In the short time it takes for me to drag my suitcase inside—Aaron does not offer to help—he’s covered up all those incredible muscles and his pretty tattoos with a threadbare T-shirt. I put a few things away while he works on the floor.
I know I should probably leave him alone, but for whatever reason, I seem to be compelled to try to make him talk to me.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask once he’s finished cutting another piece of flooring.
“This particular project or this in general?” He taps the board in with a rubber mallet until it clicks.
I wait until he’s finished with the saw again before I clarify. “This in general. Have you always worked with your hands? It’s obvious you’re really good with them.”
I get another one-word answer: “Yeah.”
Instead of being deterred, I keep asking questions. People love to talk about themselves and what they’re interested in and passionate about. So it should, in theory, make him more likely to give longer, more detailed responses. And for a bit it does. He starts going on about the difference between engineered hardwood and regular laminate and how this stuff is better. I have no idea what any of what he’s saying means; all I know is that he’s talking and I get to stare at his pretty face and listen to his voice.
At least until he abruptly puts an end to my Q&A session. “Look, Teagan, I get that maybe you’re bored or whatever, but if you want to have a floor that isn’t plywood, you gotta stop with all the questions. I’d like to get this done before midnight.”
It’s not that I don’t understand that he needs to finish what he’s working on. It’s how quick the shift is and how sharp his tone becomes. Like I’ve reached the limit of his patience and he’s been humoring me this entire time. I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.”
I grab my purse and rush down the stairs, heading for the house and away from Aaron. I don’t even know why I’m trying so damn hard to make someone I’m only going to see on very rare occasions like me. He’s not worth the effort.
CHAPTER 2
THE FORK IN THIS ROAD IS BENT
Teagan
I let myself into the cottage, and I entertain myself by making use of my brother’s kitchen and his cupboard of liquor. In that order. The least I can do when I show up unexpectedly is make him food in the form of his favorite things.
I’m sitting on the front porch on the swing bench, sipping my second martini. Based on the ring marks on the side tables, I’m going to guess Van and Dillion spend a lot of time here in the evenings. They probably cuddle and talk about the life they’re building together.
If Troy hadn’t cheated on me with my best friend and then dumped me for her, maybe he would have come here and sat on this porch swing with me and talked about our future together. I almost snort into my martini glass at the thought.
Troy would never go to a “cottage” on a lake. Troy is basically allergic to any and all bugs. He blisters when he gets so much as one mosquito bite and then moans about the potential scarring and how itchy it is.
The sound of an engine turning over and the spitting of gravel tells me that Aaron is done for the day. Which I assume means the floor has been installed and I’ll be able to sleep comfortably in the garage apartment without imposing on my brother.
Not long after Aaron leaves, the rumble of an old engine and the crunch of gravel under tires alert me to the arrival of either my brother or Dillion. Or possibly both of them, depending. My brother works for an architectural firm in the city, but sometimes he takes on a consulting role for projects on Pearl Lake, which is what he’s doing today. He texted a few hours ago to let me know he’d be on-site until about five thirty.
A minute later, Van appears. He’s let his hair grow since he moved here permanently, trading in the business cut for something slightly less polished. It looks good on him, as do the T-shirt, khakis, and open plaid button-down.
“Hey, Teag, sorry I couldn’t get back sooner to keep you company.”
“Don’t worry about it. I sort of sprang this on you last minute.” I set my martini glass on the table and drag my toes along the deck boards to stop the swing before I stand and accept the welcome hug.
“The drive was okay?” he asks once he releases me.
“Beautiful as always, at least once I left the city. Can I make you a martini? Or get you a beer? I made some maple-bacon muffins and some bacon-and-cheese biscuits this afternoon if you’re hungry for a snack.”
“I love it when you come to visit. Will you make those bacon-wrapped jalape?os while you’re here?”
“Make a list, and I’ll make you all the bacony things. Let me get a snack tray ready. Do you know when Dillion is going to be home?” I follow him inside and rush over to the fridge to grab a beer, as well as a couple of apples and some cheese to go with the biscuits and muffins I whipped up. I don’t expect my brother to treat me like I’m a guest who needs to be waited on. And I know my showing up out of the blue probably shifted whatever their plans were this week, so I want to show my appreciation.
“Probably not until late. She and her dad have a meeting with one of the families across the lake, and they often like to turn those into dinners.”
“Oh, is that something you’d usually have to attend too?” I hunt around in the vegetable crisper and find grape tomatoes, baby carrots, and sugar snap peas to add to the snack tray.
“Yup, but thanks to you I had an excuse to skip this one.”
I frown but then try to smooth out my features. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have come today if I’d known I was interfering with your work schedule.”
“You’re one hundred and ten percent not interfering. These planning meetings are a waste of my time, and they eat up a lot of hours. I mean, don’t get me wrong: the food is always good. But there’s also the wine, or the cocktails, and I still have to work tomorrow, so avoiding this meeting is a favor, not an interference.”
I hope he’s not trying to make me feel better about my surprise visit, but I let it go.
Ten minutes later we’re back on the front porch and he’s on his third muffin.
“So what’s the deal with that Aaron guy? He’s kind of surly, isn’t he?” I nibble on the end of a snap pea.
“You mean Aaron Saunders? The guy working on the garage?” Van asks with a mouthful of muffin.
“I scared the crap out of him when I got here, and he nearly bit my head off for it. He seems . . . like he isn’t the friendliest guy in the world.” I’m most definitely fishing for information to see if I’m the common denominator for the surliness or if it’s his personality.
Van frowns. “Maybe you caught him on a bad day. He’s usually a pretty easygoing guy.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t like me.” Which seems to be the case.
“Impossible. Everyone loves you. People gravitate to you like the sun.”