by Ellie Hall
“Did you get anything cold?” Max asks, scratching the back of his neck.
I toss my head back and groan. “Yes, I did. Because I’m an idiot. And I’m so freaking hungry I was really looking forward to cooking something for lunch.”
“Ah, Julie, I’m sorry. Good news is that new appliances will be delivered in three days. Kelly said they were all stainless steel, so they’ll look great.”
I huff out another sigh before thinking of an idea that might, maybe, possibly work, assuming that small town folks are as sweet and charming as they’re often portrayed in the movies. I do a quick reshuffle of my bags, putting the frozen and cold stuff into three bags. Then I walk down the street to the blouse with the white door. What was her name? Lina?
Lina welcomes me into her house, and after I explain my problem, she’s happy to let me store my stuff in her fridge until mine arrives in a few days. I’ll take that as a win. Small towns really are as great as they seem.
Back at home, Max has put away his grouting supplies. The rushing water coming from the bathroom tells me he’s taking a shower. It’s a quick shower, because I’ve barely even put the rest of my groceries into the cabinets when he emerges. Instantly, my brain conjures up an image of Max wearing a towel around his waist, beads of water covering his muscled torso. He walks out fully dressed in jeans and a red t-shirt, hair slightly damp in waves across his forehead.
Bummer.
I mean, not bummer. I don’t care one bit.
“There’s a great diner not too far from here,” he says, running a towel across his hair. “Wanna get some lunch before we get back to work?”
How is it that a man can shower and look so put together in just fifteen minutes? So not fair, Mother Nature. You did us women dirty.
“Sure,” I say, surprised my starving monster of a stomach didn’t growl out the word for me.
Roger’s diner should have a much cooler name because the place is incredible. It’s right on the water, just half a mile away from my house, with outdoor seating on the decking that overlooks Lake Sterling. The menu has everything you could want, from breakfast to burgers to milkshakes and more. My mouth waters just looking through the laminated pages of delicious food. The prices are also cheaper than anything I’ve seen in Dallas. Ah, small town life. You’re the best.
Max sits across from me, quiet as we both read our menus. Sure, it’s a little awkward sitting here with a man in a totally platonic way, especially when I’m sharing a house with him, but at the moment I am too hungry to care.
Even our waitress is straight out of a small town cliché. She’s mid-40’s with her blonde hair piled high in a gorgeous messy bun on top of her head. Her bright red lipstick makes me smile. The waitresses back where I’m from are overworked, overstressed college students who couldn’t be bothered to tell you good morning.
“Welcome, welcome,” she sing-songs as she drops off our drink orders. I got a Dr. Pepper and Max ordered an unsweet tea. Gross. Who doesn’t like sugar in everything at every given time? Finally, I’m seeing a flaw in Max, who otherwise seems like a pretty decent guy. I order a cheeseburger and fries. Max orders a BLT with a side salad.
“Ew,” I say after our waitress is out of earshot. “A side salad?”
Max quirks an eyebrow. “They have good salads here.”
My grimace intensifies. “Your BLT has lettuce and tomato on it. That’s basically a salad on a sandwich so getting a side salad is redundant.”
He snorts. “I like salads.”
“Cheese fries are better.”
Deep down, I like salads too. I mean, not all the time and not as a side when you could have fries, but they’re okay. I can’t help myself, though. Whatever Max likes I am determined to not like. It might be childish, but it reminds me of my promise to myself. No more romance. No more hot guys or flirty chitchat. The old Julie would have happily pretended to love everything a guy loved just so they’d like me. Not anymore.
Our waitress brings out a pitcher of water to refill his cup.
“Good to see you’re dating again,” she says, turning to me with a wink. “Honey, he’s a keeper, I promise.”
I choke on my cheeseburger, then rush to take a sip of my soda to cover my coughing. My cheeks turn red.
“Not a date,” Max says, glancing up at the waitress. He cuts me some slack by not even looking over at how embarrassing I look right now. “She’s new to town. And just a friend.”
“Oh,” she says, frowning as if this is the worst news she’s heard all day. “Welcome to Sterling, hun. What’s your name?”
“I’m Julie.”
“Hi, Julie.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and leans down. I guess she thinks she’s being subtle, but her voice is not quiet at all when she whispers, “Max is a good man. A real, real, good man.”
Max’s hand covers his face. I wait until she’s gone before snorting out a laugh. “That wasn’t awkward or anything.”
“Yeah, sorry about her. She’s been friends with my mom forever. She’s probably off calling her right now because in her mind, there’s no way a guy can just be friends with a woman.”
I shrug. “Joke is on her because I don’t date.”
“Never?” He stabs his fork into his salad. “Or not anymore?”
“Never again,” I say. A weird silence falls over us and I don’t know what gets into me but I’m compelled to keep talking. Stupid soda sugar rush. “There was a time in my life where I was stupid enough to think romance was real. Now I’m older and wiser and know better.”
“Maybe I’m dumb, but I’ve still got hope.”
I snort. “Have fun getting disappointed.”
