Off Limits

chapter 13



Emily



It's Friday and I can't believe I'm actually going to be painting Nix’s house today. It's not that I mind. Heck, I owe him money so I'll work it off however I can. And part of me is sort of excited to try this. I've never painted anything before. I imagine what my mother would say and I practically cackle with unfettered glee.

I hope I don't screw his walls up too bad, but if I do, that's his problem. I'm just doing what he tells me and if he wants to hire an amateur, so be it.

And while I don't mind doing any type of manual labor at the behest of my employer, what I do mind is the fact that Nix has been a grumpy bastard all week to me. I think he's having me paint inside his house to keep me out of his workshop. And that sort of hurts my feelings.

I thought we were opening up some doors of friendship this past weekend, particularly after he sort of...maybe a little...well not really, opened up to me. But he had engaged in honest conversation and I was wise enough to know when to back off. And he had genuinely been interested in me, too. All of those things had helped to ratchet up my attraction to him.

Now, I didn't feel so shallow. I was attracted to more than just his body. The thought amused me greatly.

When I had come in to work on Monday, it was with utter disappointment that I found the original, brooding and somewhat offensive Nix Caldwell. I can only assume that something happened to put him in a really bad mood on Sunday. He didn't even bother to try to be polite. He just barked orders at me and then shut himself off in his welding room. He never came back out, even though I loitered around a good fifteen minutes after I had finished my tasks for the day. I thought maybe he was just busy.

But when I returned on Wednesday, I was met with the same thing. He apparently didn't have any welding to do but he practically told me to keep my mouth shut and not bother him while he was working. So I watched him a lot while I worked on setting up vendor accounts in his new Quick Books program on the laptop.

He was meticulous in his work and utterly focused. That I could understand and respect. It was even sort of cute when he was really concentrating hard on something, sometimes the tip of his tongue would stick out from between those generous lips of his. His eyebrows would scrunch together. And when he completed the delicate work he was doing, it was a joy to watch his face smooth out and a small smile curve his lips.

It was practically hypnotizing and difficult to tear my eyes away from him. He actually caught me staring at him once and glared at me with venom. I immediately dropped my head back over the laptop, and typed furiously on the keyboard.

The second time he caught me looking at him, he snapped at me, "What the hell are you looking at, Burnham?"

He didn't even have the grace to call me Emily. He freakin' called me Burnham.

Asshat.

Just before I was preparing to leave that day, he told me to wear old clothes on Friday. When I asked him why, his smile was almost evil when he told me I'd be painting inside his house.

I wasn't about to let him see that I was bothered by this news. First, the only thing that bothered me was that he clearly didn't want me in the same room with him. But if I showed him that I was bothered, he would think I was nothing but a spoiled, brat, and I had worked hard the last few years to shed that image.

Hell, I even volunteered with Danny two weekends a month at a homeless shelter. The old Emily Burnham was hopefully nothing more than a faded, somewhat embarrassing, memory.

So here I am. Standing in Nix’s living room, watching him lay out all of the painting supplies. And, of course, I'm admiring the way the muscles in his back bunch and ripple underneath his t-shirt as he lifts a bucket of paint up. Or the way his jeans mold to his ass when he bends over to lay the drop cloth on the floor. I shamelessly ogle and I don't have an ounce of guilt. Especially since he's been a jerk all week, it appears the only thing that is appealing about him right now is his body.

I will never admit this in a hundred years, but when Nix told me he wanted me to paint his living room, I did have a moment of panic. I may not have ever done this type of manual labor before, but that fact alone would not fully ease my conscience if I really screwed his walls up. The fact of the matter was, I hated failing at anything. So, I actually diligently studied up on the subject. I read a few articles online and then I went to the god of all internet teachings...YouTube. You'd be amazed at how many videos there are on how to paint walls and trim.

So while it's true I've never done this before, I now actually feel a little confident that I will at least not look like a complete buffoon.

Nix has everything laid out and he stands up straight to look at me. He tersely points out all of the materials and tells me that the walls have already been primed. I can tell that because the faint odor lingers in the air.

He shows me how to use a screwdriver to pop the lid off the paint can, and stirs it up with a wooden stick. Wiping the excess off, he lays it on a corner of the drop cloth. And while I don't need the instruction—again, thank you YouTube—I very much enjoy watching him bending, stooping and straightening back up as he demonstrates to me the finer points of how to use a paint roller versus a paintbrush.

When he's finished, he asks if I have any questions.

"Nope."

