Free Ex and the Single Girl by Lani Diane Rich Page B

his daughter.
    “ The book,” I said finally, motioning toward the desk where it sat next to the laptop. “ It ’ s rea lly good. I especially like the way Tan used the prosthetic leg as a weapon. Very funny.” He cut his eyes at me. “ Are you making fun of me?”
    “ No,” I said, although I was, a little. You can take the girl out of the snobby elitist literary program, but you c an ’ t take the snobby elitist literary program out of the girl. “ I ’ m just changing the subject. Badly.”
    He nodded. After a moment, he stood up and walked over to me, holding his hand out for mine.
    “ Come on,” he said. “ I want to show you something.”
    The barn stood back on the property, about fifty yards away from the house. The earthy smell of the summer morning was thick on the grass, and each step we took seemed to make the fragrance stronger. Ian dropped my hand when we got to the barn to pull one of the d oors open, then motioned for me to go inside.
    I stepped in, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. The last time I ’ d been in the barn was when I was in high school, when Vera sent Bridge Wilkins and me over to help Morris do some repairs on the roof. My role was limited to handing tools to Bridge like a surgical nurse, and keeping Morris, whose body was just starting to fail him, from working too hard.
    While the barn still looked the same from the outside, inside was a bit of a shock. All the ag ing straw and random whatnot that had been stored there over the years was gone. The cement floor had been swept, and fresh planks of wood were piled up next to a table saw and a couple of sawhorses. Two golden X ’ s glowed along the barn ’ s east wall, vibra n t against the older, darker wood they supported.
    “ Have you been doing this?” I asked.
    “ Bridge mentioned tearing it down when he met me here to show me the place. I thought that would be a shame.”
    “ Bridge Wilkins?”
    He nodded. “ You know him?”
    “ You ’ re in Trul y now, darlin ’,” I said, thickening my drawl. “ Everyone knows everyone.”
    “ Good point,” he said.
    I looked around. “ How ’ d you learn how to restore barns?” Ian shrugged. “ My uncle was a carpenter.”
    “ And you ’ ve been doing this? All by yourself?”
    “ Today, as it happens, I think I ’ ll be needing some help.” He walked over to the pile of lumber and picked up a limp tool belt that was sitting on top. He grinned at me as he returned, cinching the belt around my waist, his eyes locked on mine. He gave the belt one fin a l tug, dropped his eyes, and pulled a hammer out of a loop on my side. “ My father always said that nothing clears a mind like manual labor.”
    “ Sounds like a wise man,” I said.
    He nodded, not moving. “ He was.”
    My breathing went shallow. He stood perfectly st ill, two feet away from me, his eyes reading mine. I inhaled as my heart rate quickened, thus making it official: I had me a bona fide crush.
    And it was the absolute last thing I needed.
    I put my hands on the tool belt and smiled up at him. “ Where do I sta rt?”
     
    ***
     
    It was noon when we broke for the day. I hadn ’ t decided not to go in to work at the Page so much as I hadn ’ t wanted to stop working on the barn, so I played hooky and stayed with Ian, pounding nail s into walls and feeling better with each swing of the hammer. We ’ d managed to put up a few more supporting posts on the east wall, but when we were done, it didn ’ t look like the sweat and dirt that covered us amounted to a whole lot. We went back to the h ouse, and Ian grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from his room.
    “ The shower ’ s across from the master bedroom,” he said, pushing me up the stairs. “ I ’ ll put something together for lunch.”
    I headed up to the second floor, looking at the old fam ily photographs. Fading school pictures of gap-toothed kids, family portraits that betrayed their era with wide lapels or