As we pass through the smal house, my fel ow volunteers gape, star-struck. Even grown men stop what they’re doing, though the women are worse—straightening their clothes, patting hair into place—holy cow. You’d think they’ve never seen anything pretty before. That’s the first thing I must admit and get past—the sheer fact of how beautiful he is.
I’ve seen the magazine covers, the posters on girlfriends’ bedroom wal s, his likeness on backpacks of nine-year-olds who attend our church’s after-school program, for Pete’s sake. I knew he’d be handsome. The fact of the matter, though, is “handsome” doesn’t do him justice. Mom would term his hair dirty blond, and Dad would say it’s a little too long. His eyes are a dark blue I’d always assumed was photoshopped. He’s so sensual y attractive that I should add every girl on whom he’l turn his attention to my prayer list, because they’re going to need al the divine intervention they can get to resist him. I’m thankful that he dismissed me so quickly.
“I was going to tile the bathroom shower today… but that’s a complicated procedure and you’d just end up watching me do it. So we’re going to paint the bedrooms instead.” We arrive in the master bedroom, the wal s and ceiling of which are unfinished. I texturized and primed last week. Carpet hasn’t been instal ed, so at least I don’t have to worry about him ruining the floor. “I’l do the ceiling, because it’s more—”
“Complicated?” he interjects, regarding me with an amused look.
I take a slow, deep breath. It’s going to be a long three and a half weeks.
Chapter 4
REID
“So, do you have a name—or do I just cal you boss?” Introductions: Basic Etiquette 101. The tips of her ears turn bright pink, but she otherwise doesn’t blush.
“I’m sorry.” She steps towards me, offering her hand. “I’m Dori.”
I take her hand and give her one firm shake, annoyed that the combination of her pitch-perfect voice and the touch of her hand are like a tiny electric shock. “Cal me Reid. Only my subordinates cal me Mr. Alexander.” Comprehending me instantly, she blinks and her ears turn an even darker shade of pink, and I decide that this month may prove more entertaining than I’d thought. Any direct hits wil come with a visible signal. I’l bet she wears her hair pul ed back every day, too.
She clears her throat and indicates the pile of stuff in the middle of the room, clustered around a ladder. “Okay, then, Reid, here’s the paint we’l be using, and the rol ers, brushes, etcetera. Have you painted before?” Is she serious? “Not rooms.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess you’l be learning a new skil .” Pul ing a smal metal instrument from her pocket, she squats next to the paint cans. I’m trying not to focus on the line of muscle flexing from the top of her boot to where it disappears at the hem of her shorts.
“I doubt I’l feel the need to paint the wal s at my place any time soon,” I say, scoffing at the notion of wasting my time doing any form of manual labor when I could pay some il egal immigrant almost nothing to do it.
She pries the lid off of a paint can, ignoring my comment and smiling at the sky blue inside. Without glancing up, she sets the lid aside. “What if you accept a film role where you need to act like you can paint, but you don’t know how? I can make you look like an expert by the end of the week.” My estimation of her ability to manipulate goes up several notches. She’s downright dangerous.
So she’s going to make me an “expert” at painting? How hard can it be?
***
I’m rol ing paint on the final bit of the last wal , biceps and delts burning (at least I won’t have to worry about deteriorating muscle tone while I’m here), while Dori is on the ladder “cutting in” with a brush—painting the wal space between the ceiling and the spot where the rol er can’t go without hitting the ceiling. Which I learned the hard way.
The windows are open to save us from being asphyxiated by paint fumes, but there’s no breeze to speak of and summer is gearing up to be a bitch. This would be a perfect day to be at the beach. Or alternatively, pretty much anywhere else.
“It’s f**king hot in here.” I set the rol er in the tray and examining my hands, which are splattered in blue. There’s blue on my nails, under my nails, speckling my forearms and the yel ow Prada t-shirt that, luckily, isn’t a favorite.
Since the shirt’s already streaked and spattered with blue paint, a few more smears from my fingers won’t matter.
I pul the shirt over my head and toss it next to a pile of drop-cloths after mopping my face with it. Dori is on her ladder, motionless and staring at me while a line of paint runs from the upturned brush down the handle and continues along her arm. When I c**k an eyebrow at her and she snaps her attention back to the paintbrush in her hand, dropping it into the shal ow paint tray hooked to the ladder.
Grabbing a cloth, I climb onto the ladder behind her, take her wrist in my hand and stop the drip of paint with the cloth.
This seems to unsettle the shit out of her.
“This ladder is only built to hold one,” she says, taking the cloth from me.
Shrugging, I hop down. “You’re welcome.” Her legs, smooth and unblemished, are eye-level when my boots hit the ground. I resist the urge to run a finger over the soft spot behind her knee. She’d probably fal off the ladder… at which point I’d catch her… And then she’d start screaming.