“Well that’s a relief, isn’t it, Ruthie?” Brig pretends to wipe his forehead. “All right. So, shall we put this in the back of your SUV?”
Rogan grumbles something, pulling the floor ripper from the wall. “I hope you make him fix this. He might not be good with heavy machinery, but he’s one of the best drywallers I know, besides Reid . . . and maybe Griffin.”
“Bullshit, I’m better than Griffin. Reid, maybe not, but Griff for sure,” Brig defends, hands on his hips.
“I’ll make that decision after you fix Ruth’s wall. Now come help me get this into the SUV.”
“Shit, he’s cranky. Maybe he should have some ice cream, huh?” Brig says, playfully elbowing my arm and God, it’s adorable. Everything about him is adorable.
I’m infatuated.
“Yeah, ice cream,” I answer, unsure of what else to say.
“Are you done for the day?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ll follow you guys out.”
“I didn’t see your car,” Rogan says. “Need a ride home, Ruth?”
“No, it’s really nice out, and I’d prefer the walk.” I watch the boys load up the floor ripper and then Rogan shuts the back door. “Thank you for the help, for letting us borrow the floor ripper, and for . . . putting a hole in my wall I guess.”
“My pleasure,” Brig says and then rubs his hands together. “Okay, I have some planning to do for you know . . .” He gives Rogan a knowing look. “See you tomorrow, Ruthie. I’ll be by with supplies to make everything good as new.”
“Okay, yeah,” I say as he pats Rogan on the shoulder and takes off up his stairs.
I briefly watch him retreat and when I turn back to Rogan, his eyes are watching me, catching me in the act of staring at his brother.
Cheeks flaming, I clear my throat and step to the side. “Uh, thanks for coming over. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Ruth.” His eyes study me, and I swear I can feel my body shrink on the spot. “Make sure he pulls his weight around here. He’s a good resource to have, even if he can be an idiot at times. Don’t be afraid to ask him for help.”
“Thanks.” I fidget. Rogan and Brig look the most alike with their carved jaws and broad shoulders, while Reid and Griffin share the same pensive look. They all look quite similar, which is devastating to all single women in Port Snow.
“Okay, I’m going to head home. Sure you don’t want a ride?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks, Rogan.”
With a curt nod, he hops into his SUV and departs. I take a deep breath and make my trek back to Snow Roast.
* * *
“Rylee, he sent a package.”
“What, really?” Her face lights up as I talk to her through FaceTime. “What the hell did you write in your letter? Did you use the lipstick?”
Shamelessly, I smirk. “I had a weak moment.”
“You harlot.” She claps her hands in excitement. “God, I’m proud of you. What a day? Ice cream with Brig and then a package. You’re practically married.”
“Oh yeah, I can hear the wedding bells,” I say sarcastically. “Keep in mind that he doesn’t know he’s sending it to me.”
“Doesn’t matter. When you texted me earlier that you had ice cream with Brig, I swear I felt all the stars align. It’s happening, Ruth.”
“It was ice cream, Rylee. And I just happened to be with him when he craved some. It’s not like he asked me out.”
“Don’t you read any of my books?” she asks.
“I mean . . . when I have time.”
She presses her hand to her forehead. “You know, that hurts, but I will forgive you. For now. If you had read them, you’d know that often, it’s the slow buildup that creates the best romance. My characters don’t start banging right away. They develop a friendship, a liking for each other, and when they need that every day, that’s when I start to pull out the feelings. That’s when the characters start questioning the twists and turns in their stomachs when the other person steps into the room. They start noticing their scent. They start craving their touch. A quick hug turns into a longer one, where a chin rests on the top of a head. And then the pull starts to happen, this undeniable, crazy pull that brings them together. Breaths catch, hands skim hips, noses touch, and then . . . the kiss.” Rylee sighs, looking off to the side. Hell, I sigh too. What I wouldn’t give for a moment like that with Brig. “It’s the slow burn that’s worth the wait, Ruth. Ride the wave with Brig. It won’t happen overnight, but it will happen. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’m so awkward around him. My responses are lame, and I’m always questioning everything I say. Ugh. And I was in my basketball shorts and tank top as we hung out today.”
