Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (30 page)

“Really? So farewell to the Regency period and hello Steampunk? Will you be turning the elevator lift into a time machine?” I tease. “Sounds like you’re staying there permanently.”

“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly. “He asked if I would. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure. It’s good to know at least one of us is getting their shit together.”

“What about you and Joe?” he asks. I can hear the concern in his tone and his sympathy makes my heart hurt.

“Not so much. I think I was more than he could handle. Or more accurately, I was more than he wanted to handle.”

“His loss,” says Mike. “Maybe he’ll come around. He better, if he knows what’s good for him.”

I smile, picturing Mike shaking his finger in the air, his lips drawn together in a straight line.

“By the way, I have a carpenter friend that owes me favors who could do wonders with his trailer repairs.”

“Another one of these mysterious friends?” I ask.

He guffaws. “Never you mind, he did the carpentry rebuild at the front of the shop last year. Do you think Joe would allow him to look at his trailer?”

“Maybe you should have the friend call him directly . . .”

“Bruno,” Mike says. “That’s his name.”

“Seriously?” I chuckle. “Bruno?”

“Yes indeed. He looks like a Bruno too.”

“Okay, have Bruno call Joe and tell him that he’s a friend of mine and wants to bid on the job.”

“That could work,” Mike says.

“Okay, I’ll email the contact info for Joe.”

“Good.”

“And just so you know I’ve talked to Paul about designing something with this goddamned drought situation in mind for the backyard. I want to get this shit done so we can put this place on the market.”

“He’s going to do Xeriscape?”

“Wow! Our fancy florist supports Xeriscape?”

“Of course I do. It’s all the rage, what with the DWP chipping in to cover the costs. I think it’s a great idea.”

I don’t have to employ my rocket-scientist skills to know that the busier I am the less time I have to fixate on how much I miss Joe. So on Saturday when Paul and Elle come by the house to go over his design for the backyard, and we talk about the schedule, I ask them when they think I’ll be able to put the house on the market. I’m anxious to keep moving ahead with the divorce and all it entails.

“Do you have a real estate agent you like?” Elle asks. “I know a dynamo agent from this area I put an event on for. Why don’t you meet with her and see what she thinks? If you like her she’d be great to represent the house.”

“Shouldn’t I wait until the yard is done?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t. She’ll have suggestions for both inside and outside the house so you guys can get top dollar for this place.”

Paul nods in agreement.

So now it feels like my life is moving backwards and forwards at the same time. The backwards is when we move all of Mike’s furniture back in the house, pictures, lamps and all. It was like the furniture took a long vacation and now was back. All of this is because Jada the agent, who has a great eye, said that “staging” a house with Mike’s high-end stuff will help sell it.

Besides, houses sell fast in this area so I figure that I won’t be living with his pretentious stuff much longer.

So long, farewell, to Ikea-land, and hello to fancy pants Regency and velvet pillows. Mike said that we could offer the house furnished, or sell the furniture on Craig’s List once we’d accepted an offer.

The moving forward part is that Mike and I have come to agreement on all the key points of the divorce so now it’s just the technicalities of getting the house sold to wrap things up. Jeanine is very pleased, and has offered to let me stay in her guesthouse until I figure out what kind of place I want to move to. I really appreciate not having to rush into that decision. There’s enough crazy going on right now as it is.

So in this spirit of moving forward I’ve gotten very involved in the re-landscaping of the fire-scarred backyard. Despite Paul’s protests that we use his people to turn the soil in preparation for re-planting, I insist that I take a shot at rototilling the backyard.

Kellie, the woman I usually buy my plants and stuff from at Armstrong’s Nursery is anti-rototilling . . . something about terrorizing the worms and tiny creatures which keep the soil alive. But when I explain about the fire and ash she agrees to an exception and points out that as long as I used the shallow setting the replanting would benefit from the ash being worked into the soil.

Despite her encouragement, it was a clue that I may be in over my head when Joaquin, the equipment guy, gives me a nervous look as he loads the rental rototiller into my truck.

“You know how to use this?” he asks.

I shrug. “I watched a YouTube video.”

He purses his lips as he looks down at my flip-flops. “Don’t stick your feet too close when you’re working. It’ll cut off your toes.”

I make a face at him but he remains serious and that unnerves me.

“I’ll wear my steel-toe boots just in case,” I say.

He nods with no reaction like every woman he knows has a pair of steel-toe work boots.

Okay then.
Maybe I better watch those YouTube videos a few more times. But seriously, it’s about the size of a lawn mower. How hard can it be?

Sometimes I get off on doing hard stuff that prissy women wouldn’t even consider. Believe me when the zombie apocalypse comes I’ll still be standing long after those high-heeled gals are down for the count.

But today for all my bravado I have to admit this might be a bit much. When I get the rototiller fired up and grab those handles and squeeze, the thing starts shaking me like a maraca.
Holy hell.
It takes all my strength just to keep the thing on my intended path, and my arms feel like jelly after one pass across the yard. I shut the thing off, brush my hair off my sweaty forehead, and then turn the monster to do another row. I get it going again and I’m a few feet in when I see something out of the corner of my eye.

I pause and look over to see Joe standing near the porch with his hands jammed in his pockets, looking even more handsome than I remember him. He watches me for a moment and then pushes his sunglasses up on top of this head.

After turning the monster off, I stand with a blank expression waiting to hear what Mr. Murphy has to say for himself. Part of me wants to show him how happy I am that he’s here . . . the other part of me that’s mad for being ignored, not so much.

“Looks like you’ve got a wildcat by the tail,” he says, one corner of his mouth turned up and a bemused look in his eyes.

