I’ve taken residence on the roof-top of my bungalow so that I can oversee the entire site, knowing that it’s what irritates Mitch the most. I’ve come out here every day for the past week, stirring my coffee with evil satisfaction as he glowers at me from his makeshift joinery workshop in the centre of the hill that rolls between the cabins.
The sound of Mitchell’s scary truck revving into Pine Hills each morning is the alarm clock that I never knew I needed. The second that I hear it I hop out of my sheets and I rip open the curtains, waiting for him to spot me through his windshield, dismount his vehicle, and then slam the door shut. His eyes don’t leave mine the entire time.
I make coffee number one of the day whilst we have our standoff and then I take a nice prolonged sip. Then I whip around and give him a full two hours of the cold shoulder. I wash and dress with more enthusiasm for a day on the dirt than I’ve had for the past five movies I’ve written. Then I get my notebook out, grab coffee number two, and head to my lookout point to “oversee”.
Let’s be real, I’m not actually here to supervise. I’ve seen the digital updates that Mitch and his brother have been submitting over the past two months and they are more than capable to see this project through. All I needed was a semi-plausible excuse to be here that didn’t involve revealing the fact that I was recently not only romantically jilted but betrayed from the inner circle too.
I rub over the dull ache in my chest with my bare left hand and then I settle back in to what I’ve really been doing.
I’ve been hate-writing the beginnings of a revenge-fantasy manuscript that is so thoroughly unhinged that it will never see the light of day. Previously it could take me months to come up with a fleshed-out concept but, funnily enough, being treated like shit really does dose you up on so-be-it resignation crossed with fuck-you insanity. The only problem is that the script is supposed to be about my ex-fiancé, but the bronze muscle-machine that I’ve been watching every day has without question obliterated his physicality from my mind. I can barely remember what Evan looks like. Which means that, whether I like it or not, I have semi-subconsciously given the handyman in front of me a starring role in every line that tumbles onto the page.
I look down at my notebook and feel a pang of something like guilt. I don’t want to think about my ex-fiancé and I have a man who looks like he was cooked up in a romance novel less than forty feet away from me. I tap my pencil on the page and decide to turn a new leaf, literally. I scribble over the page until it’s an undecipherable slate-gray mass, rip out the offending evidence of my unmistakable psychosis, and crumple it up into a compact little ball. Then I stand, lean over the balcony, and fling it straight across the site into the skip right beside Mitch’s workshop.
His eyes zip to the ball of paper and then flash straight up to me. There’s a heavy scowl on his brow. I watch his forearms flex, delighted.
Over the past seven days the man has not spared me a single word, communicating solely in prolonged glances and belly-flipping grunts. I take this opportunity to study the hard lines of his body and, without him knowing, I begin to trace the heavy angles of his frame delicately onto my notepad. Harsh cheekbones glowing with the exertion of his labour, thick shoulder muscles hulking beneath his navy shirt. It’s an intriguing colour on him; its darkness only emphasises the depth of his stark tan, whilst simultaneously contrasting the crystal facets of his eyes. He looks away from me and my body does a little shiver of relief.
I look down at the paper and add in the finer details. Although my formal work in LA was strictly as a screenwriter I was clinically obsessed with the storyboard artists. Getting to know the unique flavours that each of them added to their character designs continuously ignited a curiosity-sizzle in my brain.
My fingers hover over my secret drawing of Mitchell, wishing that I had some watercolour paints to add a splash of red to his cheekbones, an ice-cave blue to his eyes. Instead I shade in his irises, leaving a little white circle of light in each to mimic his inextinguishable sparkle.
My brain gives me a slap across the frontal lobe, scolding me.
Stop it, Harper. He’s just a guy. He is not your new muse.
Remember how well the last one went?
When I look back down at him he’s got safety goggles drawn over his eyes and thick gloves pulled up his hands, one palm spreading up a large sheet of wood whilst the other clicks a power-tool to life. One of his crew members is set up at the next bench doing the exact same thing, head bowed low over his intensive task.
