By six that evening, I’d cut the grass on the acre lot, trimmed the bushes, done some weeding, cut up tree branches, and discovered chipmunk holes in the ground. Trenton was looking the worse for wear, sweaty and bedraggled, though he’d done a good job with the porch. I’d also had him help with bagging the trimmings and branches as well as grass in between.
“Tell me we’re done,” he whined as we sat next to each other, drinking bottle after bottle of water.
“We are, for now,” I replied. “There’s still the outside walls to strip and paint, the porch to finish, and that doesn’t even begin to address the work that needs to be done on the inside.”
“Be still my beating heart. You sure know how to sweep a guy off his feet, Mr. Barfield.” He was flirting with me again. I took that as a win.
“Y
