Pen Pal

8

We stare at each other in silence until he says, “You’re gonna be less happy when I tell you how much it’ll cost.”

“Should I be sitting down for this?”

“Dunno. You prone to fainting?”

I lift my brows. “I’d ask if you were making a joke, but I’m pretty sure humor isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

“You don’t know me. I could be hilarious.”

We gaze at each other. Neither one of us smiles. That skull tattoo on his neck looks as if it’s smirking at me.

I ask, “Are you hilarious?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “No.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “Great. So I’m not happy, and you’re not funny. This project should go extremely well.”

“Except I just made you laugh, so maybe I am funny and you are happy.”

When I only stare at him, he says, “You were for a second, anyway.”

Is this weird? I can’t tell if this is weird or not. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, I clear my throat. “Well. Thanks for that.”

“No problem. You’re looking at ten thousand.”

That’s such a sharp right turn, it takes my poor brain a moment to figure out that he’s talking about the price he’ll charge to repair the roof. “Ten…thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“Dollars?”

“No, seashells. Of course dollars.”

I make a face at him. “And you claim you’re not hilarious.”

“I’ll write up the quote.” Without another word, he turns around and walks out of the house.

I have no idea if he’s leaving and will mail me the quote or what, but he comes right back in without knocking and sits down at my kitchen table with a pad of paper. He starts scribbling on it.

He’s so big, he makes the table and chairs look like they belong in a kindergarten class.

When he rips the piece of paper off the pad and holds it out to me, I take it and look it over. “Labor is eight thousand, but materials are only two?”

He leans back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. “If you want, I’ll bring all the materials over, and you can do it yourself.”

Smartass. “What I want is a fair price.”

“That is a fair price.”

“How can your labor possibly be so much?”

“Are you an expert in construction pricing?”

“No, but I am an expert in BS spotting.” I flick my wrist, snapping the paper. “And this is BS.”

He glances at my wedding ring. “Ask your husband if you don’t believe me. It’s a fair quote.”

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. My heart starts banging around in my chest. Holding his gaze, I say stiffly, “I’m perfectly capable of making judgments on my own.”

His eyes narrow. But not like he’s angry, just like he’s trying to figure me out.

Then the kitchen lights flicker, reminding me that this boorish beast is the only person who called me back besides Eddie the pot-loving hippie, so maybe I shouldn’t throw him out of my kitchen just yet.

I pull up a chair and sit across from him. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars.” He says nothing. He simply stares at me.

Oh, how I’d like to take his quote and give him papercuts with it all up and down his arms.

Not that you’d be able to see the cuts through all the tattoos, but still. It would be satisfying.

“I’m not lying to you, Mr. Leighrite. I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

“It’s Aidan. And how are you living in a house this size if you don’t have any money?”

“That’s a very personal question that I’m not going to answer. And I never said I didn’t have any money. I said I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

He leans over, rests those big tattooed forearms on the table, and threads his fingers together. “So we’re negotiating.”

His intensity is formidable, but I don’t want him to think he’s intimidating me. I sit up straighter in the chair and lift my chin. “You say that like negotiating is your favorite thing.”

“It is.”

“Hmm. I would’ve guessed charming potential clients with your dazzling sense of humor.”

“No. That’s my second favorite thing.”

We’re staring at each other again. Once again, neither of us is smiling.

Finally, I say, “Four thousand.”

His snort indicates what he thinks of my opening bid.

“It’s double your materials cost.”

“I’m able to do basic math, thank you. Ten thousand.”

“I thought we were negotiating.”

“We are.”

“Then you can’t just keep saying the same number.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Lucky for me you’re not the one with the upper hand here.”

I stare at him in outrage with my mouth hanging open. Then a strange thing happens: he smiles.

“I just wanted to see what you’d do when I said that.”

I’d like to run him over with my car. I say firmly, “Forty-five hundred.”

“Ninety-nine-ninety-nine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve already established I don’t have a sense of humor.”

“If you’re going to come down by one dollar every time we go back and forth, we’ll be here until next year.”

His gaze is level and his voice is cool. “You got somewhere else to be, Kayla?” Is he screwing with me? What exactly is going on?