Desperately Seeking Epic(45)
“It’s hot as hell out here,” he noted, raising one hand up and running it through his dark hair.
“Are you staying?” I asked, snapping myself out of it.
“Thought you might want some help with staining it and getting it inside.”
“You don’t have to do that, Paul.”
Beaming a smile at me, he shrugged one shoulder. “Call it a peace offering.”
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Was a table supposed to buy my forgiveness for him treating me so badly when I’d first arrived? Or rather since I arrived. Either way, I didn’t question it. If he was willing to call for a truce, I’d take it. At that point, I was exhausted in every way. Having one less enemy at the office would be wonderful.
“So we’re partners, right? No more bullshit?”
His gaze flicked down and he moved his hands to his hips, before meeting my eyes again. In his deep and husky voice, he said, “No more bullshit.” Then he came to me, stood in front of me, and extended his hand. I took it, and we shook.
He stayed all day. After we stained the table, he helped with the cabinets. After the cabinets, he helped me remove the toilet from the downstairs bathroom. By the time night fell, I was thoroughly exhausted. We sat outside on a blanket and ate tuna fish sandwiches with Cheetos and Coca Cola.
Before he left for the night, we stood by his truck awkwardly. Finally, he stunned me with an awkward one-armed hug, before he slid in his truck and drove away.
Ashley’s mouth twists as she taps her pencil against her notebook. “So . . . nothing really happened?”
“What do you mean?” I ask with a snicker.
“No kiss? Not even a hug?” Zane is watching me, his brows raised as if he is waiting for my answer. Apparently he’s finding my story quite intriguing.
“Well, there was a one-armed hug, like I said,” I point out. “But nothing major yet.”
Ashley gives a weird smirk, clearly disappointed with my answer, but decides to move on. “Was there peace? Did you two start getting along?”
Sighing, I say, “With Paul and I, yes. With Marcus . . . no. The others started to warm up to me, but it was slow going, and Marcus’ attitude toward me wasn’t helping.”
“We’ll get to Marcus in a few minutes,” Ashley insists. “I want to hear more about the budding friendship between Paul and you.”
We were at the race—Richmond International Raceway. I’d never been to a NASCAR race. Texas Motor Speedway wasn’t an unknown concept to me when I resided in Texas, but racing had never really interested me. But in Virginia, racing was a big deal. And as we walked around, I was definitely feeling like a human dropped on a foreign planet, forced to walk among a different species. Girls walked around in bikinis donning the controversial confederate flag; others wore cutoff jean shorts with their ass cheeks hanging out. Men walked around sporting T-shirts with their favorite racers on them, and with helmets that held beer cans with long straws in their mouths. There was porta potties everywhere and the heat didn’t help to keep the stench down as we passed by them. As if all that wasn’t enough, Marcus decided to wear a T-shirt that had I’m with the shrew on the back of it, just above an arrow pointing to the side. He’d made a point to remain to the left of me all day just so that arrow would point at me.
My new tactic in dealing with him was to ignore him. I thought if I didn’t react, maybe he would stop. “You’re a dick,” I told him. On that day I failed.
He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?”
I ignored him and huffed annoyed that we were waiting on Paul who was taking forever to talk to a group of women. “Is he planning on talking to every woman with huge tits today?”
“Sex sells,” Marcus pointed out. “He’s good at seducing women into adventure.”
I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to gag.
“Are you offended, Queen of Prudes? I’m sure those lovely painted walls in our office will sell more dives than an attractive man who actually jumps.”
I flipped him the bird because I couldn’t come up with a witty comeback.
“No one is making you do it, Clara, so why do you care?”
“Because it’s . . . tacky.” How could he not see that?
“So what if it is? If you’re going to stand around all day with that face, just go back to the RV.”
“What face?” I asked in offense.
“Like you need a giant enema. Chill.”
For a moment, I wondered if I was strong enough to punt him across the track like a football. He really knew how to get under my skin.
When Paul finally joined us again, he pretended to ignore our spat and focused on trying to earn clientele. Somehow that involved only stopping at groups including attractive women.
“Uncurl your lip,” Paul ordered as we left one group. “This is big money for us.”
“I get that,” I griped. “But why do we have to be here all day?”
Cutting me a look that said, watch this, he turned off the gravel path and walked right over to a group of young men and women, dancing as they blared country music. The women flocked to him, puffing out their chests so their bosoms would stick out more. Paul, in his straw cowboy hat and tight, black T-shirt, flashed his smile, the one I had come to know as the hook, line, and sinker smile. Stupid smile. I hated it. I hated it mostly because it had the same effect on me as it did every other woman.