The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(18)

Mr. Nine: No more waiting, Magnolia.





Chapter Ten





My date was less than twelve hours away. Twelve. Hours. Right now, I hated Andy Asani and her tell him you're free Thursday bullshit because that provided me two full nights of overthinking.

My freak-out aside, I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Nine Inches—Rob—in person. A little excited, a little nervous. But I was fine. Cool as could be and ready for a low-key lunch date with a man who couldn't stop talking about his massive cock and its varied talents.

Okay, all right, I couldn't sleep or turn off my damn mind. Or the tile saw across the street.

My evening had started out just fine. I grabbed dinner and went to the Celtics game with my brothers. They paid for the meal and beers at the Garden on account of their performances during the Great Troy Debacle. After the game, I made my way home and took my Boston Terrier Gronk for a long walk before experimenting with five different face masks and tearing apart my closet in search of the Right Outfit. But it was all good. I was good. So good.

But then they turned on the tile saw.

The people across the street, the ones working on the run-down old Cape, didn't understand the social construct of "bedtime." If they did, they were giving it the finger. There was no other explanation for their no sleep till Brooklyn approach to this renovation.

The house stood quiet and vacant throughout the day, only coming alive sometime after I took Gronk out to handle his late-night business. The hammers, nail guns, and power tools were annoying but the tile saw was a different animal altogether. It was too shrill to fade into the blackness of sleep, and the sound seemed to rattle my teeth and scratch at my cerebellum every time I closed my eyes.

And my dog hated it. From his position on the corner of my bed, he was on guard, his little body vibrating with low, furious growls. He let out a few quick barks, warning shots intended to subdue his noisy opponents, and then he looked back at me for approval.

"Strong effort but I don't think they heard you."

Gronk kept on with his snarling and panting while I sat back against my pillows and dragged a hand through my hair. The hair I was waking up an hour early to properly blow dry tomorrow. But tomorrow was already today and my look-hot-to-meet-Mr.-Nine plans were slipping through my fingers like sand.

It seemed like I was turning this date with Mr. Nine into a huge ordeal. I wasn't. I'd already reconciled the fact he wasn't interested in anything beyond the ins and outs, and in doing so, I'd freed myself from much of the usual apprehension with which I regarded dating. He wasn't a potential husband, so I didn't need to polish up my potential wife routine. For once, I could save the self-doubt in favor of being completely, unapologetically myself…with beautifully blown-out hair and flawless skin. And I was eager to meet him. He was fun and self-deprecating in messages and I wanted to believe it would be the same in person.

I wanted to like him and I wanted him to like me too. Was that wrong? No. It couldn't be. If I was going to have mostly meaningless sex, I wanted some mutual admiration between the involved parties.

As the saw chewed through another piece of stone, I grabbed my phone off the side table and scrolled through my messages. Part of me wanted to delegate the noise issue to someone else. My brothers would drive up here and have a few words with my neighbors if I asked them, but I wasn't in the habit of unloading my issues on Ash or Linden. They went hard at the brawny, bossy big brother routine, and as much as I enjoyed bearing that cross, I called upon them only when I needed that brawn to unearth boulders in the backyard.

For a moment, I thought about texting Mr. Nine to complain about my night. I didn't do it and not because I didn't want to bother him with my whining. No, I was concerned he'd offer a distraction and some help falling asleep, and I was concerned I'd accept.

I was concerned he'd aim those sweet, sweet words at me again and I'd melt like sugar on his silver tongue. I'd walk back every one of my vows to have real, face-to-face conversations with this man before trying out his hardware. I was inclined to believe I'd enjoy it too, but that would fade when it was over and I'd regret yet another one of my decisions involving men.

And my hair was unwashed, my legs were prickly, and my dog would anxiety-pee all over the place if a guy showed up at two in the morning. No matter how great Mr. Nine seemed, he wasn't hanging with all that.

The tile saw screamed again, tightening my shoulders. I fucking hated that sound. I intentionally avoided my properties while stonework was underway. I'd take the jackhammer to the tile saw any day of the week.

I tossed off the blankets, jumped out of bed, and gestured for Gronk to settle down. "I'll be right back," I told him, stepping into my around-the-house-and-sometimes-outside moccasins. "Be good. No barks."

He huffed about that and then turned in a circle for a solid minute before flopping down with a grunt.

I pulled a long cardigan over my shoulders, dropped my phone in the pocket of my sleep shorts, and headed for the front door. It was a mild night, living all the way up to the old adage about spring coming in like a lion and slipping out like a lamb. I didn't stop to think about what I'd say, instead marching through my yard, across the street, and up to the old Cape's open front door.

Utility lights hung from the exposed studs and beams. Construction materials cluttered the floor. The offending tile saw was stationed near the kitchen. Or, the space that used to be the kitchen. This house was skin and bones, and barely that. Walls, windows, wiring—all gone.