“I was hoping you could help me with a project,” Jeremy said, beaming as he loved roping Cole in for projects. Not a bad thing, as Cole had seen him try to manage a hammer, and had been glad to be the one driving instead of riding to the ER for once. Ellen hadn’t lifted a hammer once in her life, claiming it was not in her skill-set.
“Sure thing,” he answered. “I’ll, uh, get dressed and meet you downstairs?”
“Perfect. I’ll get the garage all set up.”
He’d have to ask Trace if she’d stepped up when he left and saved her father from projects, or if she’d inherited the Perry trait. Judging by the updated furniture and wall décor—including the gallery wall with pictures aligned neatly without gaping nail holes everywhere—either Trace had stepped in, or they’d hired someone.
Sewing was another story. Ellen and Jeremy were both remarkably crafty, and got a little competitive about it. Trace mentioned the quilt on his bed was Jeremy’s latest masterpiece, and Ellen was working on a one-upper currently, and no, he couldn’t dibs it, because Trace had already claimed it.
He pulled open his dresser and snagged a pair of old-man jeans and oversized white t-shirt. Thankful for Ellen’s quick drive to the store to stock up on basics for him, he was definitely not complaining. But, well, he was going to need to update and upgrade his wardrobe sooner than later.
He set the crutch on the bed and used the improved strategies for getting dressed that his physical therapist had shown him, and carefully eased the denim on, one foot at a time. The pain wasn’t so bad when he pictured Trace delicately easing the jeans over his massively swollen ankle. Better, the absurdity, the laugh, the shock of arousal when she’d looked up and noticed where she was. Nail in his coffin, the way she’d traced her fingers over his other foot while talking about blowing him, yet fascinated by such a simple, unremarkable part of him when she was too drunk to realize the effect she had on him.
Probably a good thing the jeans were huge; any tighter and he’d have to rearrange his ankle to get his pantleg on. It had been a while since he’d lived in the states, and apparently, jeans were a lot baggier on men here than overseas.
For the trek down the stairs and riskiness of whatever Jeremy had planned in the garage, he pulled his regular boot—all one of them—onto his good foot, and wore the smelly walking boot on the other. Crutch tucked under his good arm, he hobbled out of his bedroom and halted at the top of the stairs.
Humiliating. He slid down the stairs on his butt. But, it was a hell of a lot safer than the other strategies he’d attempted. On a stroke of luck, Jeremy was already in the garage when he made it to the bottom of the steps and hoisted himself back to his feet. This fucking sucked. Doesn’t matter how fat the paycheck had been, it wasn’t worth it.
The crutch squeaking and creaking with each step as he awkwardly leaned into it, the boot clunking onto the tile floor as he hobbled and minimized his weight on it, he followed the sounds of Jeremy’s hums into the garage.
Hammer hit wood.
Fuck. He moved faster, wincing at the pain that spliced through his entire body at the rushed pace.
At the door to the garage, he quickly turned the handle, assessing the danger as he moved.
Yup. Shit. “Hey, Jeremy,” he said brightly, urgently, shuffling fast while his foster dad held a tiny nail pinched between two fingers, a sledgehammer ready to pound it into a finely finished length of wood. “What are we building?” he asked as he crossed the first bay.
Jeremy’s hum quieted, and he beamed as he turned and proudly stood tall in the middle of the heap of chaos. “Now, I know carpentry isn’t my forte, but Trace’s favorite bookcase broke in the move here, the one her grandpa made for her when she was a little girl. So, I picked up this beauty and wanted to have it all ready for when she finds a new place.” He patted the pile of prefabricated pieces piled erratically on the floor. And this man quilted?
“Great idea,” Cole said, smiling as he gently took the oversized hammer and perused the heap. It was quality wood and would make a nice bookshelf, as long as nothing had been too badly scratched in the awkward stack. He checked through the pieces, between the larger panels, and scowled as he realized what was missing. “Have you, uh, seen the instructions anywhere?”
Jeremy flushed and scratched his head, scrunching his nose as he looked up from the pile. “About that. I’m beginning to suspect they were tossed out with the box.”
Cole bit his lips together as he scanned the pieces again, resting his hand on his hip. “Do you, uh, remember what brand it was? Where you bought it? What it… looked like?”
“Well, I picked it up after she left for Paris, thinking I’d have it up and ready in her bedroom by the time she got back. Time sort of snuck away from me, and… no. No, I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay,” Cole said quickly, hobbling closer and assessing what he had to work with. There was a little sealed package filled with dowels and screws. At least he had that going for him. “We got this.”
One of the long pieces was dented, presumably one of the sides, and he suspected Jeremy had bumped it with his car.
Bookshelf. Not that complicated. He could improvise.
One arm trapped in the sling, one foot contained in the boot, he hoisted a side panel up, balancing it precariously on his thigh. He nodded toward the sawhorses—dusty and untouched. “Mind sliding those over?”
Jeremy hopped to and brought both over. “You look like you’ve got a plan.”
“Yeah,” Cole answered, sliding the board on the elevated workspace. He looked at the pile, and saw another side piece, and hoped to find more, but some of the pieces… well, they didn’t look even remotely related to the set. Leaving the first board, he shuffled over to the pile. The stack was going to topple if he didn’t remove each piece with precision. He glanced up to Jeremy. “Mind grabbing one end?”
“On it,” Jeremy answered quickly, dashing to assist.
Shit.Shitshitshit.Trace hopped out of the car and moved fast when she heard a power saw going in her dad’s garage bay. As the saw revved and stopped and revved again, he was probably still alive, but who knew for how much longer.
She punched in the code, and the door began to rise.
“Shit. Is that Trace?” she heard Cole ask, a sharp urgency in his tone. She breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back, breath flowing much smoother now that she knew her dad wasn’t alone with power tools.
