As Long As You Love Me. Ann Aguirre
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a serial-killer vibe. But before my dad left, we’d had enough contractors in the house for me to understand this was par for the course.
“Pretty much. Though don’t underestimate the hot plate. You can do a lot in a wok.”
Smiling up at him, I teased, “Tell me more.”
“You’re making fun of me.” The warmth drained from his expression, and I didn’t understand until that moment how it felt to have Rob shine for me until the light went out.
“I am not. I’m seriously impressed you can cook anything on a hot plate.”
“It’s not that big a deal.” He was tentative, and I wondered if he’d always been this unsure of himself.
To the best of my recollection, Rob had never been a talker. He didn’t lead when he hung out with his sports buddies, and he didn’t say much when they joked around. That left me with little to go on, no sense of his ordinary self. Maybe he was always like this?
“Stop trying to decide what amazes me.” I poked him in the side. “I also gasp in awe over monkeys riding bicycles and parrots cussing in Portuguese.”
“Who doesn’t?” But his eyes had lightened, a faint smile playing at the corners of his truly kissable mouth, perfectly shaped in a manly bow.
If I didn’t say something, fast, the next words out of his mouth would be, I’ll run you home. “If you want, I can help with the sanding. That’s low-skill work, right?”
Rob stared at me. “It’s Saturday night. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
I wasn’t dressed for manual labor, but I didn’t want to leave. This had all the earmarks of a scenario I’d dreamt up multiple times in high school. Silently, I chided myself, He has a girlfriend. Be cool. You can be friends with Rob. It’s not a huge thing.
“Debatable. My mom’s out, so I’d just be watching cable.”
“If you say so.” He sounded skeptical, but he got the sandpaper and showed me how to use it like a pro.
I shrugged out of my jacket and glanced down at my sweater. “Do you have anything I could put over this?”
Though I hadn’t meant to draw attention to my boobs, he followed my gaze, and if I weren’t crazy, his gaze lingered for a beat too long, then a flush colored his cheeks, creeping toward his ears. Relatively few guys my age could be embarrassed by that; the vast majority were shameless. I loved that Rob wasn’t. There was a solid goodness about him that reminded me of Nadia, though not in a Single White Female sort of way.
“Sure, let me get you a work shirt.”
Once I had plaid flannel, his favorite thing, apparently, I went into the kitchen to swap shirts. Rob didn’t expect that, so when I came around the corner rolling up the sleeves, his eyes widened. “You could wear that as a dress,” he blurted.
“I suspect I’d be cold.”
“Do you want me to turn on some music?”
“Good idea.”
“What do you like?” That was the second time he’d asked me that tonight, more than any guy I’d ever dated, truth be told.
“Surprise me.”
He clicked his iPod into a dock safely stashed on a high shelf. The dining room had a hutch built into the wall, and I could picture how it would look once he refinished it, gleaming with age and care. It was the perfect place for a woman to display her fancy dishes. Not that I had any, but I admired beautiful craftsmanship. Rob fiddled with his music player, then Blue October popped from the speakers. I’d heard “Hate Me” before, but it wasn’t the kind of song I associated with Rob. If anyone had asked, I would’ve guessed uncomplicated country, maybe Garth Brooks or Shania Twain.
“I like this,” I said. “Sad, though. Do you have ‘Sound of Pulling Heaven Down’?”
He nodded. “It’s next in the playlist.”
I looked forward to learning what Rob listened to, left to his own devices. And he said Avery’s never been here, so you’re learning something about him she doesn’t know. After pulling off my boots, I got to work, sanding as Rob had showed me. It was hard on my back and knees, but there was an odd satisfaction in smoothing away the damage from years of neglect.
After working for a while in silence, I said, “There are deeper scratches here and they’re not coming off.”
Rob stopped what he was doing and knelt beside me to examine the baseboard. “Normally you sand with the grain, but you can go across at a forty-five-degree angle to work those down. We’ll go over the whole thing with a finer grit paper later anyway.”
We? Mentally I questioned the pronoun but I wasn’t silly enough to do it out loud. That would only make him tighten up again and if he let me, I’d definitely help out another time. Though I could build a website from the ground up in my sleep, I was unclear on what he meant—a ninety-degree angle was a full corner, so...
“Like this?”
“Almost.” He put his hands over mine and adjusted my strokes. His palms were big and rough, completely covering my fingers. Until just then, I didn’t realize how much I liked big guys; in Michigan, I’d mostly dated lean, pretty ones, though that was a kind interpretation of my social life. I specialized in partying and in hookups, not relationships. My mom’s misery biased me early on against the wisdom of letting a guy matter deep down.
“Okay, I’ve got it.” My arms actually hurt from the pressure, however. Bonus, helping Rob might tone my biceps. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” He retreated to his corner to work, and the iPod cycled through five more songs, an eclectic mix of David Gray, Josh Ritter, a band I’d never heard of—Good Old War—along with Snow Patrol, and most surprising of all, Enya. When she came on, singing about the evening star, my head jerked up and I stared at Rob. Never in a thousand years would I have credited this; I wondered if his football buddies knew.
He met my look with a sheepish shrug. “Her voice is haunting.”
I didn’t disagree, even if my tastes ranged more toward top forty. “I’m not a music snob, dude. In fact, I’ve lost all credit with most of my friends because, if it comes on the radio, nine times out of ten, I like it, even if critics say it’s terrible.”
“Miley Cyrus?” he challenged.
“Hey, ‘Wrecking Ball’ rocks. And I’ve been known to scrub my bathtub to ‘Party in the U.S.A.’” I wasn’t ashamed of liking popular tunes, so his grin didn’t bother me.
“Ke$ha?”
“Not my fave, but I don’t hate her. The duet with Pitbull is catchy, even if it doesn’t make any sense.”
As we sanded, he asked about random artists until I disclosed that there were only three pop songs I’d shut off: “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, “Barbra Streisand” by Duck Sauce and “Loca People” by Sak Noel. Otherwise, I didn’t have elevated tastes or think some bands were cooler or more important than others.
“For some reason, I thought you’d be more like Nadia. She’s into stuff that hasn’t been discovered yet.”
“Are you calling her a hipster?”
Rob lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “If the chunky ankle boot fits...”
Given my best friend’s penchant for indie music and microbrewed beer, he wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t let him get off scot-free. “Like you should talk. I never heard of Good Old War until you played that song.”
“‘Looking for Shelter’? It’s a good one. And actually, Nadia was listening to them before she left for college. So—”
“You disclaim any credit for finding them. Suspicious.” I pretended