Okay, so he’s skilled. Whatever. I decide to cancel out my lusting by turning my back to the valley, instead facing the pine forest that obscures my view of the mountains. I stop my incessant doodling and instead try to think of some possible cons to this man, dotting them around the sketch of his gruff handsome face. I only manage to come up with ‘Dangerously strong’ and ‘Hot dork?’ before I realise that it has all gone oddly quiet down there.
I turn around and glance back down at the site.
Oh dear.
It’s late in the afternoon with yellow opal light trickling in through the trees, and from its current angle the sun is casting an otherworldly jasper glow on the hard-set face that is now frowning up at me. A member of his team is talking to him with an almost embarrassed look on his face, sparking my interest when he gestures vaguely in the direction of my bungalow.
I raise an eyebrow at Mitch, asking Yes? but he merely glowers on, sharpening the blade of a manual saw, casually like a serial killer would.
I almost smile. Then I begin cataloguing the thick muscles of his forearms.
When he turns to face away from me, his conversation still going strong, I shield my eyes with a hand and stare directly at the sun. One week in the woods and I have already taught myself how to tell the time from the solar positioning. I squint my eyes, thinking long and hard before I make a guess with myself: six-fifteen. I check my phone and see that it’s four-thirty. Close enough.
In fact, this is very good news. It’s prime irking time, which is my favourite time of the day. It allows me to both keep Mitchell at arm’s length due to the fact that he will undoubtedly hate me, whilst simultaneously satiating my desire for male companionship by performing the actions which make him hate me. Namely: being myself.
Time to get hands-on.
I flip open the hatch to the bungalow’s descending staircase, clip-clop to the ground floor, and then I pull open the front door.
I get the shock of my life.
Mitch is standing on my little step, meaty fist raised like he was just about to pound a hole straight through the wood. He drops the fist when his eyes lock in with mine and then he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, so enraged that he can’t keep still. I pretend not to notice how the haze of testosterone emanating from the broad planes of his chest is making my thighs shake. Luckily he’s so infuriated that he doesn’t notice. I blink innocently up at him, waiting for him to brighten my day.
“You’re hilarious,” he growls, eyes giving me a reluctant once-over before they flick back over to the front of my door.
Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten. I can’t help the smug little smile that suddenly dimples my cheeks, arms folding across my chest so that I don’t combust with satisfaction.
I may or may not have acquired a tiny metal plaque, engraved with the words HEAD OFFICE, and then stuck it squarely on the front door of my bungalow. You know whose office doesn’t have a little professional plaque? Mitch’s. So for all intents and purposes my bungalow really does look like it’s the Head Office.
“I spent all summer making these doors, changing them from the old ones.” A palm spanning a width larger than my waist hovers tentatively over the plaque, hesitant to touch it. “What’d you stick it on with anyway?” he asks gruffly, a deep crease between his brows.
I stuck it on with glitter-glue.
“Cement,” I say instead.
His head whips back to mine, eyes wide with horror. I let myself snuggle down in his discomfort for a good ten seconds before I submit.
“Kidding. Oh come on, what’s the problem? You really think that your guys can’t tell the difference between my whimsical bungalow and your boring office? You’re insulting them.” I’m not being sarcastic. I’ve seen the work that’s been happening over the past week and I’m both amazed and annoyed by how talented these men are.
He takes a huge step backwards, shaking his head. “I thought you weren’t going to be an issue. Stop messing around on my site.”
I raise a finger. “Need I remind you? This is technically my site.”
“And you hired us to fix it. Let me do my job.”
He has a point and suddenly I’m embarrassed. I’m letting my personal issues interfere with a guy who doesn’t deserve my shit, a guy who infuriatingly seems to be one of the most capable and level-headed men that I’ve ever witnessed. If this was LA, he would have already quit. Or demanded a raise. Or performed any number of other petulant childish stunts.
