I expect sly glances from Seth the next morning, and a steamy, undeniable attraction between us, but there's nothing. I watch him shovel cereal into his mouth as he stands over the kitchen sink. He doesn't even know I'm up yet, so I'm free to ogle him as much as I want. And man does he look good. Those jeans... perfect fit. And the strength of his forearms peeking out from the slightly rolled sleeves of his dress shirt... I'm a sucker for well-defined forearms. Add tattoos to said forearms and I'm a boneless pile of goo on the ground.

And then he turns around. His eyes find mine and his hand freezes mid-bite. I offer a tight smile, pulling my feet away from where they've glued themselves to the wood floor, and take the remaining steps to the kitchen.

"Morning," I say, opening a cabinet and pulling out a cutting board. "I was planning on making bacon and cheese omelets. Did you want one?"

I know it's a stupid question, especially since I'm watching him eat while I ask the question. But, he's a man, and I happen to know that a man's stomach can stretch to accommodate gargantuan portions of food. It should be illegal how much stuff they can squeeze in there. I wish I had a suitcase that worked like a man's stomach. If that were the case, I'd be able to fit my entire life into a single piece of luggage. Actually, that's quite brilliant! The next man that dies, I'm claiming his stomach for experimentation.

"Naw," he says, mouth full of Cap'n Crunch. "No time."

And then he's cramming in another bite and chucking his bowl into the sink, his spoon dinging loudly against the dish with the abrupt movement. I watch in nearly stunned silence as Seth brushes past me, grabs his keys and briefcase from the table, and mutters a 'See ya' before exiting the front door.

Okay, so after his heated glances last night, this morning definitely did not go the way I'd expected. I was hoping for flirty smiles and discreet ganders while we giggled together around the breakfast table. But who am I kidding... we don't giggle. Ever. Giggly couples are gross. I'm so thankful we're not gross. But, at the moment, we're also not cute or sweet or loving.

We're just nothing.

My cell chiming from my bedroom knocks me out of my pity party, and I hurry to answer it, nearly slamming into a wall in my haste. Socks and hardwood floors are a dangerous combination... especially when your name happens to be Mercy. I'd bet an earlobe that my parents named me that out of a plea with God to spare my clumsy self a few happy decades of life. If not for God's mercy, I'd probably have died at the age of three when I was plowed over by a motorcycle. Long story.

Thankfully, I don't actually remember that incident. I'm going to blame it on the fact that I was too young to remember and not the fact that the motorcycle handlebars hit me in the head. Though, it's highly likely that those fierce handlebars knocked the memory right out of my skull... along with a pint of blood.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and breathe out a 'hello.'

"Mercy," the male voice says brightly. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

"Oh no, Steve," I assure him. "I was just about to make breakfast, but I'm in no rush. What's up?"

"Just wondering if you'd be willing to swing by the shop sometime today," he says. "I was hoping to show you a new design for a desk and wanted to know if you'd be up to the task of making me a few."

"Okay," I say, pulling my socks from my feet and flinging them across the room. My laundry basket is somewhere in that direction, so I'm hoping they land close enough to it that I don't mistake them for clean socks later. "Yeah, I've got all day. When should I come by?"

"This afternoon would be best."

"Perfect," I tell him, heading back towards the kitchen. "I'll be in around one then."

We end the conversation with quick 'goodbyes' and then I busy myself with frying bacon bits in a skillet as I grate cheese and whip up a couple of eggs. Though nothing special, omelets always hit me right in the happiest part of my tongue. There's something about the bacon and cheese that's just perfection—like they were made for each other.

I scarf down my food and then plop down on the kitchen floor. I've got all morning and nothing to do. Letting my eyes scan over the somewhat narrow kitchen, I wonder what could be done to fix it up. It's been nearly six months since my last fix, and it's definitely time for another. I've gone far too long without repainting a room, and this one needs to be shown some love and care.

I make the quick drive to the downtown home improvement store. I flip through dozens of booklets of paint samples until I spot the perfect one. With my dark wood-stained floors and charcoal tainted countertops, a nice burnt yellow will really make the room pop. I'm also hoping that the bright color will help open up the space. The dark blue that's currently coating the walls feels a bit stifling at times... especially on nights when I cook Mexican—I'm not exactly sure why that is.

Once home, I set to work pulling out paintbrushes and rollers. I've already laid tarps over the floors and covered the counters and appliances, and I'm ready to get to work. I've nearly accomplished the first layer of paint when I hear the front door open. I'm on a ladder, and due to the low beam separating the kitchen from the living room, I can't tell who it is. I bend slightly and peek through the opening where the kitchen island peers into the adjoining room.

"Hey," I holler when I see Seth shuffling through a few pieces of mail.

He glances up at me before throwing the envelopes on the table and making his way into the kitchen.

"Redecorating?" he asks simply.

I'm not surprised that he's not surprised. This isn't exactly a new occurrence. I tend to repaint rooms to match each season, so you can imagine the amount of change this poor little house has gone through in just the three years we've lived in it.

"Yep." I smile and then return to running my paint-covered brush over the wall. When I don't sense Seth making any movement, I freeze. "What time is it?"

He pulls out his phone to check the time. "Twelve-fifteen."

"Crap!" I groan, throwing my brush in a cup of water and then shuffling down the ladder awkwardly with a tub of paint in one hand. "You're probably hungry."

