A Tiny Home

Chapter 8

The night's breeze rustles the trees, and the crickets sing. It's peaceful. My legs and back ache and I can feel the sunburn on my shoulders begin to radiate heat and sting. But when I climb the makeshift stairs to what will one day be my living room and walk out to the kitchen, I'm grateful for the day's labour. He had been right. The property was the perfect amount of isolated. The view spectacular as the sunsets up on the hill.

I settle down next to him and hand him a beer. We sit in the kitchen where one day there will be a sink and dishwasher. He opens his beer and I watch his gaze linger for a small moment on my bare thighs and the dirt that is streaked over them.

I rub it away with the condensation on my bottle and take a sip.

"You were right," I admit.

He smiles, his eyes remaining focused on the sunset.

"You were right too. You were a big help today."

"I told you I did my research."

"Yeah but I guess I wrongly assumed that was on aesthetics, like tiling and paint. Not the bones." He rubs a hand along the stubble across his jaw.

"Well, I guess I researched it all, framing, plumbing, electrical. I always planned to do this entirely myself."

He snorts and takes a sip of his beer.

"Okay, I now know that I wouldn't have been able to frame this alone. But Hank would have helped."

He looks down to his scuffed boots. "Of course."

"He's not nearly as helpful as you. Thanks again for doing this with me." I smile when he meets my eyes.

"You are paying me."

"A discounted rate. Without a crew." I argue back.

He sighs. He has dirt wiped along his brow and his stubble is verging into beard territory, but his face is tanned and glowing. I reach out and wipe some of the sawdust from his cheek.

"Hannah."

"I got it, no worries." I pull my hand back and try to remain casual despite the tightening in my gut.

"If this is going to work..."

"If? I thought today went well." I say going taught.

"It did."

"Then?"

"We don't talk about it."

"About what?" I say though I know the answer.

We don't talk about that night. The night of the kiss and the... more.

"It can't happen again."

"What makes you worried that it will?" I ask peeling the label from my bottle of bud.

I think back throughout the day at all the touches I tried to keep casual. How many times I pulled back instead of reaching out. Where teasing could have been mistaken for flirting.

"I don't. It just can't. Not if"

"I know." I shift slightly away.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Make it weird."

"You're the one that brought it up."

"What?" he asks.

"Our kiss, and. You brought it up."

He opens his mouth then closes it before taking a long drag from the bottle.