He walked into the kitchen, and then hoisted and carried off my old coffee maker to the outside garden shed. In an electrical CSI nightmare, a lot of dead bodies lay in his shed. He then carried in my new coffee maker and opened the packaging. A broken arm meant Vig did more things than normal for me.
He slipped the machine out of its box, tore off the thin foam wrapping, and ran reverent hands over the red enamel and chrome. “I set up?”
“No.” Within five minutes, he’d have it in twenty pieces.
He looked at me.
“You learnt that look from the dogs.”
He raised his brows. “Not work?”
He pulled out the manual and waved it at me. “I set up.”
“No, you’ll break it.”
He flung the booklet onto the counter. “Won’t”
Christ, this could go on for hours. “Not happening. Thanks for bringing it in.” He gave me an exasperated look as if I was the person who demolished things, flicked the manual onto the floor, and stomped out of the house.
Bloody hell. “I’m sure guardian angels aren’t meant to throw tantrums,” I yelled after him.
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