"It's fine—"

"Crap!" I groan again. "I have to be at the shop in forty-five minutes" I glance around the tarp-covered room and sigh, shoulders drooping with just the thought of having to clean up my mess.

"Mercy, don't wor—"

"It's fine. I'll just text Steve that I'll be a bit late."

"Mercy!"

The force behind my name has me freezing. I don't think I've seen that much passion leave his lips in a long time. I stand, eyes wide, as I gape at him.

"Stop fretting," he says with a weary exhale. "Just go. I'll just grab a sub or burger on the way back to work."

"Are you sure?" I ask, hating that he'll be left to fend for himself. I mentally scoff at my whiny voice. Since when did I become the coddling type? I nearly laugh at the image of who I am today compared to the girl I was five years ago. Maybe I've just grown up... or maybe I'm just more weird in a more boring way. How disappointing.

"Yes," he assures me. "Now go shower. You've got paint all over your face."

"Really?" I reach up to touch my face. "Where?"

I'm testing him, and he probably knows it because this isn't the first time I've attempted this trick. I'm waiting to see if that romantic moment will happen when he steps forward and runs his finger along my jaw and over my cheek as he plants kisses on every area that needs scrubbed.

Instead, he just eyes me with a hint of amusement as his gaze sweep over my face. A hot excitement scurries through my chest as he leans in slightly like he's preparing to tell me a secret, and whispers, "Everywhere."

Pfft.

I almost reach up and playfully slap him over the head, but I freeze a millisecond before my hand takes charge of my brain. No matter how much teasing was dancing in his eyes, I'm nearly positive that was not his intention. He wasn't flirting with me... I don't think. There's more of a chance that he was actually laughing at me than trying to spark up some kind of playful banter.

When I get out of the shower, Seth is gone. He was literally here for five minutes. Either he was so hungry he couldn't bear another moment without filling the suitcase in his stomach, or he didn't want to be around when I emerged from the shower in nothing but my towel and glistening skin.

That boy don't even know what he be missin'.

Except that he does know. He knows very well what he's missing out on by choosing his job over having a love life, and unfortunately, I know exactly what I'm missing out on too. Though, I don't really have a choice in the matter. I may have been bold enough to throw myself at the guy at one time, but I'm not so willing to risk an action like that now. It'd probably only result in him presenting me with those dreaded divorce papers.

Actually, I'm a bit surprised that I have yet to see those papers again. What's he carrying them around in his briefcase for if he doesn't plan on doing anything with them? Is it a matter of convincing himself that this is actually what he wants—to end us? Or is he doubting his decision?

I'll take option number two if given a choice. I hope he doubts so hard that he eventually wakes up one morning and realizes he still loves me. Then we could throw a Momma-style party—meaning no one else is invited but Seth and I—and we spend the evening celebrating each other after having a lovely ceremony that involves divorce papers, fire, and a few gallons of kerosene.

I'm only halfway presentable by the time I arrive at Steve's shop, but I couldn't be bothered by the few speckles of paint remaining in my hair. I'll just embrace it as the new fashion statement. Though, it's not like the yellow is all that obvious amongst my blonde locks anyway.

"Mercy!" I hear Steve holler before I even see him.

His voice is coming from somewhere in the back, so I follow it. I find him crouched down shoving little knick-knacks on a low shelf. Business must be pretty slow these days if he knew it was me entering the store and not a customer.

"Hey, Steve," I greet. "How are you?"

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he says, leaning back a bit and eyeing me in a way that makes me think he just now realized how long it's been since we last met up. "I'm good, though. And you?"

"Keeping busy I guess."

"Well, good," he says, standing and wiping his hands down the sides of his pants.

Steve's a pretty average person. Handsome in a subtle kind of way. He's easily one of those guys that blends into any situation he's in. As much as I hate to say it, he's sort of like background music at a fancy restaurant—pleasant but easily forgotten. He's warm and inviting, but he's also the guy that you realize you forgot to invite to your twenty-second birthday party. I still feel horrible for that. Calling him up an hour after the party started to ask if he wanted to join the fun wasn't exactly my most fond memory. Luckily, he seemed oblivious to my forgetfulness and was genuinely pleased that I thought of him. I'll never admit that it was actually Jessalyn who reminded me that I'd forgotten to invite our boss.

I follow him to the back room of the store where he keeps odd pieces of furniture that have no home in the display room. He calls it the warehouse, but it's literally the size of my kitchen and about as cluttered as my closet on a bad day.

"Here," he says, motioning me toward him where he's shuffling through some papers on his desk. He finds what he's looking for and turns the page toward me. It's just a rough drawing, but I get the basic idea of what he's asking of me.

"Looks easy enough," I tell him, studying the slopes and designs carved into the fancy desk. "How many are you needing?"

His lips droop into a worried frown as his eyes plead for me to accept the task before he can even reveal it to me. "Five." The word leaves his lips as more of a question, but I can instantly understand his hesitancy in disclosing that information.

"Wow," I say, running a hand through my ponytail. "Deadline?"

"A month," he says, but quickly goes on to say that it's negotiable.

"Okay," I grumble on an exhale. "I'll need the client's number so we can head to the lumbar yard as soon as possible."

Steve is quick in giving me all the information I need, and after a quick phone call, plans have been made to meet at the lumbar yard at nine tomorrow morning. Looks like the next few weeks of my life will be booked solid.

I just hope Seth can keep those divorce papers hidden for that much longer.