Great Restorations - 4. Chapter 4

“SO THERE I was, half out of my clothes, when her kid walks in, whining about a nightmare. He took one look at me draped all over his mommy and started screaming.” In typical dramatic fashion, Rick grabbed handfuls of his thick black hair and groaned. “It was awful. Jennifer made me leave without so much as a good-night kiss.”

Marc cringed and took a sip of his beer. Wednesday nights out with his team never failed to entertain. If Rick‘s romantic escapades could be classified as entertainment.

Reba frowned at Rick. “So the point of this whole story is that you didn‘t get laid?” She sagged back in her seat.

Rick pointed a beefy finger at her, beer bottle clutched in his fist. “It‘s an important point, don‘t you think?”

“Not to me. I couldn‘t care less. And frankly I don‘t blame the kid. If I saw you in my bedroom, I‘d scream too.”

Rick snorted and tapped his finger on the table. “Don‘t hold your breath. I‘ve got standards, you know.”

Reba gave him the finger, then tugged at a lock of her hair. The curl—dishwater blonde streaked with gray—bounced back against her temple like a corkscrew.

“Children,” Marc chided. “Play nice.”

“Watch your mouth,” Reba said. “You‘ve only got a few years on my boys, and I‘m old enough to be your mother.”

“Yes, ma‘am.” Marc rolled his bottle between his hands and glanced around the pizzeria. High booths framed the perimeter of the restaurant—Reba, Rick, and Marc had claimed their usual one in the far back corner—while a dozen square tables filled the space in the center. Every item from aprons to paper napkins boasted a red and white checkered pattern. A line of people began at the hostess stand and twisted toward the door. “Crowded for a Wednesday night,” Marc mused.

“Yeah, what‘s up with that?” Rick complained. “And even so, we‘re regulars. Our food should come first. I‘m starved. I gotta eat.”

Reba flicked her straw in Rick‘s direction, spraying him with Coke. “It‘d take you a month to waste away.”

“No way, baby.” Rick leered and patted his stomach. “Nothing but muscle over here, head to toe.”

“Which explains why you keep your brain in your pants.”

Rick took the opportunity to return Reba‘s earlier gesture.

“Okay,” Marc said. “Can we talk business?” He intercepted a flying breadstick before it smacked Rick on the head. “About tomorrow—”

“Finally!” Rick shot up in his seat and pushed the sleeves of his shirt up over his thick forearms. He waggled his eyebrows at the waitress as she set the two pans on the table between them. “Haven‘t seen you around here before, darling. And I‘m in here every Wednesday night.”

“Oh!” The girl blushed and wiped her hands on her checkered apron. Marc rolled his eyes and helped Reba dole out the pizza while Rick flirted. “Well, I‘m new,” she said. “It‘s my first night. Sorry about the wait.”

“Sweetheart, don‘t give it a second thought.” Rick winked. Reba kicked him under the table, catching Marc‘s shin in the process.

He glared at her. “Ow! What‘d I do?”

“Sorry, Marc, honey.” Jailbait, she mouthed to Rick.

Rick ignored her, except to kick her back. Marc made sure to move his legs this time. “She looks eighteen to me,” Rick announced to Reba when the girl moved to the next table.

“In your dreams, pervert. You‘re disgusting.”

Rick piled three slices on his plate and dug in. “Thanks for your concern, Ma Walton, but it‘s cool. I‘ve got an in with the sheriff.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but having four outstanding speeding tickets is not an ‘in‘.” Reba slurped her Coke.

“Unless you mean in jail,” Marc said. He drained his beer and grabbed the last one out of the bucket. Rick scowled at him.

Reba meticulously cut her pizza into tiny squares. “And I can‘t think of anybody fond enough of your sorry ass to make conjugal visits.”

Rick leaned across the table. “What about you, Reba, baby? Are you saying you wouldn‘t come to my rescue?”

Reba made a face. “Ew. Now I can‘t eat.” She pushed her food away.

Marc laughed around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni as Rick snatched her plate. “It won‘t go to waste. Aw, you really didn‘t need to cut it for me.”