“Oh Ruth, that won’t do.”
“I know.”
“I have a bunch of old jeans that don’t fit me anymore thanks to your coffee cake. I’m going to cut them up, wash them, and bring them to your place tomorrow. You are not allowed to wear anything else but these cut-off jeans while doing renovations.”
“Okay, now you’re becoming the cliché romance author.”
“Cliché works.”
“Fine. What about my awkwardness?”
“Easy.” She smiles. “Take a shot before you go to the Parlor.”
“That’s terrible advice. I’m not showing up with tequila breath.”
“Hmm, yeah, that might be problematic, and then drinking while operating a hammer might not be smart either.” She taps her chin. “Looks like you’re just going to have to loosen up. Don’t think of Brig as the guy you’ve been pining after for years. Think of him as a friend. Build a friendship and once you have that friendship developed, it will be smooth sailing from there. Talk to him like you would talk to Beck.”
“I have a filthy mouth when I talk to Beck.”
“And men appreciate that. Brig is a fun-loving guy and you have the perfect personality to counter him. It’s about time you show it.” She nods at me. “Now open the damn box.”
Knowing she’s right, that I need to treat Brig as a friend, not a hopeful love interest, I take a deep breath and open the reused box that’s taped heavily at the top. My box-cutter slices through the tape and then I lift the flaps. At the top is a letter, which I hold up to Rylee with a crazy grin on my face. She chuckles.
“Dear Secret Pen Pal. I wasn’t sure what this letter exchange was going to be like. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I would get someone I wanted to talk to. After reading your first letter though, I knew there must be something here, brewing between us. Mrs. Davenport put us together for a reason and I want to figure out why. I want to apologize for my first letter. I was nervous, wasn’t quite sure what to say, but your letter back to me was inspiring and real. I want to do the same with you.”
“I barely can breathe,” Rylee says, practically crawling into her phone.
“Same,” I say, trying to calm my screaming pulse. Clearing my throat, I continue. “How about we start with something simple to get to know each other? In the box is one of my favorite things about Port Snow. Not sure if you live here or not, but it’s my hometown and I’ve always loved it, never wanted to leave. I’ve spent years walking these streets, looking in every shop window, observing the beautiful architecture that goes into every building to make it unique but also cohesive with the town. So in the box is a small reflection of that. There’s also a note with it to explain why I chose this to give to you.”
“Oh God, what is it?” Rylee bounces as I try to steady my shaky hands.
I set the letter down, part the blue tissue paper, and the minute I catch sight of what’s inside, I nearly break down in tears.
“What is it?” Rylee asks again, bouncing up and down.
Unable to form words, I reach into the box and pull out a small four-by-four sign. Carved into the wood is a picture of Port Snow’s harbor.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Rylee says breathlessly. “Is that one of the carvings your dad did a while back?”
Tears stream down my face as I nod.
Before my dad passed, he started whittling. I remember sitting outside with him, helping sand the pieces of wood he intended to use, talking about everything and nothing. He’d whittle, I’d sand. We’d laugh, have picnics by the ocean, and I’d enjoy watching his strong hands create something so beautiful with a piece of wood and carving tools. He sold them at The Lobster Landing for a while.
“I didn’t know they still had any left.”
“Me . . . neither,” I say on a sob hiccup, bringing the sign to my chest and clutching it tightly.
“Oh, Ruth. Do you want me to come over?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I’m just . . . surprised is all. This is . . .” I glance down at it, passing my hand over the carving. “This means everything to me.”
“I know, sweetie. I know it does. What does his note say?”
