Coming Home (Pierpoint View #1)

Chapter Eight - Summer

CHAPTER EIGHT

Summer

“Look, I’m not arguing with you. That man’s like a father to me and he asked, I’m here. Now put me to work.”

I haven’t seen Brooks since he dropped me off almost a month ago now and if it’s possible, he looks worse now than he did then. He’s exhausted that much you can see, but his attitude is also worse.

He’s not wearing a cap today so I can see his dark waves, all tousled and messy and I have to stop myself from coming up behind him and running my hands through them.

Which causes me to stop short. No, absolutely not. Not happening, can’t happen, won’t let it happen.

It’s been a year since any sort of feeling like that has reared its ugly head and it happens now of all times, and with a guy who’s been nothing short of an asshole since I met him.

But still here we are, and I’m noticing the way his dark tee is stretching across the planes of his back and around his biceps while his back is to me, taking in the shop and the work that’s already been done.

I wonder if he’d seen this place before, or whether he would even remember it if he had ?

“Come on, girl,” I turn to see Fred coming in to the shop with Grayson coming up behind him, “Let’s put the boys to some use, eh?” I’m grateful for the interruption from my thoughts.

Since Fred has been helping me with the shop, we’ve grown closer, he calls me ‘girl’ almost all the time still but I want to imagine it’s his term of affection for me. After all, I call him old man, which he hates.

“What makes you think you can call me that, girl? I’m far from old.” He’d once said and proceeded to not speak to me for the rest of the evening while he helped me paint the walls. That is until I apologized and promised to never call him it again, to which I do and every time he just shakes his head and pretends I can’t see the smile on his face when he turns away.

“I think we can get ‘em sanding down and priming that counter, don’t ya think?”

When I first started redecorating the space I wanted to take the counter out to fix the floors but found that its somehow stuck in place so I’m having to work around it so now I have to get the counter done first because it’s going to make a whole lot of mess.

Brooks walks over to the counter in question and runs a large hand over the top, “You’re going to paint over it?”

“I’m going to sand the whole thing down, stain the top and paint the rest,” I say.

It’s a beautiful counter, creating a divide between my staircase behind it and the rest of the room. The wood top has scuffs and marks on it though, hence the sanding, and could use a new stain, the bottom half is painted a washed white which is looking a bit worse for wear with scuffs and chips so we’re going to give that an upgrade too.

Brooks nods in thought, moving his eyes around the counter. They move over to the staircase, his gaze making his way to the door at the top. He stares at it for a couple seconds before reverting his gaze back to me.

“Easy enough, you have a sander?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Just sanding paper.”

I point to the bag of decorating equipment I picked up from Home Depot out in the city at the beginning of the week in my new car I’d managed to buy for dirt cheap.

Brooks clicks his tongue and claps his hands together, “Fine, let’s get to it.” He walks over to the bag I’d pointed to and I notice his limp has all but gone. I don’t know how he got the limp, but I’m glad it seems to be healing for him. I’d be feeling worse than I do already about putting him to work.

I love Fred for the help he’s given me, but Brooks is right, the town doesn’t know me, they don’t owe me anything, in fact the only reason they’re probably doing any of this is because Fred asked them to, like Brooks said. I make the decision then and there to refuse any more of Fred’s help, especially from the town’s people when I can easily do things for myself. They’ve all done more than enough and I’m so grateful, but no more.

“Okay, I’m going to leave you boys to it and get back to the shop,” Fred says. He comes up next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as Grayson walks by us and over to Brooks.

“Actually Fred, can I talk to you outside a minute?” I ask.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

We walk outside and for early evening, it’s still pretty hot out here. I’m just glad there A/C in the store.

The sweat already starts beading on my hairline and I’m glad I’d put my hair up today. “I want to thank you for your help,” I begin.

“No problem, girl.”

