Across The Pond, page 3
And she hangs up. Angie has never been hung up on,; it is always she who does the hanging up. To say that I’m a little in awe of her doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel about her. I’m so glad we’re friends.
Looking at the online classifieds over the last couple of days, I have managed to draw up a list of potential contractors -: all local, and all with great feedback. This Aguillar fellow is among the top of the list, and I wish I can tell you what he looks like, except that his picture’s too small to make out any details.
At any rate, I don’t want him to think that simply because I’m a foreigner I’m naïve, nor that I have no options. I’ve already made appointments with some of the others in order to make it clear to them all that I’m no ordinary tourist, and that I know what’s what. I may have only been here for barely a week a little over a week, but already I’m impressed with the exchange rate.
Then again, I’ve also crossed the river into Manhattan, and can attest to the fact that prices there, at least, are equal to the cost of living back home. While prices here in New Jersey are noticeably lower, they’re not that much more so. Oh well. All the more reason to show these contractors that I do have options, and that they’d better treat me fairly, what?
My list should get these blokes into a bidding war over my house, ha! This should be fun. Five or more of them should give me a good idea of what a good price would be, as well as what else needs to be done beyond a bit of sprucing up.
Ah, the door. Let the bidding war begin!
“Ms. Sorensen? I’m Andy Matthews. The contractor you called about a quote?”
Oh, good Lord! Angie once dragged me to a Chippendale’s show, and this guy looks like he could be a part of that smorgasbord! Tall! Taller than my five-foot-eight-inch frame! And the muscles on him! Not that of a body-builder’s, mind you, but clearly this one pumps weight. His tight jeans leave nothing to the imagination, and despite his long-sleeved work shirt, I can see how flat it is in front, flaring a little at the top – clearly the sign of one with well-developed pecs.
And what is it with blonds? As a blonde myself, I should be immune, but the way the light filters through his hair, it almost seems like he’s wearing a halo! And my, grand mama, what big, beautiful, green eyes, this one has!
This early in the morning, he emits a clean, just-stepped-out-of-the-shower smell, and his aftershave (light, but obvious) wafts over to me. Worse, it’s the same type that Damien uses! I am now reminded of how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man! Shit!
He speaks with a very obvious accent, a Southern drawl, I believe they call it, though not as strong as they do in the Westerns that Hollywood used to pump out during my childhood. It is very exotic. The only thing this one lacks are leather boots and a Stetson. I resist the urge to look behind him for a horse.
“Mr. Matthews!” I manage to gulp, hoping to gGod the flushed feeling that’s come over me doesn’t show on my face, considering the fact that I blush easily. “I’m so glad you’re here!” Bloody hell, that sounds pathetic. “I can’t wait to get started on this house.,” Tthere, that should do it!
“This is a beautiful house, Ms. Sorensen. I used to pass by here often. When you told me you were looking for contractors and I realized this is what you were referring to, I couldn’t wait to get started. Uh, you can call me Andy, by the way. Not a formal sort of guy, here.”
“Oh, uh,. Nneither am I. Please call me Danny. I know that makes it rather masculine, but…”
“Nope. I think I’ll call you Daniela. I like that name,” he grins.
I blush further, and turn away to hide the fact. What I want is to drag him in, rip off his clothes, and have him shag me on the floor of my foyer. But what would the neighbors think? A number of them have already introduced themselves, telling me stories of their time with my grandparents; so like it or not, I’ve already established a reputation requiring protection.
The curse of a woman, I suppose. So instead, I invite him in to have a look around.
“Yoo hoo!” yells a woman’s voice outside. “Good morning, Daniela!”
It’s Mrs. Abramovitz, my neighbor, walking her dog, Fritz. She was my gran’s friend, apparently, as was her husband, before he, too, died recently.
“Who’s your friend, honey?” she continues, looking at the blond, muscular, and gorgeous guy beside me.
“I’m Andy, ma’am,” he replies, leaving my porch to introduce himself to my neighbor, shaking her hand and giving her a bright smile.
So unusual. No man would do that back home, content to give her a polite smile and get on with business. Mrs. Abramovitz looks charmed, but as he returns to the house and I prepare to follow, giving her a last wave, she beckons me to her on the sidewalk. Curious, I do just that, and Andy watches me curiously.
“Honey,” she whispers to me, leaning close. “Do an old woman a favor, will ya?”
“What is it, Mrs. Abramovitz?”
“He’s gorgeous, but leave the door open when you let him in, ok? I’ll stand out here till he comes out again.”
“Oh! But I…”
“Honey, I know I’m an old-fashioned gal, but just do this for me this once, ok? Fritz and I’ll just sit right down here to take a breather, but leave the door open, please?”