Almost forgetting there’s another note, I pick it up. “There was a local man who made these signs here in Port Snow. My parents have a few hanging around in their house, and I have one or two as well. This one though, I’m giving up to you even though it means a lot to me—so if this doesn’t work out, please send it back.” Rylee and I both laugh out loud. “What I love about Port Snow is the community. The creative individuals who found a part of this earth and have turned it into something extraordinary. A home. But not just any home, a home full of love, friendships, and comradery. The harbor was one of my favorite places to visit as a kid, so here is a piece of me that you can have. Hope this wasn’t too up front. I’m looking forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, Your Secret Pen Pal.”
“Pretty sure I might pass out from the sweetness.” Rylee leans back in her chair and lets out a long breath. “That just about destroyed me, so how you’re not a puddle of Ruth right now is beyond me.”
“Feels like I am.” I take another look at the sign and then say, “How am I supposed to act normal tomorrow, after receiving this?”
“Yeah, that didn’t make things any easier, but just remember: like first, love second. Be his friend, treat him like a friend, be yourself, and if he doesn’t like that side of you, then he’s not the man for you. You and I both know your true personality isn’t the bashful coffee girl hiding behind a counter. Time to step it up, Ruth. Show Brig who you really are, and that friendship will grow into something more. I know you can do this.”
I nod and stare down at the picture. “I can do this.”
“Ruth Knightly . . . has such a lovely ring to it.”
I roll my eyes and pick up my phone from where it’s resting. “I’m going to bed. I’m sure Beck is waiting for you.”
“I think he’s passed out. Long day with the triplets. Okay, keep me updated with everything.”
“I will.” I wave goodbye and hang up. Staring down at the sign, I smile, my dad’s face coming to the forefront of my mind.
“What do you think, Dad? Is he the one for me? Should I take this gift as a sign of your approval?”
Chapter Seven
BRIG
“Good morn—” My words fall short when I catch Ruth standing by the register counter in a pair of miniscule cut-off shorts and a pink tank top. Instead of her hair hanging low by the nape of her neck, it’s piled high on top of her head, and she has a pair of weathered work glasses sitting there too. Work boots top off the outfit and damn, I feel like I’m seeing Ruth for the first time.
She’s . . .
Hell, she’s hot.
When she glances up from the clipboard she’s holding, she smiles, and I catch a sparkle in her dark brown eyes. Huh . . .
“Hey.” She sets the clipboard down and leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Is nine o’clock your usual show-up-to-work time?”
Is that sass I’m detecting?
Setting my drywall supplies to the side, I say, “Normally. Why?”
“Ah, you like to sleep in, got it.”
My eyes playfully narrow. “I don’t sleep in. I wake up at six every morning, but it takes work to make a body this perfect.” I motion up and down.
She chuckles. “What do you do, pump yourself up for the day by staring in the mirror and complimenting every square inch of your body?”
“If you must know, I run six miles every morning and then I lift weights, and that’s purely so I can indulge in your coffee cake. So if you want to blame anyone for my late start, it’s you.”
“Ah, always placing the blame on someone besides yourself.” She smiles and turns away.
Who is this Ruth? I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk so much, let alone tease.
“Which reminds me.” She spins back around and holds out a plate. “Brought some pear and raspberry coffee cake along with some coffee from Snow Roast.”
“Seriously?” I step toward her as she hands me the plate. “Damn it, woman. I swore I wouldn’t have any carbs today,” I say, as I lift a piece of coffee cake off the plate and take a large bite. I moan. Eyes shut, I savor the flavors as they soak my taste buds. “It’s so good.”
When I open my eyes again, I catch her staring at me, head slightly tilted. Quickly looking away, she picks up her own piece and takes a bite. “I might not have run six miles this morning, but I did load up the dumpster with all the flooring.”
What? Without me? Off to the side, I notice the large pile of debris is all cleared out. “Ruth, I could have helped you with that.”