“But…”

“I knew there was a but. It’s too much, eh?” he responds, a knowing smirk on his face. It’s a young expression, one that I’ve not seen on him before but it makes the wrinkles and the slightly leathery skin from being out in the sun most of his life, fade. Add that to the fact he’s wearing a t-shirt today and not a button up shirt or sweater, he could pass for 45.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, my lips pressing together, “I really appreciate it but Brooks is right, and to be honest, I think I kind of want to do this for myself…” I trail off.

He gives me a sympathetic smile. “You want to prove you can do this by yourself.” Since he’s been helping me, I’ve opened up a little about what I’d been through, not in explicit detail, but enough for him to know why I moved here and he’s been nothing but supportive.

“Exactly.” A smile growing on my face.

“Well, you know I’m just down the street if ya need me.” He pulls me into a hug and I rest my cheek on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” I pull away and hold him at arms length, “And promise me you’ll stop asking other people to help too?”

“I promise. Now get in there and make sure those boys don’t mess anything up, you hear?” I chuckle and he gives my shoulder a squeeze and walks past me, back to his shop down the street.

“Sure thing, old man,” I call out after him.

He doesn't even turn around, just throws a middle finger up over his shoulder in response.

Once I could no longer see Fred, I turned back to the shop, leaning on the door frame with my arms crossed. The two brothers are bickering inside, Brooks waving around one of the sanding papers and Grayson standing there, stoic, arms folded across his broad chest.

The two don’t really look like each other except for their builds. They’re both pretty tall and their physiques both look like they work out a lot.

I know Grayson used to be in a very physically demanding job, Alex told me, that’s why he looks the way he does, but I’m not sure whether Brooks’ appearance is because of his job too or whether he just likes to go to the gym 24/7. My money’s on the latter, he gives off frat bro energy based off all the American films I’ve ever watched, though I could be way off; I’ve never met a frat boy in the flesh.

“Start with the lower grit paper.” That’s Grayson.

“It doesn’t matter Gray, it will be sanded either way.” That’s Brooks.

“Not properly.” Grayson isn’t one for many words as I’ve found out unless he’s talking to Alex. I reckon he has a big old crush on Alex, judging from the way he watches her when she’s not looking with a look in his eyes that screams longing.

I know Alex sees him as a friend, maybe a client, but they’d be good together from what I’ve seen of them together. They already act like an old married couple, better to just make it official in my opinion.

“Whatever, give me the right paper then.” Brooks is brooding, like a scorned toddler. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips are almost pursed.

I’ve met Brooks all of twice and he’s been in a shitty mood both of those times, which is completely different from how people describe him.

Yes, call me guilty, I’ve asked around about the guy that saved me from the side of the road in torrential rain, but no one seems to be giving me much information about him other than that he’s a really great guy, loves his family and has a demanding job.

“If you’re not going to do it properly, I’d rather you stepped away from the counter,” I say, half jokingly, pushing myself off the door and walking towards the two of them, the wooden floors still creaking under foot. Once this counter is done, that’s next on the list for sure.

A smile pulls at the corner of Grayson’s lips as he gets to work on the furthest corner away from us, but Brooks still stands there, paper in one hand, the other propping himself against the counter.

“I’m helping,” Brooks says bluntly.

I saunter up to him, hands in the pockets of my overalls, and stop right in front of him so his head is titled down to look at me.

My eyes travel the length of his neck, over the sharp jawline, over his lips, the angled nose that definitely looks like it’s been broken at least once and to his emerald green eyes which meet mine after his own perusal.

I fight the urge to trace those features and shove the thought away quickly.

What is wrong with me?

I’ve met attractive men before, so why is this one getting to me? Is it because he acts like he hates me? That could be why, apparently I’m a sucker for men who treat me terribly.

“Then help. Properly.” I watch as his eyes catch a glint, like I just issued a challenge.

He inches just a little closer to where theres only an inch between our noses, and with a smirk, says, “No problem, Princess. ”

With that he backs away, finds the right sand paper and gets to work on the other side of the counter to Grayson.

The way the word ‘Princess’ rolled off his tongue did something to me, goosebumps rising across my body, my cheeks flushing red.

What a dangerous, confusing, game I’m playing.