That weird silence falls over us again, so I concentrate on dunking my fries into ketchup. Even with the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees, and the children laughing a few tables over, it just feels very, very quiet in the space between Max and me.
“So what do you do for a living?” Max asks. He must feel it too.
“I’m a writer.”
“Journalism and stuff?”
I shake my head over a mouthful of buttery roll. “Novels.”
He nods, impressed. “Wow. That’s awesome. What kind of books do you write?”
I take another bite. The great thing about being single forever is that you don’t have to worry about looking like a gross slob who talks with their mouth full. “I write about a private investigator who tracks down cheating bastards and makes them pay.”
His eyebrow quirks. “I guess you won’t be writing the next great romance novel any time soon?”
I snort. “Never in a million years. Romance is stupid.”
6
By the time we’re home from lunch I’m struggling with my brain to figure out how I feel about this whole thing. I’m still just as in love with my new house as ever, especially the stunning back porch that faces the water, so that’s not a problem at all. This whole Max thing is the problem.
Because he’s kind of awesome?
Like, just as a friend, of course.
I want to hate him, but he’s funny and kind and he eats salads like some kind of weirdo who cares about his health. All these good qualities are starting to topple over the wall of hatred I’d built up in my heart, the wall that tells me I hate men and I won’t ever be friends with them.
Maybe that’s a little too harsh. Just because I hate romance doesn’t mean I have to hate men. Just because Max is incredibly hot doesn’t mean I should hate him, too. I mean, good for him. Good for his genetics and his working out habits that give him those muscles, and good on the sun for making his skin all tanned and gorgeous and GOOD FOR HIM. He’s handsome. Good for him.
I take a deep breath.
“You okay?”
Max’s sudden voice startles me from my thoughts. We’re home now, walking into the living room, and I barely even noticed it. I nod. “Yep. Time to paint.”
“Cool,” he says. “I’ll go install the new outdoor light fixtures
.”
My chest constricts a bit once he leaves. I don’t know why his mere presence does things to my insides, like wake up butterflies that have been dormant for months. It’s really annoying. Too bad these butterflies can’t help write my manuscript.
I shrug it off and stare at the paint supplies on the floor in front of me. I’ve never actually painted any walls before, but I’ve seen enough Home Depot commercials to know you dunk the roller thingy in the paint and then slather it over the wall. Should be easy enough.
It is not easy.
I barely managed to pour a heavy gallon of paint into the metal tray thingy without spilling or dumping it everywhere. Then the paint gooped down the side of the can, making a mess of everything because in a split second, I decided to stop the paint spillage with my hands, and now I’m standing in the middle of my living room, grateful as heck for the drop cloth on the floor because my hands are covered in super thick paint. It doesn’t scrape off into the bucket very easily. The kitchen and bathroom sinks are brand new, the faucets still shiny and nice. I can’t touch them to wash off my hands.
There has to be a water hose outside, right? Worst case scenario, I’ll wash my hands in the lake. With an elbow maneuver that probably makes me look like a T-Rex, I manage to open the back door without getting paint on anything except my own clothing, my hair, my cheek, and my dignity. Outside, I wander around the porch looking for a water faucet, a garden hose, anything.
I walk around the house and find a spigot. Yes!
“You okay there?”
“I’m great. Just washing my hands,” I say, not looking up from the task at hand. Light blue paint splashes onto the grass beneath the water stream.
“Wow, you’ve already taped everything up? You work fast.”
I turn off the water and glance up at Max, who is all lean muscle beneath his grease-stained work shirt.
“Tape?”
His brow furrows as he follows me back inside. He surveys the floor, which has a tray of paint, a paint-covered gallon bucket, and very clean untouched paint rollers.
“Have you never painted before?”
“I’m a city girl,” I say, which should tell him all he needs to know. Judging by the curious look on his face, it doesn’t. “I’ve always lived in condos and you’re not allowed to paint rental homes.”
“You have to tape first,” he says, bending to grab a roll of blue masking tape. “All the corners and edges around the windows and ceiling. You know, so you don’t get paint on the parts that don’t need paint?”
“Ah,” I say with a slow nod. “That would make a lot of sense.”
He smiles, that genuine, adorable Max smile I’ve come to know in just two days. It’s not sarcastic like how Jason used to make fun of me, and it’s not slimy like a frat boy. It’s just a smile. It’s kind of sweet.
“I’ll tape, you paint?” he suggests.
“Sure,” I say.
He peels off a strip of tape and expertly applies it around the white window trim. I watch him work, admiring his strong arms as they place tape all around it and then move onto the next one. I should probably start painting, but, I’m mesmerized by his skill.
He turns around to face me and I jump, then reach for the bag of foam paint rollers to make it look like I’m doing something.
“Hey, Julie?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you hate me right now if I suggested playing some music?”
“Music would be great.” It’ll drown out the sound of my pounding heart and hopefully cover up all this awkwardness I have. Why am I so awkward? I should totally be freaking out about how I’m behind on my writing, but instead I’m just kind of… enjoying the moment?