Stunts like the ones that I’ve been pulling. I swap my notebook from my left hand to my right and give my aching heart another rub.
He notices, and his frown deepens.
I lower my hand, twiddling with my vacant ring finger. “Fine. Sorry. You can take off the sign if you want.”
I watch his eyes narrow on mine before flicking over to the plaque on the door. He’s longing to tear that silver sign off so hard that I can palpably feel his agony when he takes another step backwards. My lips part in surprise. He’s going to let me keep it?
He looks over his shoulder towards where he was just sawing and then he turns to give me a steady authoritative stare. “I’m going back to work now,” he says, still tense. Then with a parting glance he trudges back down the path, the muddy prints of his boots leaving a trail straight to his workshop.
I watch after him, amazed and alarmed by how level-headed he’s being. Is this how all men are outside of Hollywood? I seriously doubt it. In which case, I probably shouldn’t take it for granted that I’ve just struck gold in the literal middle of nowhere.
I mull over his words as he gets back to his task, a bulky bag of wood cut-offs growing larger beside him.
I’m going back to work now.
Hm. “Work”.
I look down at my notebook and think about my rekindling creative juices. I’m in no hurry to start writing another manuscript – in fact, a break away from the same task that I always do is probably healthy.
When I look up at the valley of cabins I’m suddenly seeing everything through new lenses, each separate task surrounded by a gold pick me shimmer.
I want this guy to respect me. I don’t want him to think that I shouldn’t be here even if, technically, he is correct. And I don’t want to be a pain in the ass to a man who seems good. I can save that for the next time I see my ex-fiancé.
I look down at my outfit, checking to see that it’s site-suitable. I’m wearing pale denim jeans and my favourite baby pink zip-up, but the flip-flops are a little amiss so I kick them off and tuck my feet into a pair of boots instead. They’re sort of… faux hiking boots. They’re the shoes that you don’t mind getting a little muddy, khaki with a tall lip and rubber soles, and in a previous moment of whimsy I threaded a different pair of laces over the metal notches, in sugar-frosting pink.
My cheeks heat up but I try to override the ache in my belly, telling myself that it’s okay to be myself, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of me, here or anywhere else. I like pretty things and other people shouldn’t have a problem with that. I mean, would I judge a guy for having a killer six-pack?
Maybe it’s the same for guys. Maybe they actually don’t mind women embracing hyper-femininity. We aren’t in high school anymore – live and let live, right?
Wrong. I lock up the bungalow and begin making my way across the lush slope of the valley when I hear a car door open and my head turns curiously over my shoulder. A guy steps down from the side of a white van and a small frown touches my brow because I don’t recognise him or his vehicle. I guess that it’s one of the crew on a break but I’m not entirely sure. I give him a cautious smile, my eyes riddled with stay-back wariness, but he heads over to me anyway. He’s flashing me his teeth and his message couldn’t be more clear.
I swallow and try to up my pace.
“Hey,” he calls over to me, and a prickle rises on the back of my neck. I hope he can’t scent my fear.
“Hi,” I say back, my voice painfully light and sweet. Stay away, stay away, stay away.
“What’re you running for? I just wanna talk.” The smile in his voice makes my back muscles constrict.
I stop walking and turn to face him. He’s obviously in his late thirties and he’s not exactly unattractive but there’s something about the way that his gaze slow-glides down my hair that makes me want to wrap it into a bun and then shove it under a trucker cap.
“What’s a thing like you doin’ here?” he asks, eyebrows raised, cocky, omnipotent.
My mind flickers back to when I met Mitchell’s brother Jason and he asked me a similar question. Only in that instance I think he was going to offer me directions away from the area. This guy looks like he’s revelling in my misfortune.
He reads into my silence. “What, you don’t talk? I’m not gonna bite, Missy.”
Another flash of his teeth makes me believe otherwise. I try to placate him.
“This is my project,” I say, half-true, gesturing vaguely to the beautiful wooden cabins.
