  “Possibly.”

  He pulls the keys from the ignition and says, “Well, this very well might be the start of a great friendship.” He opens his door and says, “Come on, I have to try this preposterous ice cream concoction that you love.”

  * * *

  “My brothers are never going to believe me. Never.”

  Brig shoves the bottom part of his cone into his mouth and wipes his hands on a napkin, then leans back in the grass and sighs.

  Mouth full, he says, “Fuck, that was good.”

  Not far behind him on devouring my ice cream, I take another bite, chew, and swallow. “Told you it was good.”

  “That was better than good. That was something special. How did you come up with it?”

  “My dad,” I say softly. “It was his favorite. He made me get it one day, and I haven’t changed my order since.”

  “Your dad was a very smart man,” Brig says, lying down on the grass now, hands behind his head. “I remember your parents working in Snow Roast, seeing them bustling around. My mom always said they were incredibly hard workers and admired them for turning the coffee shop into something special.”

  I finish my cone and sit there silently, trying not to get emotional over Brig’s kind words. “They were very proud of what they created.”

  “They would be proud of you too, Ruthie. Especially with this new endeavor. I think it’s going to be a great addition to town.”

  “You think so?” I ask, feeling slightly self-conscious.

  “Yeah, and do you know what I was thinking? We don’t have much of a waiting room at the shop, so we could strike up some sort of deal where my customers get ten percent off any meal while waiting for their car to be fixed, and I can offer the same for you with oil changes or something.”

  “Really? You would do that? Send people over to the Parlor?”

  “Hell yeah. Means they’re not waiting around, bothering me about when their car will be ready. It would be a good trade-off. And you know . . . if you want to kick over some of those sandwiches in return as well, I’m not going to turn them down.”

  “After saving my knees from many more aching hours kneeling on the floor, you can have as many sandwiches as you want.”

  “If I knew it was going to be that easy, I would have been over earlier.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and says, “We should probably get back so we can tear up the rest of the floors.”

  “You don’t have to help me, Brig. I can probably figure out how to use the machine.”

  “I mean this in the nicest way possible, Ruthie, but I don’t think you can handle the strength and power of the floor ripper.”

  “Are you saying I’m weak, Brig?” I ask, feeling far more comfortable with him than before.

  “No. From your tank top, I can tell you’re really packing heat in those biceps of yours.”

  I chuckle. “Don’t let these pencil arms mislead you, there is a lot of strength behind them.”

  “Either way, I’ll help you. I’ll tear everything up, and you can remove debris. Trust me, you’re going to want a strapping lad like myself maneuvering the floor ripper around.”

  * * *

  “Huh . . . wasn’t expecting that to happen,” Brig says, scratching the top of his head, staring at the hole in the wall the floor ripper broke through.

  “So glad I had a strapping lad helping me. Who knows what might have happened,” I deadpan.

  “Cheeky,” he says with a grin and then steps forward to examine the damage. “Not going to lie, this will set back your construction timeline. Unless you were looking to have a hole in the wall that connects to my shop. If that’s the case, I did us both a favor.”

  “I can see it now, a Dutch door connecting the two spaces with a slot where we can pass sandwiches back and forth.”

  “Like a dumbwaiter. Your innovative problem solving is commendable.” He takes out his phone again, presses a few buttons, and then brings it to his ear. “Hey Rogan. Slight problem. Think you can come to Ruthie’s Parlor? Just come here. No, I don’t need a medic.” Huffing, Brig hangs up and then says, “He’s right around the corner.”

  “Why is he coming?” I ask. “I think we can dislodge the floor ripper from the wall ourselves.”

  “Want him to make sure this isn’t going to hurt your sales contract or anything like that, plus, I don’t want to take the machine back to his place. Lazy like that.”
He shrugs and then turns to the rest of the space. “At least we finished the floor. Told you it would be quick.”

  There is old flooring piled up in the corner. A dumpster is supposed to arrive tomorrow, and the floor is concrete decorated in old yellow glue. Not much of an improvement, but I know once we get the new white oak floors installed—sans glue—it’s going to be gorgeous in here.

  “It was quick. Thank you for the help, even though you smashed the floor ripper through the wall.”

  “Frankly, I blame you.”

  “Me?” I ask, shocked. “How is this my fault? I was stacking the garbage in the corner.”

  “Yes, but I was concerned with how you were stacking it.”

  “Oh my God, that is the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

  “At least it’s an excuse.” He winks and my stomach flips.

  The Parlor door opens and Rogan comes in. The temperature of the room feels a thousand times better thanks to the AC unit, so when Rogan steps in, he simply looks confused. Until he sees the hole in the wall.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, walking up to us. “Why did you let him handle the machine?” Rogan asks me.

  “Uh . . . because he said I couldn’t.”

  Rogan pushes his hand through his hair. “Brig, you and I both know you always have a hard time with the floor ripper. This is the third time you’ve lost control of it.”

  “What?” I ask, turning to him, arms crossed.

  Looking slightly bashful, Brig dips his head and winces. “I was thinking fourth’s time a charm?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you borrow it, but I thought maybe you would have been smart enough to let someone else handle it.”

  “You know”—Brig looks at me—“I was wrong. You’re not to blame for all of this happening. Rogan is.”

  Pressing his fingers to his forehead, Rogan takes a deep breath and says, “I can’t deal with your idiocy right now. Why am I here?”

  “Well, to ensure Ruthie won’t be in breach of the contract still in process, and also so you can take the floor ripper home, as we’re done.

  “Fucking lazy,” Rogan mutters under his breath as Brig smiles brightly at his brother. I can’t help but love the dynamic between the two of them. The older brother having to take care of the little brother’s mistakes. It’s endearing. “You signed an addendum with Mrs. Burberry that stated you were allowed to make any changes to the space. A hole through the wall would be considered a change, although not a smart one, so you’re fine.”