CHAPTER THREE
Gwen
The past week seems like a dream - a strange, but wonderful dream. The work is hard, but I appreciate that Paul doesn’t treat me like a charity case. Instead, he assigns me tasks and expects the work to be done the same as he would if anyone else was doing it. Strangely - as I work on the house - I find myself invested in it. It’s interesting to think that replacing the concrete, on the porch in the back, with a set of interlocking paving stones is a way of making the home beautiful and not just another milestone in my journey toward homelessness.
Still, I can’t help but feel nervous. Things remain uncertain. It is Saturday, and my bank account looks nice after yesterday’s paycheck deposit. Very nice, in fact, but it isn’t a panacea. Twenty-times that much wouldn’t be a panacea. I still don’t know where I’ll live, and I worry that perhaps Paul will decide that an inexperienced, but hard worker requires more effort than an experienced worker who may not work as hard.
Paul says nothing at all to suggest he feels that way. He has been nothing short of fantastic, and every day I watch him. He is gruff, demanding, and stern, but that is somehow balanced with tenderness and kindness in a way that thrills me. He has said nothing about catching me masturbating and I have said nothing about knowing the contents of the box he put in the garage. Every night, though, I have touched myself again, thinking of the picture and the book in my nightstand.
I haven’t read any more of the book. I want to, but I’m afraid that if I continue, I will read something in the book I can’t handle, and that would mean Paul is into things I can’t handle. I content myself with the parts I have already read. They are sexy - as sexy as can be. I content myself with thoughts of Paul and his remarkable body. Mostly, though, my thoughts of Paul tend far more to focus elsewhere. There is simply no way to escape how sexy the man is. Of course, I’m also drawn to how kind he can be, and how he seems to maintain control always, even when he’s angry. The man can correct a lazy contractor without raising his voice and yet somehow makes things seem a great deal more serious than they might have seemed if he had screamed.
I glance at the clock. It is just after six. If today is like yesterday, and the several days before, Paul will arrive at seven. He’ll make coffee and we will get to work. I’m excited to spend the day with him, despite the soreness of my muscles and the certain knowledge that I will need several months of work like this, before I stop waking up sore.
Several months…
It is the first time I have considered the possibility of working for Paul, after he is done with this house. The idea feels beautiful, but I don’t dare hope. I am only working for him because he wants to be kind to me and help me find a place. He has people who have trained in the work he really needs done and he’s going to run out of the extra stuff he comes up with to fill the hours for me, such as errands. That thought reminds me that when the house is finished, I will have enough money saved to get into a new place, and my association with Paul will probably end. Perhaps that won’t happen right away, but it is sure to happen over time.
The thought saddens me. I roll out of bed and walk to the shower. I try to keep the thought of our eventual parting from coming back into my mind, but something about the last week makes it much harder for me to bury unpleasant thoughts the way I am used to doing. I am also unable to drive away a conclusion that confuses me. The reason I am so sad about Paul and I separating is because my feelings for him have grown well past the distant, arousal-driven crush I had the beginning. Even when I’m fantasizing about sexy situations, I place the two of us in a long-term relationship, a forever relationship.
I’m falling for him.
Hell, I think I’ve already fallen.
I don’t know how to react to that, because I have nothing to offer him other than sex. If he wants a blowjob or a girl who will spread her legs, I can probably do the trick. The problem is Paul is not that shallow or one-sided. What in the world could a man like him possibly see in a girl like me; when he wants something deeper than my body?
I groan and try to let the shower wash away my melancholy thoughts. It works to an extent and the excitement of seeing him, soon, takes away a bit of the edge.
I dress in jeans and a tee shirt, ready to take on whatever jobs he has for me. Since there are a few minutes before he arrives, I start the coffee so he doesn’t have to. When he comes in at seven, he finds a cup of coffee waiting for him. He smiles at me and it feels about the same as winning the lottery.
“Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t even know if you’d be up.”
That confuses me.
“Why wouldn’t I be up? I haven’t been late even once,” I say with more of a pout in my voice than I intend.
He chuckles a bit and says, “I didn’t say I thought you were unreliable, but we don’t work on Saturdays. It’s your day off.”
I stare at him in shock and then I can’t help myself and I start giggling. “I guess I’m just so in love with the job.” For a brief moment, I’m terrified that I said, “In love with you.” I know I didn’t, but it takes a moment to get the panic to go away, anyhow.
“But I’m glad you’re up,” he says with a smile. “I was going to work half a day around here, but there’s no reason it has to be the first half of the day. What do you say I take you to breakfast?”
I feel like a mousy high-schoolgirl who’s just been shown attention by the captain of the football team. I can’t keep the silly smile from my face as I say, “Great!” a little too enthusiastically.
He stands and says, “Well let’s go. I want to show you this little diner I’ve been going to for years.”
I follow him to his truck, and since the step into the seat is kind of high, he helps me up with his hands on my waist. Too soon, I’m seated. I miss his hands.
He climbs into his seat and says, “Buckle up.”
People have been telling me that my whole life. Somehow, when he says the words I feel as if he’s trying very hard to keep me safe. I don’t know why I should think that, but I sure love thinking along those lines.
As we pull out of the driveway he says, “So, tell me something, Honey. What do you want to do with your life?”
It takes me a second even to think of an answer, because Honey floods me with emotions. Of course, he said it the way an adult might say it to a child. The way a Daddy might say it to a little girl. I blush immediately, and he notices, because he says, “I’m sorry. Should I have not asked you that?”
That at least gives me a chance to pretend it wasn’t the Honey.
“No, no,” I say. “It’s fine. It’s just, well; most people don’t care what I want to do. Most people are ready to tell me what to do with my life. There’s a whole line of people ready to tell me what I should do. Nobody ever asks what I want to do.”