He laughs like I’ve just told a joke. “Good one. You one of their Missus or something?” he asks, picking up some rogue timber and chipping off the outer layer of mud and dirt.
It takes me a moment to even understand what he just said. Does he mean am I with one of the crew? Romantically? Surely Mitch would have told everyone who I am and why I’m here by now.
All I manage out is, “Uh…”
He nods like he gets me, his crooked grin making me slowly begin to start back-stepping again. He misreads me completely and says, “So it’s a no-label arrangement. Sounds good to me.”
I can’t hold in my alarm. “What the hell? No. No. Who the hell are you?”
I’m so mortified that I fully turn around, set on walking as close to the centre of the base as possible, when I suddenly feel a tight hand on my forearm, gripping in a way that says I’m not done yet.
I swing around, wondering if this situation is urgent enough to slam my palm under his chin, but he’s still smiling that easygoing smile, his free hand raised in faux surrender. The fingers clenching my sleeve are giving a pretty solid counter-argument.
“I don’t mean any harm, Sugar. I’m just letting you know that I’m around.”
He must be around the fucking bend if he thinks that this interaction would merit a second one. Jesus Christ. I rip my arm from his hand and he laughs again, like this is all good fun. He holds both hands up and then tips his head towards his van.
“I’ll be over there if you want my number.” He watches me from over his shoulder the whole way back to his car.
My brain is spinning and I feel like I might throw up. Are these the kinds of guys working on my mom’s site? With the sole aim of putting distance between myself and the guy in the van I head over to the centre of the valley, my wandering almost aimless as I think about what just happened.
This is what they’re like, my brain reminds me. This is why we’re shunning them now.
It’s a well-timed reminder seeing as Mitchell’s level-headedness was starting to make me go mushy. What an idiot. They’re all the same.
Even if Mitchell isn’t the one who’s a brute, by hiring one he’s endorsing one. I remember my guise as the on-site ‘supervisor’ and I wonder if I should actually call my mom and tell her that we should think of hiring a different crew.
I stop walking and realise that I’ve stepped under the canopy of the now-empty workshop. The guys have retreated into one of the cabins so I walk cautiously around the benches, calming the erratic racing of my heart. All that I’ve done by coming here is trade off being in the vicinity of one good-for-nothing dude for a whole freaking bunch of them. I thought that I’d be happier here, away from it all. Will there never be any escape?
To distract myself I start rummaging through the box beside the nearest bench, wondering what the crew keeps in here. Power tool after power tool after power tool. It’s kind of fitting.
I stand up from my crouch and my eyes land on the big bag of wood off-cuts that I watched Mitch throwing bits of timber into when I was stalk-watching him from my rooftop lookout. Maybe some physical exertion will help use up the adrenaline that’s hammering through me. I look at the bag and contemplate hauling it over to where all of the others are, gauging the heaviness and whether I’ll be able to carry it for the length of the trek.
Then I remember the laugh that the guy in the white van made when I justified my being on a construction site and all of a sudden my vision is turning red and I’m wrapping my hands around the handles and–
I realise my error the second that I begin to heave.
My body is deer-limbed, this sack of wood probably weighs about fifty of me, and the four-post canopy currently sheltering the portable workshop was only erected today. Meaning that, when we had the first taste of fall rain yesterday the grass got super muddy. Meaning that, when I dig my heels into the dirt as I try to haul the bag two-handed my feet are instantly sliding under, the weight of the sack about to collapse on top of me.
Suddenly a large tan fist swoops forward, gripping directly between my own. I’m suspended mid-fall, my body tilting backwards, only just high enough from the ground to stop the wood from breaching the edge of the sack and raining down on top of me. My feet are still scrambling and my ass is mere inches from the dirt.
I stare wide-eyed into the face of my saviour, simultaneously horrified, surprised, and immeasurably grateful. He stares right back at me, the words what did I just say so evident in his expression that I almost hear them.
Then I do hear them.