His gaze rakes over my body, and he sort of sneers at me, "I told you to wear old clothes because you will get paint on yourself. And that's the best you could do?"

I look down at myself and I can see a little of what he is saying. It's not like I had a pair of paint coveralls in my closet so I'd worn my oldest and most casual clothing. A pair of old khaki cargo pants, a white tank top and flip-flops. I tell him this, although I leave out the part that I painted my toenails the night before a lovely shade of pink, because it goes well with khaki.

"I don't mind getting these clothes messed up." I try to sound jovial but I sort of want to slap him upside the head for being such an idiot the last few days.

"Whatever. I'll be in my shop working if you need anything. But please...try not to need anything."

"Fine." I snap at him and I do see a little flash of guilt in his eyes but it only makes a brief cameo appearance before it exits stage left. He doesn't respond and walks out the door.

I huff a little to myself over the entire conundrum that is Nix Caldwell as I step up to the task. I don't recall whether YouTube said to do the main wall with a roller or do the trim with a brush first, so I go ahead and opt to start with the roller.

I recall with vivid memory dipping the roller into the pan, pulling it back and rolling it on the slope back and forth to get it evenly covered. I make my first strokes, rolling in diagonal crisscrossing patterns, enjoying the work.

I let my mind drift. It would be nice right now to just reflect over the hotness of Nix, but I'm actually a bit more occupied with the fact that my parents are coming to dinner tomorrow night. This lovely news was just sprung on me this morning when my mother called me.

I was running late for class, something that did not happen often, when my phone started ringing. I wasn't thinking and I pulled the phone out to answer before even looking at the Caller ID.

"Hello, Emily."

I felt guilty that my stomach dropped upon hearing my mother's voice. Plus I was still smarting over the fact she kyboshed my trust just because I dared to declare Journalism as my major. So, it was no surprise I went in for an early kill.

"Hi, Mom. What's up?"

I could hear my mother suck in her breath just a bit. She hated the title "Mom". I had grown up always calling her "Mother", clearly educated to do so from an age so early I don't remember receiving the edict. But I made the mistake of calling her "Mom" one day several years ago and I got a fifteen minute lecture on the proper title of a parent.

My mother, Celia Thorne Burnham, is where the old money comes from in our family. Oh, my father made great money as a trial lawyer before he went into politics, but our insane coffers come from my mother's family and goes back generations of Thornes. Thorne Enterprises, run by my Uncle Jim, is a conglomerate of corporations that dabble in everything from shipping to manufacturing to research and development.

In fact, my Uncle Jim is the one that years ago talked my parents into amending the trusts for me and Ryan so we could have full access to them when we turned twenty-one. Until that time, they were controlled by my mother, which is why she had cut off my monthly allowance.

And the funny thing is, outside of not being able to pay Nix the money I owe him, I don't miss the damn thing at all. I didn't use it for anything but buying clothes and trinkets.

Heck, I was kind of enjoying being one of the frugal, working masses now. I had even told Uncle Jim that earlier this week when he called to check in on me. He laughed so hard when I said that, he started choking and coughing. The memory of his amusement makes me smile.

Finally, my mother found her voice. "You know I don't like that, Emily. Please call me Mother."

"Yes, Mother," I dutifully said but I know I didn’t sound repentant at all.

"I wanted to let you know that your father and I will be in New York tomorrow and we've made reservations at Le Bernardin for dinner. You need to be there at 7:30pm."

I gritted my teeth that she assumed that I would be available on such short notice. Even though I was. "Okay, Mother. That will be fine."

"I'll see you then."

I hung up and ruminated about the conversation the whole way to class. This conversation would have not bothered me a few years ago. It would have been...normal. But I won't lie...it hurts my feelings that the conversation failed to include her asking how I was, or how school was, or even that she missed me. Living in the real world and out of my sheltered environment, I have come to learn how cold and sterile my family could be. If it wasn't for Uncle Jim, who called me every week just to check in and see how I was doing, I would probably lose my faith in parenthood altogether.

My heart actually clenches up a little thinking about this. It's not like I ever had this type of relationship with my parents. My mother was always there, but emotionally distant. My father was emotionally closer, but never physically there. I wish they could be more normal.

And I wish it didn't hurt so much that they weren't.

Enough of this subject!

I'm getting depressed. I decide to put those thoughts aside for I am now in a mood to turn my attention to the hotness of Nix Caldwell. I am finding the movements of painting to be relaxing and the perfect environment to slip into a sexy daydream about him.