“Bite me.”

“So listen,” Marc said, trying again to bring the discussion around to work. “Change of plans for tomorrow morning. I‘ll be late, so either finish up some smaller projects early on or just sleep in. I won‘t be over at Kennerdale‘s place until after eleven.” He kept his head down as he spoke, pushing a stray bit of sausage around his plate with his pizza crust. He waited a moment, expecting questions. When there were none, he cleared his throat and looked up.

Both Rick and Reba stared at him.

Granted, Rick was chewing like a cow, and one side of his mouth was covered in sauce, but his eyes were sharp. “Oh yeah?” He swallowed. “Why?”

“I got a lead on another job today. Whole house remodel.”

Reba whistled. She tucked a napkin into the collar of her Grateful Dead T-shirt and snatched her plate back from Rick. “That‘d be cool. Some extra cash before the holidays. The boys have been asking for one of those expensive game systems. What‘s the job?”

Marc cleared his throat again, not missing how Reba tilted her head curiously. “Did you guys know old Mr. Steinbrick died?”

“No shit! That house?” Rick pushed his plate away. “That one‘s a beauty!”

Marc forgot his nervousness. “Isn‘t it?” He grinned. “I can‘t wait to put it back together.”

Reba‘s eyes were lit as well. “The woodwork must be phenomenal,” she mused. “Oak?”

Marc shook his head. “Solid cherry, from the quick glimpse I got of it.”

Now both Rick and Reba whistled, and Marc grinned, feeling like a kid at Christmas. He never took his team for granted. They were the best, and he was lucky to have them. That they shared his obsession for restoration was gift enough, but that they managed to work together, even share a genuine affection despite their differences, was icing on the cake. “Can you guys let Karen and Tim know?” Marc asked. “I wasn‘t able to get a hold of them.”

“Sure. Where are they, anyway?” Rick glanced around the crowded restaurant. “It‘s not like Tim to turn down free pizza.” The youngest member of Marc‘s team was always strapped for cash, and the others took turns paying his share on Wednesday nights.

“Tim‘s got a date,” Reba said.

Rick blinked. “A date?”

“What?” Reba‘s eyes twinkled. “It‘s not possible for anybody else in this dysfunctional little group to have a love life? I‘m not surprised he‘s got a date. He‘s way cuter than you. And not decrepit, either.”

“He‘s just a kid, like Marc here, and I am in my prime.”

“Hey.” Marc tossed a piece of ice at him. “This kid is your boss.”

“So why aren‘t we discussing your love life?” Rick shot back. “Did you get sweet little Rachel between the sheets yet?”

“I—” Marc blushed, and Reba slapped Rick on the arm.

“Leave him alone.”

Surprisingly, Rick did, and the pressure that had been bunching in Marc‘s shoulders all day eased. Until he heard a voice behind him. “Marc?”

Rick looked up, arched an eyebrow, and Reba smiled. “Who‘s this?” she asked.

Marc‘s hands clenched in his lap. He needed two deep breaths before he could school his expression into something resembling indifference and smile up into Sawyer‘s face. “This,” he said, looking at Sawyer but addressing Rick and Reba, “is Sawyer Calhoun, Mr. Steinbrick‘s grandson, and the one who‘s hired us to restore his house.”

Reba wiped her fingers on her napkin and held out her hand. “My sons thank you.”

“Oh?” Sawyer shook her hand, then Rick‘s. “And why is that?”

“You just bought them a PS5 for Christmas.”

“That was very kind of me,” Sawyer said with a laugh.

“I‘m Reba and this ugly Neanderthal is Rick. You here for dinner?”

Sawyer nodded.

“Join us?” Reba asked.

“I don‘t want to intrude.”

“I insist. Shove over, boss.” She kicked Marc under the table, and he winced, cursing her reflexes. A surge of foreboding made his heart skip a beat, but he shuffled across the bench. Sawyer slid in beside him.

“Here,” Reba said. “Pizza.” She shoved a clean plate in front of Sawyer.