“What did I just say,” he bites out, his expression hard as he uses the strength in one arm to pull the sack of wood upright. My body lifts effortlessly right along with it.
“Get off my back,” I snap, although I feel like I’ve just had a spiritual experience, ascending to a realm where I’m as weightless as a sugar granule.
His face glitches momentarily, heat rising up his cheekbones.
I think back to my phrasing and flush. Now we’re both thinking about him getting on my back.
He recovers faster than I do. “I told you to let me do my job.”
“And without me you wouldn’t have a job. I wanted to help out. Sue me.”
“If you keep pulling stunts like this someone will end up getting sued.”
I tip my head back and growl in frustration, barely aware that Mitch is still holding me upright. It’s only when I tuck my chin against my chest, looking up at him through my lashes, that I see his arm extended and flexing, the vein in his bicep bulging and protruded.
Oh. I blink slowly and my brain begins to loosen.
“Steady your feet,” he commands suddenly. I look into his eyes and feel a little weak. “Put your weight into them and hold steady so you can regain your balance.”
I do as he says and I see his shoulders relax in approval.
I swallow hard. Interesting.
“Now stand straight and let go of the sack.”
Our eyes burn straight into each other’s, bad thoughts aflame behind our molten irises. His mouth is a flat hard line, his jaw bunching with restraint.
I almost raise an eyebrow. I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mitch.
I carefully regain my balance, shifting my weight so that I can stand upright and then letting go of my grip on the bag, my gaze resting on his strong, steady hand.
You couldn’t be in safer hands.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say breathlessly, trying to act more composed than I feel.
Mitch is looking at me through half-mast eyes, his chest heaving in fast pumps as he maintains his grip on the sack. His gaze stays on my parted lips for one long moment and then we’re staring into each other’s eyes again, alarm and confusion making our breathing quick, our cheeks ruddy.
I cross my arms across my chest, hoping that my jumper is thick enough to disguise what’s happening beneath it.
He follows the movement, his body emitting pheromones that are drugging me comatose, but then his brow is dipping and his muscles are setting like steel.
“What’s that?” he asks suddenly, his eyes unmoving from a spot on my sleeve.
“It’s a jumper. You should try wearing one some time.” Mitch’s muscles can be seen from Saturn’s farthest ring. I endure daily cardiovascular murmurs when I catch sight of his swollen biceps. My eyes stray briefly to them now and my heart pumps a little faster.
“No,” he says, his eyes still staring intently at an area on my forearm. “I mean what’s that?”
I look down at the lower part of my sleeve – the fabric fitted and an adorable baby pink – and I blink at it in confusion, attempting to see what he’s seeing.
It takes me a moment.
Then I get it.
“Ohhhh,” I say, because I would very much like to avoid where this conversation is about to go. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of dirt.”
His eyes fix onto my own like he’s ten seconds away from boiling point. Then they’re back on the dusty brown hand-print marring my sleeve, his jaw muscles rolling as he silently takes it in.
I’m so overwhelmed by the past ten minutes that I try to lighten the mood with a light laugh and an easygoing, “Seriously, Mitchell, it’s no biggie–”
“I’m starting to realise that you say that a lot, even when it comes to things that are in fact pretty big.”
His neck is heating up and so is mine, both for different reasons. He’s quietly getting angrier and angrier, whereas I’m becoming lightheaded with flattery. How is it that a man who doesn’t even know me is more willing to come to my defence than people who I’ve been literally born and raised with? I try to think of that quote from the Bible, something about the people in your hometown respecting you the least. I’m starting to quite plainly see that there’s more than a pinch of truth in that.
“Harper.” His voice is low, restrained. “Did someone touch you?”
I keep my expression neutral as he tries to stare the truth out of me. My lashes flutter momentarily when his eyes dip to my exposed clavicle, the curve of my covered chest.
He tries again. “Did someone touch you on my site?” he asks. “Did one of my men touch you?”
