by Penny Reid
“You can lock the workshop. Don’t think I didn’t notice the door open, and you’re not sitting there until two in the morning building that coffee table again.”
“Ooh,” escaped my mouth. “Are you almost done?”
Dad’s expression brightened. “I am. Do you want to see?”
I nodded, getting up as he heaved himself out of the chair. “I haven’t seen it since you started carving the first leg.”
“The first three are done now. They just need a bit of sanding and varnishing. Come see.”
I followed him out of the room to an eyeroll from Mom, but it was a fond one. After all, she’d come into our lives when I was thirteen. She knew my father’s true passion was carpentry, and she knew that all the aspects of building and handiwork were engrained into my very soul.
And my dad? Well. He was the best damn carpenter in the whole state, and this coffee table had been his pet project for months.
My phone beeped with a notification right before I could enter the barn. I held up a finger so Dad knew I’d be inside in a minute. The notification bar showed a new email to my work address, so I clickedit to open it.
To: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
From: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Sir/Madam,
I’m contacting you to discuss the possibility of a consultation. I recently moved to town and I would like to have someone come in and fix up my children’s bedrooms. They’re not in great condition at present.
I was recommended your company by someone earlier today. Because of the condition of the rooms, I would need someone to come by sooner rather than later. Is this something someone from your company would be able to accommodate?
If not, I completely understand, and would appreciate any recommendations for other local companies.
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I clicked my tongue and responded.
To: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
From: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Mr. Cooper,
Many thanks for your email. Could you provide some more information as to the condition of the bedrooms? Perhaps pictures if possible?
Best wishes.
K. Hancock
I tapped ‘send’ and headed inside to view Dad’s coffee table project. The legs were all laid out on the worktable, and one was noticeably less-carved than the others. Still, that didn’t take away from the intricacy of his carpentry, and I ran a finger over the rough surface of one of the completed legs.
“They still need sanding and treating, but I should be able to start that next week.” Dad picked up the unfinished leg and stared at it. “I hope so, at least.”
“They’re beautiful, Dad,” I said honestly. “This is going to be incredible when it’s finished.”
He set down the leg and smiled at me before he pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek. The salt-and-pepper whiskers that dotted his jaw and chin tickled my skin with the sweeping peck, but I smiled all the same.
My phone beeped again.
“That’s a lot of beeps,” he remarked. “Anyone important?”
“Potential new client. Just moved to town and wants his kids’ bedrooms looking at. Apparently, they’re run down.”
“How run down?”
I waved the phone. “That’s what I’m, hopefully, about to find out.” I dropped my attention to my phone and opened the newest email.
To: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
From: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear K. Hancock,
Please see the attached.
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I downloaded the attachments and pulled them up on my gallery. Dad peered over my shoulder as I swiped through them. They were mostly peeling wallpaper and cracked paint, a light in need of fixing, the floors in need of decent carpeting or flooring, but the last few were the ones that held the real problem: the mold on the walls.
“That’s pretty bad,” Dad said, tilting the screen. “They might need new windows, and they certainly can’t sleep in those rooms or they’ll get sick.”
I nodded in agreement. “And it could be his lucky day. Well, he’d have to wait a week, but I can do it next Saturday and probably start the following Monday.”
“Quiet on the books?”
“Once I’m done with the repaint of Susie Michaels’ guest house, yep. That’s no bad thing, though. I could have used the break, but he obviously needs my help.”
Dad patted my shoulder and moved away. “Sure does, Kali. Want me to come and help you check the place over?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not sure Mom would be too impressed if I dragged you away next Saturday.”
A puzzled look flitted across his face. “Why?”
I blinked at him. “Uh…Dad? It’s your wedding anniversary.”
He froze, eyes widening at my words sank in. “Oh, shit.”
I smirked, leaning against the worktable. “There’s a bunch of her favorite flowers reserved at Nova for you to collect at seven a.m., and I booked you a table at The Coastal Boulevard. Seven-thirty reservation, and yes, they already know it’s your anniversary.”
He visibly deflated, sighing out in relief. “What would I do without you?”
“Get in a lot of trouble with your wife.”
“I can’t argue with the truth. Talking of—we should go back inside before. Dinner is probably ready.”
I nodded. “Let me just reply to this email. I’ll be right in.”
Dad left me to it, and I opened my email.
To: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
From: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Mr. Cooper,
Thanks for the photos. I can see your problem. Unfortunately, I’m booked this week, but I’m free for a consultation next Saturday. Is that soon enough?
I can point you in the direction of other relatively local contractors, but I doubt many would be able to get you in so quickly.
Hope to hear from you on this soon.
Best wishes,
K. Hancock
His response within seconds—before I’d even left the workshop.