Sawyer chuckled but accepted the plate and the pizza Reba piled on top of it. “You don‘t have to, really.”

“Nonsense. I love to pamper the clients.”

Sawyer grinned before turning the same happy smile on Marc. “Thanks.”

Breathless, Marc nodded. They were touching, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Marc could smell him—a mix of sweat and aftershave. Fate hated him. That was the only explanation. He picked up his beer, then set it back down. Better to keep a clear head. When the waitress next came around, he asked for a glass of water.

It arrived just as the third member of his team did. Dressed in a tan, calf-length suede skirt and matching cashmere sweater, Karen hurried up to them, dropped her Kate Spade tote on the floor with a clunk, and gave a dramatic sigh. “Sorry I‘m late. Traffic leaving the city was horrendous. The damn show ended at two, but I still managed no more than five miles per hour from State Avenue to the 9th Street Bridge. It‘s like everyone and their mother decided to take off early today. It‘s Wednesday, for God‘s sake! Whatever happened to the great American work ethic? My three-hour trip took closer to five.” She slid into the booth next to Rick, giving him a good-natured shove. “And then—”

She saw Sawyer, and in a heartbeat, her demeanor changed. She smoothed her auburn hair, still coiffed into a tight bun despite the chaos of a fifteen-hour day, and flashed an impish smile. “Hello. I‘m sorry, I didn‘t see you there.” She shot a glare at Marc.

Marc ignored it. “If you‘d have let me get a word in edgewise, then I would‘ve introduced you.”

He hadn‘t missed the predatory gleam in her eye when she looked at Sawyer, not that it would get her anywhere. The knowledge filled him with perverse glee, but it vanished in a flash, leaving a vague sense of guilt behind. His odds were no better, given the circumstances, and it wasn‘t Karen‘s fault she was a born flirt. She had that in common with Rick, though her methods tended to be more sophisticated.

Marc cleared his throat, wondering how his arm had managed to drape itself over the back of the booth behind Sawyer‘s shoulders. “Sawyer, this is Karen Schuster. Karen, this is Sawyer Calhoun, Mr. Steinbrick‘s grandson.”

Karen gave a little cry and reached across the table, clasping Sawyer‘s folded hands in hers. Marc bit back a growl. “I‘m so sorry about your grandfather.” Karen patted Sawyer‘s arm. “He was a private man, but I‘d met him a few times. He had so much dignity. I know some called him unfriendly, but I never believed it myself.”

From the corner of his eye, Marc saw Sawyer swallow. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Marc washed his water down with more beer. It turned bitter in his mouth, and he looked away, out the window into the parking lot. The tide of people had reversed direction, and the restaurant was emptying at a steady pace. He envied those escaping. Rick and Reba hadn‘t yet been too nosy about Sawyer. Karen, however, wouldn‘t have the slightest compunction.

Plus, she wasn‘t letting go of Sawyer‘s hands. The arm he‘d slung across the booth twitched, and he beat back the urge to curl it around Sawyer‘s shoulders and jerk him back out of her hold. “Karen,” he said, eyes still on the parking lot, “Sawyer‘s hired us to renovate his grandfather‘s house.”

The gleam in Karen‘s eye turned a whole different kind of predatory. “Oh really?”

Rick grunted and shook his head. He pointed a sauce-stained finger at Sawyer. “I can‘t believe I‘m saying this, but your first order of business should be to work out a budget with our Karen, here. For your own peace of mind.”

“Karen does most of our interior design and decorating,” Marc clarified. Then, feeling the need to atone for his less charitable thoughts, added, “I promise she‘s worth every penny. She‘s the best, hands down. We lured her away from the biggest firm in the city.”

“Did you now?” Sawyer asked. He looked to Karen. “And how did they do that?” Because I’m sure the pay doesn’t compare, was left unsaid.

“When you‘re the best,” Karen bestowed Marc with a warm smile, “it pays to work with the best.” She nodded around the table. “You won‘t be disappointed.”