“Yeah? I can handle it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I’m sure you can.”

I wait a few seconds but he doesn’t say anything else and it irritates me, so I lean over to turn the monster back on. I’m not going to make conversation when he’s the one who showed up here. He’s going to have to work a lot harder than this.

I’m about to start rototilling the next row when he calls out, “Hey, can you take a break for a minute so we can talk?”

“I suppose.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans as I slowly walk over to him. “What’s up?”

“I saw the ‘coming soon’ sign in your front yard. What’s that about?”

“I told you I was selling the house. I have an agent and it’s going on the market as soon as this damn yard is done.”

He nods and turns his head so that his gaze scans the property. He points at the rototiller. “Need help?”

“No.”

His eyebrows knit together. I don’t think he was expecting a flat-out rejection.

“Anything else? I’m going to get back to work.”

He shifts from one foot to the other. “I was thinking . . . well, I was hoping that you could come with me to get something to eat.”

I glance down at my watch. “It’s four o’clock. Eat what?”

He seems flustered. “What ever you want. I thought we could talk.”

“So does this mean you’re done avoiding me, or is this get-together an exception?”

“Please, Trisha . . .” he says.

I bite my bottom lip and look over at the sharp-toothed rototill monster then back at Joe. “Well I could be persuaded to go for a hot fudge sundae. But you’d have to wait for me to jump in the shower. I can’t go in this state.” I brush some loose dirt off my arm. “I look like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoons.”

He smiles and it takes my breath away. I’d almost forgotten how my insides spark when this man smiles. “Sure, I’ll wait.”

I make showering a quick business, and while I dry myself off something occurs to me. Maybe it’d be okay if I were a little bit nice. I grin as I pull on my blue sleeveless sundress instead of my new jeans. He manned up and came by here to talk, I’ll woman up a bit to show my appreciation.

When I step onto the front porch his gaze softens.

“You’re wearing a dress.”

I swish the skirt around my legs. “I know. Awesome, right?”

He nods with a concerned expression. “But this isn’t a date.”

I pretend pout. “No? I thought it was.”

He looks gobsmacked. “I mean it could be a date, but I was thinking it’d be good to just talk.”

I want to keep things light so I push him in the shoulder. “I’m teasing you. As long as I get my hot fudge sundae I’m fine with just talking.”

About fifteen minutes later we’re at a table at Bob’s Big Boy in Toluca Lake. It’s totally retro cool with a drive-in set-up and a massive fiberglass Big Boy sculpted figure in front of the restaurant with his hand up in a wave to passers-by.

The Warner Bros. Studio is just down the street and so you might expect a studio crowd, but these are regular folk like us tucked into the booths surrounding where we sit.

“Are the sundae’s good here?” he asks after I’ve ordered the most elaborate one on the menu.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

I don’t eat hot fudge sundaes often but today I’m feeling like I’ve earned one.

He orders coffee.

We talk about goings on at the station while we wait for our order, and once the mountain of ice cream, fudge sauce, bananas, whipped cream, and what-not arrives, he’s amused as I tackle it with my long silver spoon.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Have you ever rototilled? It was a workout just getting that thing unloaded from my car, let alone wrangling the damn thing.”

He arches his brow. “I offered to help. You turned me down.”

“Hmmm, I wasn’t sure your offer was earnest.”

He casts his gaze down to the printed placemat. “I guess I deserve that.”

We remain quiet while I take several bites of my sundae. He watches as I methodically dip my spoon in the pool of fudge sauce, scoop up some ice cream and then drag the spoonful through the whipped cream and nuts. In between each bite I lick the spoon clean. He’s observing me intently and I can’t read why.

“Want a bite?”

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

“I wish this wasn’t so awkward.” Lifting my spoon up, I point it at him. “Maybe you should just say what’s on your mind.”

“Sorry,” he replies, snapping out of his haze. “You were distracting me.”

“Are you planning on saying more mean things to me, like after the fire? If so I’d appreciate a heads up so I can prepare for it.”

He frowns. “No, I was going to tell you that I’m sorry at how harsh I was with you after the fire. Now that I’ve calmed down I feel bad about it.”

“Yeah, you were pretty pissed off about far more than just the fire, but I‘d be lying if I said I didn’t understand why.”

His gaze is shadowed with melancholy. “I’ve missed you, Trisha.”

My heart thumps so hard I wonder if he can hear it. “I’ve missed you, too.”

I blink back a tear. His forgiveness is a small miracle in this wildfire season of my life.

I chew on my lip as I study his warm expression. “Does this mean you’re done avoiding me?”

The corners of his mouth curve up into a quiet smile. “Well, I thought we could try things again . . . but this time take things slow.”

“Sloooow,” I say with a long drawl. “I’m not sure if that works for me.”

He twists his hands together. “I realized as I sat with it that it really bothers me that I’m messing around with you and you’re still married and regularly dealing with your husband.”

“Seriously?” I scrunch up my nose.

“I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy.”

“But I’m practically divorced from my gay husband, you know.”

“Yes, I can see that you’ve made progress.”

“Speaking of Mike, I owe you an apology about the situation with him.”

Joe raises his brows as he waits to hear what I’m going to say.

“You know the night in the hospital when Paul came to sit with me while we waited for word after Mike’s suicide attempt? Well, Paul warned me to be mindful of you and pay attention to how the resulting attention I was giving Mike would affect you. He said you are my future and Mike is my past.”

Joe’s eyes widen before he looks down at his cup of coffee and straightens it on its saucer.

“I regret that in the drama of it all that I didn’t put myself in your shoes. What I know is that if it had been Sharon, I wouldn’t have been happy about her moving back in with you and all that went along with it.”