To: Hancock Handyman Co ([email protected])
From: Brantley Cooper ([email protected])
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear K. Hancock,
That’s sooner than I was expecting. Does ten a.m. work for you?
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I responded, confirming the time, and advising him to not have his children sleep in the room. I also offered a common solution to remove the surface mold on the walls and the windowsill. He responded appreciatively, so I tucked my phone away and headed back inside for dinner with my family.
Mom handed me a glass of wine. I had to handle it carefully thanks to her tendency to actually make a glass of wine a full glass, and I was never more thankful than right now that I could walk home from my parents’.
“Any news on the dating front?” she asked, taking the other seat on the sofa.
Dad had long retired to the workshop to play with his table leg, so she was able to ask me the questions she really wanted to. I was twenty-six, but that didn’t mean my father was comfortable around these questions.
“Do you mean news other than “oh, look, another date with a fuckboy?”” I replied, sipping my wine.
“At this point, honey, fuckboys aren’t news. They’re the norm.”
I groaned in agreement. “It’s all the same, all the time. And the guy I went out with on Wednesday? He just proved he didn’t read my bio at all.”
“Oh,
dear.”
“Oh, dear? Oh, shit, is more like it.” The thing I loved about my stepmother: She had a potty mouth to rival a sailor’s, and while I had to watch it most of the time, when we discussed dating, all bets were off.
Besides, crapboy just didn’t sound as good as fuckboy.
“That bad?” She looked at me with sympathetic eyes.
“The worst yet, maybe.” I pushed my hair from my eyes. “First, he was late, which I forgave because he said he’d got caught in traffic.”
“In Rock Bay? Was the traffic seagulls on the road?”
“He said he lived out of town, so whatever. Even though he never apologized.” I sipped again. “Then, five minutes in, he asks me what I do. I told him I ran the family building business since Dad is semi-retired, and he goes, “Oh, you’re the secretary?””
Her eyes widened.
“I said, “No, actually. I’m the builder,” and if I could have captured the look on his face, I’d have blown it up and taped it to the side of the mayor’s building.”
“What did he say to that?”
My face wrinkled up as I said it. “He complimented me on my excellent bicep muscles and went to “take a phone call.””
“He stiffed you with the bill?”
I grinned, shaking my head. “He’d booked the table, and you know how Marcie started collecting addresses of bookers since the Coastal became the ‘it’ place?”
“No!”
“She’s forwarded him the bill. I got to enjoy a great dinner for free.”
“How did she do that?”
“Apparently, he booked on the website, and there’s small print that states the booking party is liable for the bill in the event of a date gone wrong. Well—probably not that, but enough to cover poor little women like me who get stuffed because the guy is a dick.”
Mom shook her head and sighed. “At least Marcie has a plan in place for those dicks.”
“Only because the last guy she dated thought their date would be free because it was at Coastal,” I reminded her. “Marcie thought he’d be gentleman enough to pay, but nope.”
“I’m so glad I don’t have to date now,” Mom said. “I don’t think I could stand it. I’d likely be locked up for murder.”
“You’ve been married to Dad for ten years next weekend. Isn’t that similar to jail?”
She’d been drinking her wine when I’d said that, and she snorted, clapping her hand over her nose. I burst out laughing as she squealed and choked.
“Damn it, Kali. How can I drink properly if you keep making me laugh?”
I grinned.
“And for the record, no, marriage is not like jail.” She paused. “Most of the time. At least in jail there’d be a rotation of whose turn it is to load the dishwasher.”
“Mom, please. Every time Dad loads it, you redo it.”
“It’s not my fault if he does it wrong. I keep hoping he’ll take the hint.”
I tapped my finger against my chin. “Do you think if I wrote, “NOT THE SECRETARY” on my bio on the dating site people would get it?”
“No. I think you should say you are the secretary, then shock them when you can build Ikea furniture without swearing.”
“And without the instructions.”
“That’s just cocky.”
“Exactly.”
She rolled her eyes, but her wine glass hid a smile. “Whoever marries you better have the patience of a saint, Kali Hancock.”
“They’d better have more than the patience of a saint. I want the cock of a God, too.”
She blinked at me for a moment. “Do you ever think I should be less of the best friend kind of parent and more of the “don’t speak like that” parent?”
I twisted my lips in a wry smile. “You tried that once. It lasted a week.”
“Maybe it’s time to try again.”
“Fifty bucks says you last three days.”
She tapped her fingers against her knee. “You’re right. Besides, you have your dad for that.”
Once again, I grinned, thankful for having a mom and best friend wrapped into one.
Chapter 2
One week later
Note to self: a girls’ night out the day before a consultation with a potential client was not the best idea I’d ever had.