Rick and Reba mumbled agreement while Marc smiled back at Karen. She held his eyes as she spoke to Sawyer. “Of course, getting the best isn‘t cheap.” She winked so fast, Marc nearly missed it. “So! Sawyer. Let‘s talk design. You don‘t strike me as the rooster and gingham type.”

“Uh.” Sawyer went a bit pale. “No.”

“Excellent!” Karen clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “We‘ll get along famously.”

As it so happened, she was right. They all chatted for the next hour, each pumping Sawyer for information about the house and each failing miserably to be circumspect. Sawyer answered the questions easily—eagerly, in fact—and Marc began to relax. And that was when Karen decided to shake things up.

“Is there a Mrs. Sawyer?” She gestured at Sawyer‘s left hand. “I don‘t see a ring, not that that means much in this day and age. What?” she asked when both Marc and Reba glared at her. “It‘s important information for a designer! If there is a significant other, her tastes will obviously come into play. And probably sooner rather than later.”

“I think you might be getting ahead of yourself,” Marc ground out. “We‘ve at least two months of work ahead of us, maybe three, before you can move in with your paint and fabric swatches.” He hadn‘t meant for his voice to be so sharp. The table fell silent, and Karen blinked at him, hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Marc,” Reba scolded.

“Sorry. Sorry, Karen. I‘m just tired.” A moment of tense silence followed his apology, then Reba picked up the conversation, wisely changing the subject. Marc grabbed his water glass and took a large gulp, then choked when a hand slipped onto his knee. Glass at his lips, he glanced sideways at Sawyer, only to find him engrossed in Reba‘s story. Too distracted to hear a word of it himself, he jumped when everyone laughed. He emptied his water glass and set it down with a clatter, trying to ignore the light sweat that had broken out across his upper lip. Sawyer‘s hand was warm and heavy and maddening on his leg. The tension that had eased earlier roared back with a vengeance.

Then Sawyer‘s fingers tightened, a brief squeeze, and Marc‘s arm jerked, tipping over his beer bottle.

“Hey!” Rick yelled as the liquid ran in several rivers across the table toward him. He grabbed a handful of napkins and worked to divert the worst of the spill away from his lap. “That‘s it, boss! I‘m cutting you off.”

“Sorry,” Marc said. Again. He pulled his arms down into his own lap and swept Sawyer‘s hand off his knee. “Excuse me,” he said, nudging Sawyer‘s shoulder.

“Sure.” Sawyer slipped out of the booth, and Marc followed, making his escape. He got as far as the men‘s room before Sawyer caught up with him. Sawyer didn‘t say a word, just gripped Marc‘s arm and steered him through the swinging door. Luckily, the room was empty.

“What‘s wrong with you?” Sawyer demanded.

“What‘s wrong with me?" Marc snorted, then stalked to the sinks and turned the closest set of taps on full blast. Cool water rushed over his heated wrists. Beneath the gush of water, his pulse pounded. “Listen, in case I didn‘t make myself clear before—the first two times—I‘m not….” He paused and stared at the water pooling in the sink.

“I get that.” Sawyer stepped up behind him. “I was just—you seemed upset. I was trying to put you at ease.”

Marc shook his head. “You can‘t be serious?” He caught Sawyer‘s eyes in the mirror. “You thought putting your hands on me would put me at ease? In front of my employees?”

Sawyer‘s jaw tightened.

“Is this your grand plan?” Marc asked, voice rising. He lowered it with effort. “For everyone to find out?”

“How would they find out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe by seeing I can barely breathe, let alone think, when you touch me? You don’t think that might attract some notice?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Are you sure about that? You think if everyone knows, I‘ll jump into bed with you?”

Sawyer sucked in a sharp breath. “That was low.”

“So that‘s not what you were thinking?” Marc jerked the taps closed. “Then explain it. Please.”

“I already did.”

Sawyer‘s composure only made Marc angrier. How could he be so nonchalant and so damn comfortable with himself? What little control Marc had been holding onto evaporated. “Why are you so determined to ruin this for me?”

“Ruin what, exactly?”

