Her response is immediate:
Same difference. Does he have the forearms? They always have the forearms.
I think of Owen’s rolled-up sleeves, the muscles in his forearms as he worked, the way he handles tools with ease.
No comment on the forearms,
I reply, already feeling my cheeks warm.
HA! I knew it. You’re totally into Lumber Owen.
CARPENTER Owen. And I’m not “into” him. He’s my contractor. There’s a whole rule about it.
Your rules are made to be broken. Like your house.
I laugh despite myself, then tuck my phone away and scan the room again. There’s still daylight left, and I’m itching to do something productive. I spot the section of drywall marked with Owen’s blue tape—prepped for removal.
How hard could it be?I’ve watched Owen do it at least three times. Careful cuts. Slow prying. Nothing aggressive.
I find a utility knife in the tool area, remembering how he used it to score along the studs. I approach the marked section, visualizing the steps. Score, pry, remove. Simple.
The first cut goes clean. The second, just as smooth. I get bolder on the third—apply more pressure.
The knife slips.
Pain flares across my palm as the blade nicks skin. A bright line of red appears almost instantly. “Shit!” I drop the knife, clutching my hand.
It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding. I glance around for something to press against it and grab the cleanest rag I can find near Owen’s tools, applying pressure as best I can.
“This is fine,” I mutter. “Totally fine. Just a minor flesh wound. No one needs to know.”
I’m so focused on my hand that I don’t hear the truck pull up outside. Don’t register the footsteps on the porch. Don’t realize I’m no longer alone until?—
“What are you doing?”
I spin around, rag still clutched in one hand, to find Owen standing in the doorway, his expression caught between concern and exasperation.
“I, um, thought I’d get a head start on today’s demolition?” It comes out more question than statement. “Just the section you marked. Nothing fancy.”
His eyes drop to my hand, where blood is seeping through the fabric. “You’re bleeding.”
“Barely,” I say quickly. “Just a scratch. The knife slipped.”
Owen crosses the room in three long strides, gently taking my hand and peeling the rag back to examine it. His touch is steady and warm.
“It’s not deep,” he says, “but it needs cleaning. First aid kit’s in my truck.”
He leads me outside and grabs a well-stocked kit from behind the seat. With a precision that should be annoying but is oddly comforting, he cleans the cut (ow), applies ointment (sting), and wraps it in gauze.
“Thank you,” I say when he’s done. “I swear I wasn’t trying to destroy anything important. Just that one section of drywall.”
“With a utility knife and no gloves,” he notes, voice flat but his expression gentler than expected.
“In my defense, I’ve watched you do it at leastthree times.”
“Watching isn’t the same as knowing,” he says, snapping the kit shut. “These tools are dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Properly chastised, I glance down at my hand. “I know. It was dumb. I just wanted to feel useful.”