I move over to the only bench that isn’t carrying a saw. He throws the bag of wood down to his side and takes a few steps closer, following me.
“Um,” I say, chewing briefly at my lip. My eyes flick towards the bungalows and the van is still sitting ominously up there. I don’t want to cause a problem but I also don’t like the fact that there’s a creep on-site who now knows where I’m sleeping. I mumble an incoherent, “I-guess-maybe-kinda.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their names, Mitchell.”
“Which one? Point him out.”
I move my eyes back to Mitch’s and he’s so livid that he’s swelling. Heaving. Is he really angry for me? Does he actually care that someone just touched me?
“Uh,” I say breathlessly, a little dazzled by the intensity of his stare. “He’s mid-thirties-ish, dark hair.” Mitch narrows his eyes, raking through names in his head. I try to help him out, adding, “The guy who drives the white van.”
His expression immediately shifts, a little confused. “None of my men drive a white van.”
I nod my head as subtly as I can over to where the van is parked up. “I’m pretty sure that that’s a white van.”
He whips around and I watch as his shoulder muscles roll, his brow furrowing. He locks his hands together and cracks his knuckles. Then he turns back around and looks down at me. “That was the guy who touched you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you… did you want him to?”
I study his cautious expression, the slight redness touching his cheeks. He’s still looking into my eyes but I can tell that he’s uncomfortable now too.
“No,” I tell him truthfully.
He grunts. Nods. Then he says, “He’s not one of my team. I’m gonna go talk to him and tell him to get the hell out of here.”
He doesn’t even deliberate. He grabs the bag of wood, tosses it over his shoulder, and then he turns around, about to head straight up the grassy incline.
I’m startled, flattered, and amazed. But then I think about things like male ego and fighting with power-tools and suddenly I’m reaching out to him, the tips of my fingers brushing feather-light across the curve of his bicep.
He stills, eyes locked in on my fingertips.
Shit. I’m a hypocrite. Does that count as sexual harassment?
“Sorry, sorry,” I say quickly, pulling back my hand like I just touched a flame. That seems about right – I can still feel his hard swell burning into my skin. “I just wanted to say that you don’t have to say anything, there’s really nothing we can do.”
Mitch’s eyes follow my hand as it leaves his skin, floating momentarily in the air before I imprison it in the front pocket of my jeans. Then he licks his bottom lip and meets my eyes.
“No-one gets away with that kind of shit on my site. He’s not on my crew so he shouldn’t even be here. I’m getting that asshole out of here and I’m gonna make sure that he doesn’t come back.”
“Mitchell, really, it’s–”
“Don’t say it,” he growls. “Do not say that it’s okay.”
When did we move so close to each other? He’s mere inches away from me, his heat sinking deep into my body. My eyes roam over his pecs and I hear a rumble sound in his chest. Wow. Then my gaze is moving over to my bungalow, thinking about other parts of him that I wouldn’t mind sinking deep into my body.
He must be thinking the same thing because he looks across to my bungalow too, his body moving even closer until we’re only millimetres apart.
Then a new thought dawns on him and a fresh wave of concern crosses his features.
“Did he see you leave your bungalow?” he asks, his eyes bright with alarm.
“Um.” I can’t be sure so I don’t answer.
“Shit,” he curses, swiping his palm down his face. I can see a plan forming behind his eyes as he stares back up to the van. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna talk to that piece over there and tell him to stay the hell away. But if for some reason he’s hankering for a bust-up and shows his damned face here again, I’m gonna give you my number and you’re gonna dial me straight away. Then I’ll sort him out, pronto.” He looks down at me, his expression serious. “Is that okay? Does that sound alright to you?” he asks, his voice gentler now.
I’m a helpless damsel. I’m a trope from one of my own screenplays. But in this moment I don’t mind being a storybook stereotype.
I nod up at him, the urge to touch him so strong that I grip my fingers around the edge of the desk.
He nods back at me and then turns to fulfil his promise.
Somehow I feel as though this changes everything.