Weird. This is so weird.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks.
“Anything,” I say.
He plays Weezer through the Bluetooth speaker and I grin. “Nice choice,” I say, bobbing my head along to the words for All My Favorite Songs, one of the band’s best works if you ask me.
We slip into a nice routine. He tapes up a wall and then we both work to paint it. He’s taller, so he uses the roller to get the high spots on the wall, and I kneel on the floor with a handheld paintbrush to paint the boarder of the room. The music keeps us company. Before long, we’ve finished the entire living room and Max suggests we do the small study next.
The study is half the size of my bedroom and it has no closet. A twin sized air mattress is on the floor. He has a duffel bag of clothing, a cell phone plugged into the charger, and a laptop.
“You travel light,” I say as he takes all his stuff and moves it to the center of the room so we can paint.
“Yeah, I don’t need much.”
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m taking Max’s home two months earlier than he had planned on moving.
“Where will you live after my house is done?”
“I’ll just go home,” he says, ripping off the blue tape with his teeth. I try not to stare at his lips in the process.
Home? Ew. This guy lives with his parents? He’s almost thirty!
I know I shouldn’t judge people, especially in this economy, but nothing pushes me away quite like a man without his own place to live. It’s always the guys who live at home who screw me over. They either have no money and they wanted to move in with me, which I refuse, or they have weirdly strict parents who won’t let “girls” over to visit even though I’m a woman and we’re both adults. One of the reasons I liked Jason was because he had his own place in my same complex. He was independent. Too bad that’s not the only quality that makes a guy boyfriend material.
“You do have a nice mom,” I say.
“Huh?” He snorts. “I didn’t mean my parents’ home. I meant my house.”
“You have a house?”
He nods, moving closer to tape the ceiling above me. My stomach flutters at our nearness. I take a step back.
“My brother lost his job so he and his family were going to be homeless a few months ago,” he explains. “He’s got a wife and two little kids so told them to move into my place until he’s back on his feet. I can just crash on the couch.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling breathless. “Cool.”
He’s got his own house? He gave it up for his family?
He’s gorgeous and handy and thoughtful and he eats salads?
Oh gosh. Oh no.
My heart is developing a crush.
And my brain seems powerless to stop it.
7
My entire body hurts by the time we’ve finished painting. Like, every single muscle is screaming in agony right now. My body is a writer’s body. I’m meant to sit in a comfy chair, only exercising my fingers while I type out my next bestseller. I am not built for six hours of painting.
Max takes the paint stuff outside to rinse it off, and I’m supposed to go shower, but I’m just laying here on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling with zero willpower to get back up again.
There’s a soft tap on my door, followed by, “You hungry? We can head to the diner for dinner.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, lolling my head to the side to look at him. “I need to shower first.”
“I thought you were doing that thirty minutes ago?”
I sit up. “It’s been thirty minutes?”
He chuckles. “Have you been laying there the whole time?”
I drag a tired hand across my face. “I guess I have.”
“Mind if I shower first?”
I nod, laying back down on the cool hardwood flooring. “Be my guest.”
“Cool,” he says, tapping on the doorframe. “I’ll shower then finish something on the back porch real quick, then I’m ready whenever you are.”
“What’s broken on the back porch?” I ask, staring at the ceiling. The back porch looked fine last time I was out there.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Fine,” I say with a yawn. “Keep your secrets.”
There must have been something in my Diet Coke at the dinner. Alcohol? Magic fairy dust? Something. Because it’s like the normal Julie has been yanked out of my body and replaced with a cooler, more fun, flirtatious Julie. Max and I had so much fun at Roger’s Diner. He’d introduced me to a few of the locals, and when our neighbor Lina showed up with her husband, we’d pushed our tables together and had dinner with them.
Everyone loves Max. He’s so kind, and friendly, and sweet.
I find myself sneaking glances at him during the short drive back home. Here in the cab of his truck, I can smell his cologne. It’s cool and soft, reminding me of the ocean. I know I have to get back to writing my manuscript. I know he needs to finish renovating my house and get out of here so my life can truly start over here in Sterling. All of that needs to happen ASAP.
But for now… I really like this.
“Ready for your surprise?” Max asks after parking next to my Jeep in the driveway.
“Surprise?”
“The porch,” he says with a mischievous grin.
“Sure.” I know I’m smiling back, but I try to keep my voice calm and natural.
We make our way through the house which now smells like fresh paint and looks clean and open with all the paint supplies gone. As I step out onto the porch, I don’t notice anything different.
“Well?” I say, turning around to cock my head at Max, who promised a surprise. “I don’t see anything different.”
“How about now?”
He flips a light switch by the back door. The dark summery sky lights up. My jaw drops as I look up. The wide back porch has a pergola roof, thin wooden slats that provide some shade during the day. Max has strung up a crisscrossed pattern of clear outdoor lights. Out on the lake, the water seems to sparkle and glow even prettier now. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the magical glow of the lights mixed with the soft sounds of nature and the crisp smell of clean, country air.