Pen Pal

I take a while to pull myself together, splash water from the bathroom faucet on my face, and dry my eyes. Then I put a stamp on an envelope, slide the letter inside and seal it, and take it out to the mailbox.

When I return to the kitchen, Aidan is nowhere in sight. I go into the laundry room and finish folding the towels, go back to the kitchen and empty the plastic buckets into the sink, replace them on the floor under the drips, then stare into the fridge in search of something I know I won’t eat because I have no appetite.

Along with everything else, it died with my husband.

I shut the door, rest my forehead against it, close my eyes, and sigh.

That’s how Aidan finds me.

“You okay?”

I look over to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, gazing at me with what might be concern. Or alarm, I can’t tell.

“Honestly? I haven’t been less okay in probably never.” I frown. “Was that a double negative?”

Aidan says, “Doesn’t matter. I got it. You’re not good.”

If he’s anything like most men I’ve known, he’d rather chew his own arm off than hear the details, so I change the subject. “I’ll be better if you tell me you can fix my roof.”

“I can fix your roof.”

“Oh. Really?”

His expression sours. I’ve insulted his manhood again.

“Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t had any good news lately, so I’m happy to hear that.”

He examines my expression. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m not. It was a figure of speech.”

We stare at each other in silence until he says, “You’re gonna be less happy when I tell you how much it’ll cost.”

“Should I be sitting down for this?”

“Dunno. You prone to fainting?”

I lift my brows. “I’d ask if you were making a joke, but I’m pretty sure humor isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

“You don’t know me. I could be hilarious.”

We gaze at each other. Neither one of us smiles. That skull tattoo on his neck looks as if it’s smirking at me.

I ask, “Are you hilarious?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “No.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “Great. So I’m not happy, and you’re not funny. This project should go extremely well.”

“Except I just made you laugh, so maybe I am funny and you are happy.”

When I only stare at him, he says, “You were for a second, anyway.”

Is this weird? I can’t tell if this is weird or not. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, I clear my throat. “Well. Thanks for that.”

“No problem. You’re looking at ten thousand.”

That’s such a sharp right turn, it takes my poor brain a moment to figure out that he’s talking about the price he’ll charge to repair the roof. “Ten…thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“Dollars?”

“No, seashells. Of course dollars.”

I make a face at him. “And you claim you’re not hilarious.”

“I’ll write up the quote.” Without another word, he turns around and walks out of the house.

I have no idea if he’s leaving and will mail me the quote or what, but he comes right back in without knocking and sits down at my kitchen table with a pad of paper. He starts scribbling on it.

He’s so big, he makes the table and chairs look like they belong in a kindergarten class.

When he rips the piece of paper off the pad and holds it out to me, I take it and look it over. “Labor is eight thousand, but materials are only two?”

He leans back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. “If you want, I’ll bring all the materials over, and you can do it yourself.”

Smartass. “What I want is a fair price.”

“That is a fair price.”

“How can your labor possibly be so much?”

“Are you an expert in construction pricing?”

“No, but I am an expert in BS spotting.” I flick my wrist, snapping the paper. “And this is BS.”

He glances at my wedding ring. “Ask your husband if you don’t believe me. It’s a fair quote.”

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. My heart starts banging around in my chest. Holding his gaze, I say stiffly, “I’m perfectly capable of making judgments on my own.”

His eyes narrow. But not like he’s angry, just like he’s trying to figure me out.

Then the kitchen lights flicker, reminding me that this boorish beast is the only person who called me back besides Eddie the pot-loving hippie, so maybe I shouldn’t throw him out of my kitchen just yet.

I pull up a chair and sit across from him. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

He says nothing. He simply stares at me.

Oh, how I’d like to take his quote and give him papercuts with it all up and down his arms.

Not that you’d be able to see the cuts through all the tattoos, but still. It would be satisfying.

“I’m not lying to you, Mr. Leighrite. I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

“It’s Aidan. And how are you living in a house this size if you don’t have any money?”

“That’s a very personal question that I’m not going to answer. And I never said I didn’t have any money. I said I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

He leans over, rests those big tattooed forearms on the table, and threads his fingers together. “So we’re negotiating.”

His intensity is formidable, but I don’t want him to think he’s intimidating me. I sit up straighter in the chair and lift my chin. “You say that like negotiating is your favorite thing.”

“It is.”

“Hmm. I would’ve guessed charming potential clients with your dazzling sense of humor.”

“No. That’s my second favorite thing.”

We’re staring at each other again. Once again, neither of us is smiling.

Finally, I say, “Four thousand.”

His snort indicates what he thinks of my opening bid.

“It’s double your materials cost.”

“I’m able to do basic math, thank you. Ten thousand.”

“I thought we were negotiating.”

“We are.”

“Then you can’t just keep saying the same number.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Lucky for me, you’re not the one with the upper hand here.”

I stare at him in outrage with my mouth hanging open. Then a strange thing happens: he smiles.

“I just wanted to see what you’d do when I said that.”

I’d like to run him over with my car. I say firmly, “Forty-five hundred.”

“Ninety-nine-ninety-nine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve already established I don’t have a sense of humor.”

“If you’re going to come down by one dollar every time we go back and forth, we’ll be here until next year.”

His gaze is level and his voice is cool. “You got somewhere else to be, Kayla?”

Is he screwing with me? What exactly is going on?

Another rumble of thunder makes the kitchen windows shiver in their frames. The rain starts to fall harder, pattering against the roof. The drips falling into the buckets on the floor pick up speed, little ploop ploop ploops that seem to mock me.

Like Mr. Personality here is.

“I can’t afford ten thousand dollars to fix my roof. Or ninety-nine-ninety-nine, either. So thank you for your time.” I leave the quote on the table, stand, and gaze down my nose at him. “I appreciate you coming out.”

He looks up at me. His dark eyes are calculating. “What if I throw in the electrical?”

“That’s generous, but it won’t make money magically appear in my bank account. Nice to meet you. I’ll show you out.”

I walk away, expecting him to rise and follow me. When he doesn’t, I stop and turn around.

He’s still sitting there at my kitchen table. He isn’t even looking at me, he’s just watching the water drip into the buckets on the floor.

“Mr. Leighrite.”

Without turning his head, he says, “It’s Aidan. And if you can afford five grand, I know a guy who can help you out.”

I think about that. “Is he licensed?”

He makes a small motion of his head, a shake that seems to indicate his amazement at my stupidity.

I say crossly, “I’m not letting anybody work on my property who isn’t licensed and insured. I’m sure I don’t have to go over all the reasons why.”

His shoulders rise and fall as he inhales and exhales. He runs a hand through his thick dark hair. Then he shakes his head again and rises.

He walks to where I’m standing and gazes down at me. “It’s me. I’m the guy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Cash or check, I don’t take credit cards.”

Then he brushes past me and leaves without asking if we have a deal.

He already knows we have a deal because I’m desperate.

The son of a bitch just checkmated me.