Ready for You (Ready #3)(27)

“You sound kind of like a loner,” I finally said. I was very proud of my little rebuttal.

“I’m just picky about who I spend my time with, I guess.”

“Sounds like a loner.”

“Coming from the girl who’s spending her evenings with her dog,” he shot back before picking up his duffel and taking off toward the bathroom.

“At least it’s someone!” I yelled.

Lame comeback. Good job, Mia.

“Well, friend, I guess it’s a good thing I have you now, isn’t it?” he said with a wicked grin over his shoulder.

He disappeared behind the door, but he didn’t lock it. That hadn’t gone unnoticed to my very attuned ears.

I stared at the closed bathroom door and shook my head. Oh, Garrett Finnegan, what are you up to?

~Garrett~

I had no idea what I was doing.

I leaned my hands against the tiled sink and stared into the bathroom mirror, shaking my head in disgust.

I’d strutted in here like I had a plan. I had no plan beyond wanting to spend every second with her. As I’d been lying in bed last night, I’d replayed every moment of the weekend, and then I’d come to terms with my new obsession.

I was completely infatuated with Mia Emerson.

The beautiful ghost with the mesmerizing blue eyes who had haunted my dreams for so long had come to life, and I couldn’t stop myself from returning to her doorstep each and every day.

I had no plan, but I knew I couldn’t walk away.

I was a fool to think we could be friends, but I needed to try. I wanted to be everything and anything but friends with Mia, and the fact that she still sent me into a tailspin after all these years pissed me off. Even through all the agony and hurt, I still wanted her. Despite the fact that I blamed her for the hell of my existence, I still craved her like no other.

I was at war with my own emotions, and I had no idea which side would eventually win.

I’d spent so long curled up with anger and betrayal as my only bedmates that I didn’t know if I knew any other way.

Tossing my work clothes into the duffel, I zipped it up and threw the bag over my shoulder. Now dressed in worn jeans and a white T-shirt, I was ready for manual labor. I hated wearing ties and dress shirts. I was the type of man who liked to get his hands dirty. Give me jeans and a T-shirt any day.

I’d spent half my childhood in the garage with my dad helping him fix things around the house. We’d both stroll in around dinner, covered in sawdust or grease, but we’d be grinning from ear to ear after a hard day’s work. Those were some of my favorite memories as a child, and it had been why I went into architecture. I’d wanted to get dirty and create something. I had known I would have to go into an office, but I’d also be able to visit construction sites and wear a hard hat as I watched my designs become a reality.

But I’d deserted my dream and settled.

Being a salesman to uppity doctors is fun—said no one ever.

Opening the bathroom door, I dropped my bag in the living room and made my way to the kitchen. Mia was inspecting the food I’d brought. I figured she hadn’t eaten, and even if she had, I hadn’t. I’d put in twelve hours at the office, and I had barely stopped for lunch. I was starving.

“Burritos today?” she asked.

“Yep. I figured you haven’t eaten, but if you have, I’ll gladly eat both of those,” I said with a grin.

She gave me a doubtful look as she pulled the two monstrous burritos out of the bag. “There is no way you could eat both of these.”

“Oh, I bet I could.”

“That’s gross.”

“I’m a guy. We’re inherently gross,” I said with a shrug.

She laughed, and the sound made me smile. I liked making her laugh. I always had. It had once been my goal to make her laugh at least five times a day. She had the best laugh.

We polished off our burritos. Well, she had eaten half of hers, and I’d eaten the rest. She’d watched in slight horror as I’d downed one-and-a-half burritos without much fuss.

After cleaning up the small mess from dinner, we started in on the floors again. Mia had chosen a hearty oak flooring that went with the historical nature of the home. It was very similar to the original floor, minus the smell and damage.

We began in the living room and put down the underlayment. She watched as I cut and fit the pieces together. She would help when they needed to be taped together.

We did most of this in silence, but we did occasionally strike up a conversation about random things. She asked about my parents and how my sister had met her husband. I asked how she’d ended up in Atlanta, and I got a vague nonanswer that involved something about a job.

“Mia, why won’t you talk about your past?”

“What? I am. I just did.”

I put down the cutting tool I was using and drew my gaze upward until we were eye level. “No, you skirted around the question and gave me a bullshit answer. Did someone hurt you? Are you running from something or someone?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. There’s just not much to tell.”

I let it go, but I knew she wasn’t telling me everything. She couldn’t have been gone for eight years without some sort of story. Someone doesn’t leave for that long without having a little baggage following behind.