Page 38 of The Parent Trap
My eyes go to his arms again, his shoulders. He was lean and sharp and hard as a teenager—as a man he’s…he’s not brawny, not some muscle-bound macho maniac. But he’s just…dense. And still hard.
An image flashes into my dumb brain: his thick arm pillared beside my face, his hair messy and around his face and drifting above me as he moves, golden skin bare and taut around sculpted muscles.
I flush, and I’m sure my face is beet red; to hide it, I turn away as if to keep my muscles warm, even though that ship has sailed—my run is over.
I feel his eyes on me.
Ignore.
“I need coffee in the worst way,” he says.
I sigh. “Alright. Let’s go.”
I turn, and he’s eyeing me with an arched eyebrow. “You say, with resignation.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I always make a pot before I run so I can have coffee as soon as I get back.”
He just stares at me, as if not comprehending my meaning. “Okay?”
“I have to spell it out? I’m two and a half miles from home and cooled off, so you may as well just drive me home, and in return, I’ll provide you with a cup of coffee.”
His arched eyebrow of disbelief rises higher in further disbelief. But he has the good sense to just nod. “You’ve got a deal. Hop in.”
I round the hood and clamber up into the passenger seat—unlike the interiors of most construction guys I’ve ever met, Thai’s is neat and clean and smells good. No garbage, no piles of Mt. Dew bottles and empty dip cans and McDonald’s wrappers.
Thai makes the larger circuit around the county road and back to the road we live on, pulling into our driveway with a familiarity of long practice. His face seems pensive, thoughtful. At the last minute, I realize he doesn’t know about the house I built and is heading by old habit toward the main house, where Mom lives.
I point at the pull off. “Actually, I’m here.”
He jams the brakes and skids in the dirt and gravel, slewing sideways a bit, and then we’re entering the tunnel of trees that leads to my little clearing.
He pulls to a stop in front of my house. Stares. “This is you, huh?”
I nod. “Home sweet home.”
“When’d you have this built?”
I know it shouldn’t bug me that he would assume Ihadit built—it’s a normal, natural thing for anyone to assume. But yet, it does. Knee-jerk irritation, just because this is Thai we’re talking about, I suppose.
“Um, well? I built it myself about three years ago.”
His head swivels, and his eyes meet mine. Clearly, this is unexpected. “Youbuilt it? Like…”
I laugh, because his confusion and disbelief are comical. “I run a construction company, Thai. I’m not just a secretary, you know. Before I was Vice President or CEO or whatever, I was on-site every day. I, personally, me, Delia McKenna, am a licensed and insured builder in my own right.” I point at the house. “I borrowed the heavy machinery and cleared the trees, leveled, dug and poured the concrete foundation, framed it, hung the drywall, blew the insulation, roofed it, installed the flooring. The only things I outsourced was running the plumbing and electrical from the road, and installing the actual electrical service. But I did the lighting and the outlets and toilets and sinks myself.”
He grunts in surprise. “Damn.”
I can’t help a grin of pride. “I’m not just a figurehead.”
He shakes his head. “No, I know that. But…I dunno. I guess knowing what to do and how to do it is different than being able to actually, you know…doit.”
I nod and shrug. “Actually, I do know what you mean. And that was part of why I took on the challenge—I wanted to see if I could take what I knew from supervision and management and apply it to actually being able to do it and have it meet code as well as my own standards.”
“I’d say it looks like you succeeded.”
You’d think, considering it was a little cabin in the woods, that I’d have built a traditional log cabin, but I’m actually not a fan of log cabins as a rule, so instead I’d built a little Cape Cod style with cedar shakes and a pair of dormers and a nice deep front porch. I like to think it looks like a Thomas Kincaid painting in the evening, when it’s in shadow and the front windows are lit up.
I hop down from his truck, which considering the lift kit and 35” tires is a considerable drop. He follows, and I focus all my willpower on not being self-conscious about my shorts. They literally cannot get any shorter or tighter without being considered an undergarment, but I only wear them to run, and only early in the morning, and most of my run is off the roads and away from any possible traffic. Meaning, the only reason I feel okay wearing them in the first place is because it’s highly unlikely anyone will ever see me.