Neither was the vodka.
Really, I knew better. Me and vodka weren’t friends. By this point in my life, I should have been able to say no the allure of any cocktail with it in—and I definitely shouldn’t be giving in to peer pressure when it’s the shots round.
All things considered, I was a pretty lousy adult. But, hey. My best friend was back from a work trip that took her away for a month, and the night out had been planned long before I got Brantley Cooper’s email.
Thankfully for me, right now, I’d drank enough water to quench the thirst of a herd of elephants, had scarfed down—ahem—three bagels, showered, and brushed my teeth at least five times to kill the alcohol grime the drinking session had left behind.
I was feeling almost human. Almost.
My professional head would take over when I walked inside the house. I had my toolbox, even though I didn’t think I would need it. It was mostly for the tape measure that I would undoubtedly lose if I took it out of the box.
I was always losing the damn thing. I was about ready to buy them in bulk and store them in my basement.
I swallowed a mouthful of water before I started up my truck. The bright-pin freshener swung from the rearview mirror as I pulled out of my driveway and away from my modest, two-story house.
The address Brantley Cooper had given me wasn’t too far from my own house. A five minute drive, a ten minute or so walk, since you could cut through the park that separated our neighborhoods. I also knew it to be part of a block of houses that had mold issues ever since they were built. The original buyers had been given compensation for the problems it had caused, but that didn’t count when you were buying it from one of them.
In other words, Brantley Cooper was in for the long—and potentially expensive—haul if he’d bought this house, and I was almost certain he had.
I pulled onto his street. It was easy to pick out which house was his. Flattened boxes were piled on the grass by the mailbox, stacked somewhat haphazardly. I pulled up to the curb and killed my engine. Another drink of water and I grabbed my toolbox—and drill case, just in case—and headed for the front door.
I rang the bell.
A scream answered.
I took a step back.
“No, Ewwie!” a young voice shouted. “Nooooo!”
“Eleanor. Elijah!” a deeper, gruffer voice said over the noise of them fighting. “Can you stop for two minutes so I can answer the door?”
“But she said—”
“But he—”
The door swung open, revealing to me the man I presumed to be Brantley Cooper.
Holy mother of orgasms.
Dumbly, I stared at him. At the dark hair that curled over his forehead and ears. At the turquoise-blue eyes that were currently sizing me up. At the sharp cheekbones, the full lips, the stubbled jaw…The arms that looked like they could lift a tank over his head.
“Can I help you?” he said in a low voice that I could hear over the unruly fighting in the house behind him.
My mouth was too dry to answer.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I have an appointment in…” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Any moment, actually, and I have to sort my kids, so…”
“Mr. Cooper?” Thank god. Hi again, voice. Nice of you to show up.
He stopped, mid-turn, and peered at me. “Yes…”
I held out my hand. “Kali Hancock. I’m here to consult with you on your children’s rooms?”
“Kali Hancock.” He said my name slowly, rolling it around his mouth as if he were trying it on for size.
Deep, rumbly, and…suspicious.
Here we go again.
“The K. Hancock I�
��ve been emailing with?”
“That’s me.”
“Is it common for your company to send someone who isn’t the builder for the consultation?”
I took a deep breath and motioned to the toolbox by my feet. “Not at all. I am the builder.”
He stared at me, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. I could see the exact moment understanding settled, because his eyebrows shot up and his lips parted oh-so-invitingly.
Damn it, no. I didn’t get attracted to stereotypical people like him.
Someone needed to tell my vagina that.
“You’re the builder,” he finally said, slowly.
A gut-wrenching scream came from inside the house.
Brantley Cooper shook his head. “I’m sorry—come in. I’ll be a minute.”
“Thanks.” I picked up my toolbox and drill and stepped into the hallway. There wasn’t a lot of room—he’d either downsized tremendously or he’d failed to unpack a lot of stuff. How long had he been here for?
“Eleanor, Elijah, that’s enough.” He clapped his hands in the next room.
I leaned to the side so I could see through the door.
What? I was nosy. How else did I find stuff out?
He stood in front of two children, a boy and a girl. Despite the fact the little girl—Eleanor—was an inch taller than her brother, Elijah, it was obvious they were twins.
How?
They both had hair that was a golden-brown color that glinted almost copper in the sunlight that streamed through the window behind Brantley. They both stood in identical positions, too. Legs apart, arms folded, and the scowls that marred their adorable little faces… Well, you could have merged photos of those expressions, and you wouldn’t be able to tell, even down to the freckles that appeared to dot their noses.
“I mean it,” Brantley said. “The builder is here to talk about your bedrooms. I’ll send her home if you aren’t going to behave yourselves.”