“My life! God!” Marc ran his hands through his hair and stalked to the towel dispenser. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that he was out of line, but still he pushed.

“Did you know I’d be here tonight?"

“What?”

Marc said nothing, just dried his hands with sharp, jerky movements. Sawyer barked a humorless laugh and spun away, rubbing a hand over his face. When he turned back, his expression was stony and his eyes cold. “Don‘t flatter yourself. I stopped for dinner, not for games. I‘ve got better uses for my time than chasing some backwater closet case.” He jerked the door open, then shot over his shoulder, “Much better.” The door slammed shut behind him.

Marc‘s stomach twisted and curled in on itself, and for one horrible moment, he was sure he was going to be sick. He sagged against the row of sinks, tipped his head to the cool tile wall and waited for the nausea to pass. It took a long time. By the time he found his way back to the table, Sawyer, Rick, and Karen were gone. Only Reba was left, packing up the last of the leftover pizza.

***

HE‘D just cracked open his third beer when someone knocked on the front door. Marc sighed and pressed the cold bottle to his head, then glanced at the time on the stove. Ten-thirty was hardly late in some parts of the world, but in Edgewood it might as well be three in the morning.

And he still felt shaky, a bit like he‘d felt after that car accident the year before: agitated and scared, yet relieved to be walking away with a minimum of damage. Tomorrow morning‘s appointment was going to be hell. That was, if Sawyer didn’t just slam the door in his face when he showed up.

The knock came again as he entered the long hall that led to the foyer. Through the frosted glass, he could make out the visitor‘s silhouette; it was a man, one hand propped on the doorframe, the other on his hip, his head bent low. Marc was already turning the doorknob before the awful truth hit him, too late to pretend he wasn‘t home, but he still hesitated, scrambling for a solution that didn‘t involve opening the door.

Sawyer must have sensed his qualms. “I can see you,” his muffled voice said, sounding as tired as Marc felt. “And your truck‘s in the damn driveway.”

True enough. Marc pulled the door open.

At first glance Sawyer looked as he always did—boyish, carefree, at ease—but when he stepped into the light of the foyer, Marc saw that his jaw was set and lines etched the corners of his mouth. Before Marc could express his concern, Sawyer spoke. “I‘m sorry.” He raised a hand, as if to touch Marc‘s arm. “I‘m really, really sorry.”

“It‘s okay.”

“It‘s not,” Sawyer said. “That was an unforgivable thing to say.”

After a slight hesitation, Marc motioned for Sawyer to follow him back to the kitchen. He handed him a beer from the fridge. “It‘s not like I didn‘t deserve it. I‘m the one who should apologize.” He took a swig from his own bottle.

The beer languished in Sawyer‘s grip. “I—”

“Please, let‘s just forget it.”

Sawyer gave a slow nod, looked as though he wanted to say something else, but in the end, swallowed it back. “Okay.” He relaxed a bit, leaning one hip against the counter. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Thanks,” Marc answered. “How did you know where I lived?”

“Reba told me.”

The thought worried him for a split second before he dismissed it. The last thing he needed was a rampant case of paranoia. He watched Sawyer meander around the large kitchen and smiled when he ran a finger over the hand-carved mantel. “Amazing,” said Sawyer, voice low. “Is the rest of your house as magnificent?”

Marc grinned. It was an obvious bit of manipulation, but he found he didn‘t care. He was proud of his home. “Most of it. I‘ve been taking it one project at a time, as I can afford it. It was my parents‘ house.”

Sawyer glanced over his shoulder, then went back to studying the brickwork around the kitchen‘s large hearth. “Was?”

“I took it from them.”

That earned him a funny look. Marc shrugged. He wasn‘t up to explaining about his parents at the moment. Astute as Sawyer was, Marc suspected he would understand. When the subject was dropped without another word, he knew he had.

He could have watched Sawyer commune with his house all night, but as bad ideas went, it topped the list. “I appreciate you coming by,” Marc said. “It wasn‘t necessary, but I appreciate it.”

“So have a nice night, the door‘s that way,” Sawyer replied with a sad smile.

