Chapter Eight
Mitch deliberately timed his arrival at the Trailside Diner on Monday for that window between breakfast being over and lunch not yet started. He wasn’t really hungry, but a coffee never hurt. And he wanted Paige Sullivan all to himself. Or mostly, anyway. Carl would be in the kitchen, prepping for lunch and getting things ready to hand over to Gavin in the afternoon.
He’d stopped at Dozer’s to get a belt for the old tractor, which had led to rummaging around in boxes that hadn’t been rummaged through in quite a while, so he detoured straight to the men’s room to wash up first. He was surprised to find the door propped open with a bucket and even more surprised to find Paige up in the air, with one foot on the sink vanity and the other on a step stool.
Rather than risk scaring her and making her fall by shouting, “What the hell do you think you’re doing up there?” he tapped gently on the open door and cleared his throat.
She’d been so intent on trying to pop out the translucent plastic panel that covered the fluorescent ceiling light, he still startled her, but not so badly she toppled off her precarious perch. “Mitch! What are you doing here? Wait. Never mind. That’s a pretty stupid question.”
“I wanted to wash my hands before I sat down. I had to go digging at Dozer’s for a belt for the tractor.”
She laughed. “Get a little dusty?”
He wanted to put his hands around her waist to steady her as she climbed down, but he settled for holding the ladder instead. “Why isn’t Carl doing this for you?”
“Because he’s the cook, not the handyman, and he’s busy with cooking.” With her feet back on the ground, Paige wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s my lightbulb and I’ll change it, just like I changed the one in the ladies’ room a few months ago.”
“You’re lucky you haven’t broken your neck.”
“Because of the sink, I can’t quite get the ladder in the right position, so I have to kind of use both.”
“Step out of the way and I’ll do it. You can hand the new ballast up to me.”
“I can do it.”
God, he loved that stubbornness in her voice. “I know you can. But I’m here and I’m taller and it’ll take me about two seconds.”
It was tough logic to argue against, but she looked as if she might try. Then she sighed. “Okay, but your lunch is on the house.”
“Why can’t it just be a favor?”
“It’s still a favor. Your lunch will cost me nothing compared to having an electrician change the ballast.”
“Which you wouldn’t do.”
“Not if I can do it myself, which I can, even if it takes me longer.”
“Okay, you can spot me a sandwich,” Mitch said. The important thing wasn’t a battle of wills, but rather keeping her from breaking her neck by way of unsafe ladder habits. He shifted the ladder off to the side a little, since he had enough reach to do it properly. “You know, my brother’s in a cast for six weeks because he was stupid with a ladder.”
“It’s really charming, this whole make her feel stupid thing you’ve got going on. Does that usually work for you?”
He popped the light cover out and handed the panel down to her. “Right now I care more about you not hurting yourself than I do about getting in your pants.”
“The ladder was steady. I made sure my balance was good and the ladder wasn’t going to shift before I started trying to pull that down.”
“Josh made sure he footed the ladder, too.” He pulled out the old ballast and handed it down to Paige in exchange for the new one.
“Gee, however did I manage to run this place for two years before you blew into town?”
That made him laugh. “Part of being good at your job is knowing your limitations and finding people who can help you shore up the weak spots. For instance, I know Carl and I’m willing to bet he doesn’t know you’re in here doing this and, because you’re stubborn, you won’t ask him to do a fairly simple task he wouldn’t mind doing.”
“I prefer being self-sufficient.” When he reached down, she handed him the plastic panel. “I bet you’re not very good at admitting your weaknesses.”
“Sure I am.” He climbed down, off the ladder and folded it up to lean against the wall.
“Name one.”
He turned on the water and thought a few seconds while he waited for it to run warm. “Well, I figured out in the early days of Northern Star Demolition that I have trouble selling myself. Banging my own drum, so to speak. Prospective clients would ask me why they should hire me over another outfit, and I’d get flustered and stutter and shit.”
“You have trouble selling yourself? I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it or not,” he said as he grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser to dry his hands, “I’m a very humble guy.”