“Uh, very well,” I reply, more amused rather than annoyed, at the strange request.
I join Andy, hoping he didn’t hear what she said. Leaving the door open, we give Mrs. Abramovitz a final wave as we walk in, and I begin the grand tour.
He is very thorough, letting nothing escape his notice, and while he remains friendly, he enters into what is obviously his professional mode. It is interesting, because in doing so, I am further reminded of Damien. My ex used to do that -: go into that zone of his. I would melt at the combination of gorgeousness and utter focus he exuded, and in the first couple of years, he would sense it and relieve my… tensions when evening fell. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even wait that long.
I like the way this one moves: very aggressive, yet gentle, a combination of masculine swagger and confidence, mixed with the lithe grace of a dancer or an acrobat. I estimate that he is in his mid- to late thirties (clearly no longer a child), yet his smile is boyish. Impish, even.
As he walks beside me, I am aware of his size, and of my desire for him. It has been too long. I am fascinated by his hands, and whenever he lifts his arms, the cuffs of his sleeves fall back, revealing the contrast between his tanned skin and the light gold complexion beneath the fabric of his clothes.
Perhaps it is because we are moving the entire time, but I cannot get used to the smell of his aftershave! It assails my senses, and I fight the urge to lean closer to him in order to revel in it. By the time we make it to the attic, he is sweating a little, and the slight odor of sweat compliments his astringent. It is so masculine that I find myself fighting the temptation to swoon.
It drives me wild with lust, but I fight it, putting on my most formal British mannerism to maintain the gulf between us. It is difficult. If Andy makes a move, I will not resist. I will not even make a pretense of it. I will probably hate myself for it later; I am convinced that I will most definitely hate myself later for it, but I will not resist.
I want him so bad.
But he is a gentleman, worse luck. He makes no improper moves. He Mmeets my stiff (but polite) British formality with his friendly, but professional respect. His eyes remain casual, but not overly- familiar.
Damn this bastard!
We are just finishing up, when he takes a look at my modest backyard, commenting on the sad state of it.
“I know,” I sigh. “I feel awful about that. My gran was an avid gardener, but it’s been several months since her death. I’m hoping to just leave that portion to the tenants, assuming they like gardening, that is.”
“Such a shame,” he sighs. “The house has generally been well kept, needing only a few repairs here and there. I also do landscaping. If you like, I can quote you a price that includes that. Or I can give you a separate one for the landscaping alone.”
I look out at the small garden that, despite its obvious neglect, still looks magnificent with its flowers and small plot of vegetables. Clearly my gran had showered it with love.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea. My focus is on the house itself, since I intend to rent it out, but perhaps a nice garden could up the price, somewhat.
“Tell you what,: could you give me both? There’s a contractor my gran’s barrister says has maintained the house, but I’d like to shop around for prices. He said nothing about landscaping, however, so I’d be curious to know how much that would cost.”
“Be my pleasure, ma’am,” he drawls, making my toes curl with his smile.
I am disappointed that he has no hat to tip at me, but I did like those westerns – so different from what we have back home. I am also disappointed that he’s such a gentleman. I’m not like Angie, who tries out men the way she tries out dresses. But maybe that’s why I’m in this predicament, and not her.
As we exit the house, Mrs. Abramovitz beams at us, still sitting on the steps outside my house. Andy greets her as he gets into his pick-up, and the two smile at each other. Still, she doesn’t leave my steps till she sees him drive off. When I look at her with a bemused and questioning smile, she grins.
“Just being old-fashioned,” she winks, then walks off with a wave, her dog yapping beside her as he sniffs at the ground.
Hmmm… good thing I didn’t tell her about the other contractors I had lined up! She just might decide to move in to protect my honor! Two more contractors come by as the morning wears on, all friendly, one overly so, making me scratch him off my list automatically. Where is Mrs. Abramovitz when I really need her, huh?
Funny. For Andy, I’d lie down and spread my legs shamelessly, but Mr. Giovanni just creeped me out. Not too bad-looking, though. Still. Eeuww! Must be the vibe. He exuded the aura of a dog humping your leg. Double eeuww!
Carla and Massey are a surprise: a duo of women who cheerfully explain that they have been a married lesbian couple for several years. Despite the friendly casualness of their statement, however, there was a challenge in it, and I notice the careful looks they give me.
Clearly, they are anxious to know what I think, and wonder if it will affect my reaction – more importantly, my decision as to whom I’ll award the contract to. Fortunately for them, live and let live has always been my philosophy in life – hard to do otherwise when you live in the melting pot that is London, I suppose.