Marc blushed. “It‘s just….” He held up a hand when Sawyer started walking toward him. “No, stay over there.”

Sawyer‘s laugh filled the room, but he stopped halfway across the kitchen, his hands slung into the front pockets of his jeans. “I don‘t bite.”

The visual did little for Marc‘s resolve, which his expression must have broadcasted, because Sawyer tilted his head and added in a playful voice, “Unless you‘d like me to.”

That and much more. Marc scowled. “Be good.”

“Sorry again,” Sawyer said, sounding anything but.

“Can we just forget I acted like an ass and put tonight behind us?”

“We can, but….” Sawyer bit his lip, looking torn, then spoke up anyway. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“We‘ve both apologized, what more is there?”

He didn‘t appreciate the patronizing look he received in return. Sawyer sighed, then shrugged. “Your call.”

That‘s right, it was. His call, his life. But damn it, he didn‘t appreciate being made the martyr.

“I‘ll let myself out.” Sawyer had crept forward while Marc was being privately indignant. He tried to brush by without a word, but that just wasn‘t going to be acceptable, either. Marc reached out and snagged Sawyer‘s jacket. Neither of them spoke. Marc ground his teeth, seething for reasons he couldn‘t name.

Maybe because he knew that what he was holding on to—not in the immediate, physical sense, but in the metaphorical—was making him wretchedly unhappy. And he hadn‘t a fucking clue how to go about changing it.

Sawyer watched and waited. “Your call,” he repeated, voice soft.

“Don‘t go yet.”

“Okay.” The corner of Sawyer‘s mouth curved upward. Marc stared at it, mesmerized, until Sawyer whispered his name, adding, “Maybe you should let go.”

Marc shook his head. No way.

Sawyer‘s eyes sparked. “I really think you should.”

“Probably.” But he didn‘t. Instead, he squeezed his hand into a fist, listening to the leather of Sawyer‘s jacket crackle under his fingers.

“Last warning,” Sawyer whispered. He hadn‘t moved at all but to lift his own hand; it hovered over the small of Marc‘s back. His tone, rough and possessive, was doing strange things to Marc‘s equilibrium. Goosebumps erupted over his arms and the back of his neck, but he still managed to arch an eyebrow in challenge.

He heard a clipped laugh, a “Fine, we‘ll do it your way,” and then Sawyer‘s arm was across his chest and pressing him back against the granite counter. Marc knew what he was expecting, but what he got was something else entirely. Sawyer hemmed him in with both legs and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

The sudden press of their bodies made Marc dizzy. He tried to lift his own arms, but the best he could manage was to grab for Sawyer‘s hips. His fingers tangled in the belt loops, and, encouraged, he pulled, not that there was any space between them to erase. The pressure against his chest and groin increased. “Sawyer,” he might have said, but the roar in his ears made it impossible to know for sure.

Sawyer huffed a laugh against his cheek, then pressed a kiss to his temple. “Right here.” Each movement was tiny, careful. A thumb pressing against his spine. Lips against his cheek. Maddening, like the hand on his knee earlier. Marc shifted, restless and needy, but Sawyer held him still. “Shhh. Don‘t move.” Then, disregarding his own words, he rocked his hips forward once, hard, nearly carrying Marc up onto the counter. They both groaned.

“Christ,” Sawyer breathed in his ear. “I need to leave now. Right fucking now.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “What? No.”

“Yes,” Sawyer said, then again, “yes,” as if trying to convince the both of them. He unwound himself and took three large steps backward. He held a hand up, palm out, just as Marc had earlier. “Marc.”

Marc waited for the rest, grateful for the slab of granite against his back. The room was still spinning. “What?”

Sawyer retreated even further, across the kitchen and into the arched doorway that led to the main hall. His parting smile was strained, but genuine. “You have a good night.” Then he was gone, and a few seconds later the front door closed behind him.

It took Marc close to five minutes before he dared push off from the counter, and he wobbled even then.

He‘d been wrong earlier. Tomorrow‘s meeting was going to be difficult. But the next few months, they would be torture.