Page 43 of Wrecked

“She took a class in high school, and now, she thinks she’s Joanna Gaines,” Adam says from behind me.

With a pointed look, I correct him, “Chip uses the power tools. Joanna has the perfect eye for design and a love of shiplap.” Then, to Toby, I ask, “You got a circular saw around here?”

Toby looks unsure. “I’d prefer it if you stuck to spackling. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I gasp. My eyes nearly bug out of my head.

Before I get a chance to explain to him that I am more than capable as a woman to use power tools and that I put together an entire kitty city in a weekend without the help of a man, Adam’s arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back.

“Come on, tiger. You want to build something? We’ll build,” he says, tugging on my torso.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say in the air as a comeback to Toby even though I wasn’t actually arguing with anyone.

My hand lowers to Adam’s thick forearm as he spins me around and forces me to walk in front of him toward the freshly framed house and around back to where there’s a table saw and a bunch of two-by-fours on the ground.

It’s quiet back here. And empty. I wonder if he’ll want to talk about last night again. Part of me does, and part of me—

“You ever use one of these before?” he asks, holding out a pair of safety goggles toward me.

“Goggles? I think I can handle putting these on,” I answer sarcastically even though I know he was referring to the table saw. Seeing he’s not amused by my response, I add, “It’s been a while.” I take the goggles from him, put them on, and then start pulling my hair out from around the strap.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know. What am I doing?” My hands are flattening my hair to make sure no pieces are flying around.

“It’s a construction site. Not a club. Not a dating service.” His tone is irritatingly similar to last night.

I breathe and remember that today is a great day. I tilt my head at him. “Did it ever occur to you that women want to look good for themselves, not for men?”

He unfolds his arms and walks around the saw to the plug that is lying on the ground. “You mean to tell me, you wouldn’t have been happy with playing with Dumb and Dumber up there?” He plugs it into an extension cord.

I look back toward Tim and Gary, who are arguing over how to carry a piece of Sheetrock into the house. “At least they want me around.”

He brushes his hands on his jeans. “Yeah, they want you all right,” he says. Then, he turns on the saw.

I can feel my smile stretching across my face. “Aw, are you jealous, Adam?”

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me with the most serious of expressions. “No.”

And, now, I can feel my smile falling. Looks like he’s going for grumpy this afternoon.

I walk over to him and look down at the saw. “Okay. You wanna show me what to do, or should I just go for it?”

“Not so confident now that the machine is on?”

“Of course I am. I just run the wood up the center and cut.”

He places his hands on my hips and moves me over. “Not unless you want to start mixing drinks with a prosthetic. Stand here.” He positions me to the side of the blade.

He walks over and grabs a board from the ground. He puts it on the table and pulls a pencil and a piece of paper from his back pocket. Making a note, he writes on the paper and then puts the pencil behind his ear.

“What is that for?” I ask.

“I took notes when I was framing the downstairs closet yesterday. Got too dark to finish.” He puts the paper in his pocket. Then, he positions the wood on the saw and adjusts the settings.

“Come here.” He pulls me toward him again. “Stand to the side of the blade when cutting. See this piece here?” He points to a clear panel on the saw that the board is resting against. “This is called the fence. Keep the wood tight to it to avoid kickback.”

He comes up behind me, and my body goes stiff. Leaning over me, he puts my left hand on the handle of the saw, his on top of mine. He starts talking about why it’s important to keep the board straight and mentions something about splitting, but all I can think about is how his hand is the perfect mix of smooth and calloused. It’s warm, soft, and strong, but when he glides it over mine, I can feel the hard spots on the pads of his palm.