Truth be told, I am more surprised to discover that they are housing contractors. Much as I detest stereotyping people, Massey is the stereotypical butch type, with short, close-cropped hair, a deep voice, and clearly the more aggressive one. Carla, on the other hand, is supera feminine, giggles infectiously, and looks like she’d be more at home in a flower shop or doing needlepoint.
Interestingly enough, Massey is the interior decorator, while Carla oversees construction and renovation, as well as landscaping. Just goes to show that stereotypes aren’t all true, huh?
By the time they leave, we are laughing and joking like old friends, and they make it clear that I’m welcome to go out with them anytime, regardless of whether I hire them or not. There is also an unspoken undercurrent of: regardless of whether I, too, am a lesbian or not.
My, but I have something new to tell Angie, don’t I?
Scarcely does their vehicle leave, however, when another comes along, and the two women lean out and chat with the newcomer. I can’t see him, but I know it’s a ‘he’ from the little that I can make out. I can also tell that Carla and Massey are friends with him. This should make the selection process more interesting.
“Yoo hoo!” yells out the familiar voice of Mrs. Abramovitz, and sure enough, down she comes, still clutching little Fritz on a leash beside her.
She, too, looks at the two cars on the road, and beams as the dark blue pick-up of the newcomer parks along the curb in front of my house.
“Hello, Rob!” she squeals, beaming like a little girl and waving furiously at the driver who had rolled up his darkly tinted window at this point.
“Are you going to park yourself on my porch, as well?” I ask her teasingly.
“Oh, there’s no need with this one, honey,” she beams at me. “Rob does all our work 'round here. Did stuff for Max and Ginnie, too! He’s a darling!”
“Aha! So you were watching out for his business, then, were you?”
“Driving out the competition, you mean?” she chuckles at me. “The Aguillar family has been here for generations. His father did stuff for us, dragging Rob around when he was still a kid. You picked a winner with this one, I promise! In fact, it was us who first recommended him to your grandparents, you know?”
She is still talking, reminiscing about old times, but I stop listening. If Andy was hot, this one is sizzlingly so, and my breath is caught up in my throat. Latino. Mocha brown skin. Muscles. All over him. Wearing a checkered long-sleeved work shirt does nothing to hide the bulk of his upper body. Neither do the jeans, tucked into dark, calf-length work boots, hide the serious muscles of his trunk-like legs.
I’d say he stands about as tall as Andy’s six foot plus height, but his bulk makes him seem bigger. The strength and grace of this one is evident in his movements and in the way he carries himself. Clearly he has been this muscular and bulky for some time, judging by the unconscious, fluid grace of his stride. As the French would say, this one is very comfortable in his own skin.
He removes his sunglasses as he walks forward to greet Mrs. Abramovitz, and the two talk as if they are old friends. Then again, according to her, they are. I am struck by the chiseled structure of his face, so patrician, almost like those Roman statues that dot the continent. My continent, not this one, though I know that here, too, such statues exist. One walked up to my house just now, after all. Thank God this one’s no statue, though.
His nose is hawk-like, softened by the almost feminine cast of his eyes, their lashes so thick I wonder if they’re real. Barely two meters away from him, I can make out the light brown of his eyes, glinting as the sun’s light oozes through them. Barely two meters away from him, I am awed by the sheer bulk of him.
I am so glad Mrs. Abramovitz and he are friends. I am so glad they are talking. I need all the time I can to recover from the sheer size and masculinity of this one.
The hell’s the matter with me!? First Andy, now this one!
Angie would call Mr. Aguillar a hyper-male. Me? I stand frozen to the spot, speechless. I am only a little surprised to feel the warmth between my legs. No orgasm, no. But it’s not too far off. If Andy was the foreplay, this one is the home run. When this interview is over, I’m going to have to change my panties.
Damien used to have this effect on me.
Almost as if I’d just been slapped, that thought wakes me up. Once before, I had let my emotions get the better of me. And look where it got me. Oh no. Never again.
This one’s hot. Too hot. So’ is Andy.
Look, says the voice of reason in my head, b. But don’t touch. Don’t engage.
By the time Mr. Aguillar turns to me, I am in control again. I am a 30-year-old well-to-do woman, a divorcee, with a moderately successful business. And thanks to my grandparents, I am also a property owner.
I am not some school girl, not some fool. I have been around the block a couple of times, and I have been badly burned. Not again. Andy took me by surprise, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop the blush that came over me when I first laid eyes on him. I’d like to think I covered it up well, though.
But thanks to Mrs. Abramovitz buying me time, plus the reminder of why I am here to begin with, I am more than composed by the time Mr. Aguillar turns his attention to me. We barely manage to introduce ourselves, however, before my neighbor dives into her advertising spiel, making me vaguely wonder if she collects a commission from all this.
