Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Shit!” I look down at my arm, at the droplets of paint that are now freckled on my skin and watch. Seeing the time gives me another scare. In my own mind, rolling and then cutting in, working backwards, having to use the brush less in order for my hands hopefully not to hurt too much, would be faster, but as the time stands, I’ve got about ten minutes until the mysterious man with no name representing Blue Valley Contractor will be here, and I look like a hot freaking mess. As it stands, I’ll barely be able to put up my supplies, then wash my hands and arms. Never mind the fact a shower as well as a change of clothes would be a much better idea. I’ve only wrapped the brush and paint roller in cellophane wrap, figuring it will need at least another coat of primer before I can use the color I really want, a light earth tone cream. I suppose tomorrow will come soon enough to finish another half-started project. There’s still so much to do, and now that I’m in the thick of it, I’m ready to jump right in even with my savings account crying at the thought.
I take one last look at the bathroom, smiling at my progress one more time, keeping the light on along with the fan to circulate the air. I pull the door closed and make a bee line for the kitchen, my time dwindling to look somewhat decent. There’s no time to even take my hair out of the top knot or the wrap I have around to hold it back, another floral pattern like yesterday. That one is currently in the hamper from all the sweating I’ve been doing even working inside the air-conditioned house. I make my way to the kitchen, and when I finally reach the sink, I use my thumb on the soap dispenser, using my other to flip the lever up to turn the water on. “Oh my God, seriously?!” I say to the water that is sputtering out of the faucet, moving it this way and that way, trying to get the damn thing to have a steady stream of water instead of this trickle. Maybe it isn’t all the way in the on position. I move it one last time. In my haste, I don’t realize I’ve caused the opposite effect, and a big spurt of water comes out, hitting me in the face and the chest. “Shit, shit, shit!” I try to turn it off, but nothing is helping. I’m spitting, sputtering, and fighting mad. This damn house is going to be the death of me. I grab the towel beside the sink, attempting to use is as a bandage, silly me thinking that would work.
“Someone is at the front door.” Really? No shit, Alexa. Tell me something I don’t know once the doorbell rang. I abandon my bang-up job of a wrap. Maybe the guy who’s here to give me an estimate can figure out the issue and stop the geyser-like fountain coming out like we’re in Niagara Falls.
“Coming!” I yell out as I open the drawer to grab another towel to wipe my hands and whatever else I can while walking to the door, particularly my face. The paint will have to stay the way it is. I’m sure it drying in place is going to be a pain in the ass to get off later this evening. I’ll give the man on the other side of the door this, he’s being more patient than I would be, though I’m not usually one to knock on strangers’ doors. If I were at my parents’ house or even my grandma’s when she still lived in her own place, I’d bang on the door, ring the doorbell incessantly until they greeted me with an open door. I rub the towel over my face and arms one last time, then toss it over my shoulders and turn the knob, and come face to face with a man. A man whose head is dipped low, looking down at his phone, baseball cap obscuring him completely. My eyes take in the rest of his build. He’s taller than me by what seems like at least a foot if not a little less. With my petite frame, he’d no doubt dwarf me whenever he decides to lift his head. I almost clear my throat, trying to gain his attention, but that would take away from my view of his broad shoulders and thick muscular arms. His gray shirt molds to his chest, tapered waist, and a pair of faded jeans wrap around the mystery man’s legs, molding the entire length down to his worn scuffed-up boots.
“Uh, hello, you must be from Blue Valley Contractors?” I clear my throat, my eyes roaming the length of his body once again, this time wanting to see his face, since his body has my own feeling things I didn’t think were possible after the abrupt call yesterday.