She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Absolutely. I had to lower my bid a little bit because I really wanted the gig. It can be disheartening, constantly feeling like you’re looking behind you, watching for how they’re going to try and cut you off at the knees. But hey, that’s competition. You just have to keep up with it,” she says, finishing on a chin-up note. That seems to be her MO—finding the positive, looking ahead.
“How did you get into the business?”
“My dad is a carpenter. But I always loved making things. I was the one in the house who assembled desks from Target or Walmart. I put together an elliptical machine my mom ordered when she went on her cardio kick when I was fourteen.”
I shoot her an approving look. “An elliptical at age fourteen? Very impressive.”
“What’s most impressive is my mom still uses it. Two decades later,” she says, shimmying her shoulders.
I blink, exaggerating shock. “Okay, that is one helluva machine.” Then, I correct myself. “I mean, that is one helluva job you did putting it together.”
She flashes me a bright, pleased grin. “Thank you. And to tell you the truth, I’m extra proud of its long life because my mom is the queen worrier. She has earned all the worry badges any mom can ever earn, along with stripes, tassels, and epaulets. She was convinced it was going to break every time she used it. She’d call me out to the garage constantly to make sure it was safe to use. Finally, after a year of her machine working perfectly, she stopped worrying.”
“So basically, your assembly skills are top-notch?”
She gives a sashay of her hips. There’s a gleam in her eyes too. She’s proud of her abilities, and that’s wildly appealing. “Your words, Liam.”
“I guess we’ll have to see how top-notch they are, though, when IKEA finally shows up. Then I’ll be the judge,” I say with mock intensity.
“Put me to the test, Liam. I can’t wait to show off my skills to you.”
She has no idea how many tests I want to put her through, how many skills I’d love to show her, starting with how well I can brush my lips across her neck, down her throat, between her breasts . . . but I sweep those thoughts into the dirty-thought closet and shut the door, locking them up with the rest. “So, you’ve always been handy, it sounds like. And then you put that to use in your business?”
“Yes, but in my dad’s business first. When I started working with him, I learned the tricks of the trade. And my mother makes soap that she sells at local markets, so we’re all handy in different ways. It’s a family thing, I suppose.”
“Same here,” I say. “Taking over the vet practice from Dr. Harris Senior and all.” I don’t go into the details, because I don’t want to feel sad right now, so I segue back to her. “Do you have any siblings? Actually, how do I not know this yet? I can’t believe I’ve lived here for two weeks and I haven’t asked you this.” I smile, but I’m genuinely surprised, since we’ve talked about so much already.
She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m actually a little disappointed too, Liam. I have been marking off the days, wondering when you were ever going to ask me if I have siblings.”
“And fourteen days later, I finally did. So, siblings?”
“I have a sister. She lives in San Francisco.”
“And what is her name? Is it Leap Year?”
She laughs, and it’s such a lovely sound that I think I could become addicted to it. “Yes, that’s her.”
As the twinkling lights from the town square grow bigger and brighter, I ask, “What is her name for real?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Actually, I bet I will.”
“It’s April.”
“Then you need a July and an October, and you’ve got the start of all the fiscal quarters accounted for.”
“Exactly. And you have a sister too?”
“Kerri’s in town. My other sister, Toni, is thirty minutes away. Kerri has two kids, and so does Toni.”
“And is that the required number for Harris children?”
“Seems to be. I guess I didn’t get the memo.” I flick my gaze her way, waiting for a response but not sure what I want her to say. Why should she say anything? We already had the kid conversation at IKEA. There isn’t much more to discuss.
And talking about kids reminds me that we aren’t entirely on the same page.
Entirely.
That’s a lie.
We aren’t remotely on the same page.
When we near the wine bar, I take a beat, draw a deep breath, then say, “Okay, so as my dating insider, what do I need to know about Maya?”
“Ah, I have the dirt for you,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s chatty. Likes to talk. But she’s funny.”