“It’s my project. I can do it. Plus, can’t wait until nine o’clock for help.” She smiles and takes another bite of her coffee cake only to set it down on a napkin and pull out a thermos and two cups. She pours us each a serving of her coffee, and I immediately smell blueberry.
“Did you put blueberry flavoring in this coffee?”
She then pours skim milk and sugar in mine, gives it a stir with a stick, and hands it to me. “After all these years, I’m pretty sure I know how you like your coffee. I wasn’t about to bring something you wouldn’t like, since you’re fixing my hole and all . . .” Her words trail off as her nose scrunches up. “I didn’t mean fixing my hole.” She coughs. “Not like . . . you know, that hole. But my hole.” She shakes her head. “No. Not my hole, the shop’s hole. That’s what I’m trying to say. The shop’s hole.” She sighs and makes eye contact with me. A smile plays at my lips the entire time. “Why does it seem like I’m talking about a vagina every time I say hole?”
I nearly spit out my coffee. Instead, it dribbles down my chin in a fit of humor. Thankfully she hands me a napkin before it falls to the floor.
“Were you not thinking vagina?” she asks, biting on the corner of her lip.
What side of the bed did Ruth wake up on this morning? I feel like I’m talking to a completely different person. I’m not complaining, I actually I like it, but whoa. I was not expecting to walk into a ball of feisty wrapped up in tiny denim shorts today.
“I mean, I was, I just wasn’t expecting you to say vagina.”
“It’s just a word.” She shrugs but when she reaches for her coffee, I catch a slight shake in her hand, as if she’s still nervous around me.
“A private-part word,” I add.
She snorts and covers her nose, her eyes wide, making me chuckle even harder. She wipes her nose with a napkin and says, “Private-part word is way worse than saying vagina.”
“No, way. Worse would be saying pussy,” I say, testing Ruth’s limits. If we’re going to be work neighbors, I’d like to see how far I can push her humor. I’m hoping pretty far. I don’t have many female friends, just my brothers’ girlfriends/fiancée. I miss the satisfaction that comes from witty banter with the opposite sex.
To my delighted surprise, Ruth says, “Pussy is for the bedroom only. At least, that’s what Rylee instilled in me.”
Fucking perfect. I can’t contain my smile now.
“Being a romance author, I would think Rylee is an expert in the matter.” I take a sip of my coffee. “What’s her take on penis?”
“Are we really
talking about this right now? Over coffee cake and blueberry coffee?”
I shrug and smile over my cup. “Sure.”
For a second she pauses, and I watch her eyes float back and forth over mine, as if she’s trying to decide how far she wants to take this.
Go all the way, Ruthie.
Finally she says, “Penis is everyday vernacular. For example, if you’re talking to mixed company, you would say, ‘oye, my penis just jumped in my pants’ but—”
“What?” I say on a full laugh. “Who do you know that says ‘oye, my penis just jumped in my pants’?”
“I mean . . . people.” She chuckles slightly, her smile larger than I’ve seen before. “No one in particular. Tourists maybe?”
“Ah.” I nod. “Smooth. Classic townie, blaming everything on the tourists.”
“It’s the Port Snow way.” She sets her coffee down and says, “Anyway, back to penis talk.”
“Yes, of course, wouldn’t want to deter that conversation.”
There’s a light blush on her cheeks and even though she looks confident, there’s a waver in her voice, reminding me that it’s Ruth I’m speaking to. It’s endearing.
“So penis is for society as we established. Dick is reserved for friends, and cock is saved for the bedroom.”
“Ah, yes. I can see that. Actually”—I sip my coffee—“the more I think about it, the more it’s true. I don’t say dick or cock to my mom, I say penis. But around my brothers, I usually say dick and well, when I’m in the bedroom, which hasn’t been a while, I do say cock.”
It’s been a long time . . .
Why did I just admit that to her?
Then again, from the gossip that floats around, people probably know all about my dry spell.
That Swoony Feeling Page 7