Build

by Gillian Archer

  “Hilltop Cleaning,” I called out as I pulled open the door so I could schlep all the supplies inside. “Anyone home? Hilltop Cleaning.”

  The place was supposed to be empty, but I’d learned the importance of announcing my presence early in my cleaning career. Usually I’d knock, but between the snow, my missing partner, and the fact that no one was supposed to be here, I didn’t want to waste any time.

  Which, in retrospect, was a mistake.

  I bent to pick up my empty mop bucket, and tossing the hair out of my face, I stared straight into the eyes of Austin Burns, who was stretched out on a leather sofa across the room.

  Austin. Burns.

  Oh my God.

  Like most people in the Sacramento valley, I’d followed his meteoric rise as his custom motorcycle shop, Badass Builds, got press coverage for building choppers for rock stars and actors. Then he had that special on the Urban Channel about his shop and his equally gorgeous brothers who all worked together, more than a little dysfunctionally. And it didn’t hurt that he had that whole wounded bad boy thing going for him. Exhibit A, he was shirtless with all his glorious muscles and tattoos on display for me to see.

  And, oh my god, I was staring at him.

  “I am so sorry, sir. I should’ve knocked. I just…no one was supposed to be home, and I have a code to the door, so…” I trailed off weakly, still holding the mop bucket and rags.

  Austin blinked placidly back at me but didn’t say a word.

  It was at this point I noticed that his gorgeous hazel eyes were red rimmed, and the leather sofa he reclined on was surrounded by empty liquor bottles—tequila, whiskey, and more than a few beer cans.

  “What’s dis?” he slurred.

  All my fangirl glee drained out of me. I don’t know why I’d held him up on a pedestal. He had player and degenerate literally written all over his body. I hadn’t realized how much I’d fantasized about him as I’d watched his stupid show and decided that he was different than all the other men in my life.

  I should’ve known better.

  I cleared my throat. “Hilltop Cleaning. I’m supposed to detail the cabin before your, er, party arrives.”

  “Shit.” Austin muttered as he staggered to his feet.

  Then he did something I wouldn’t have imagined he’d do in a million years. “I’m sorry.” He bent over and started collecting empty beers cans in his hands, leaning them against his chest. “It’s a fucking pigsty. Wasn’t expecting company.”

  It might’ve been the first time I’d ever seen a guy clean up. My dad disappeared when I was little, and I didn’t have any clear memories of him, but I know I’d never seen any of my mom’s boyfriends clean up after themselves. They were more the type to expect to be waited on. Ditto with my ex, Jordan. He wouldn’t have picked up a gum wrapper, let alone his empties.

  I dropped my bucket and rags and grabbed a trash bag from my tote. Shaking it open, I crossed the hardwood floor, holding out the bag. “Here.”

  “Thanks,” Austin muttered as he dumped his load in my bag. “Sorry about the mess.”

  I smiled slightly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “So, you’re here to clean?”

  “Yes,” I replied as I nodded slowly. “That is, if you still want to use my services.”

  Austin snorted then covered his face with a hand. “Sorry.”

  It took me a second for the double entendre to hit me. My services. My face heated as I shook my head. I felt like I was a teenager standing in front of my high school crush, not a twenty-five-year-old mother of a toddler. Although, in my defense, it’d been a few years since I’d been one-on-one with any guy who wasn’t in diapers, let alone one as gorgeous as Austin. And he was charming, even though he was three sheets to the wind.

  “Yeah, sure.” Austin raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “You can start in the kitchen. Do you need a hand with your shit?”

  I flinched slightly and took a step back. “No, I’m good. I’ll go grab my stuff and get to work. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Austin grunted a reply, but I couldn’t make out what exactly he said. I was too busy trying not to die of mortification at my thick tongue and the reminder that I was here to clean his freaking ski cabin. I was the help. I couldn’t let myself get lost in any fantasies of turning bad boys good or at the very least tracing the web of tattoos covering his chest and arms. Bad, Rachel.

  No doubt my face was fire-engine red as I all but ran back to the front door and schlepped my kit inside. I didn’t look Austin’s way as I grabbed my supplies and headed for the kitchen. After dumping it all on the countertop, I peeled my thick down jacket off and fished my cell phone out of my pocket. My son’s dimpled face smiled at me from my lock screen, and I smiled back. He was the reason I did this. He was the reason I worked two jobs and was looking for a third. I’d do anything on earth to keep that kid from having a fraction of the worry that I knew while growing up. I’d do better for him.

  Lord knew I didn’t need another loser boyfriend. I was one or two away from turning into my mom. I loved that woman to death, but I was starting to fear that her horrible taste in men was hereditary.

  I unlocked my phone and typed off a quick text to my boss.

  Me: Williams job took longer since it’s just me. At last house a bit late. FYI Client onsite.

  She didn’t immediately reply, so I took a second and called my mom.

  “Hey honey,” Mom’s voice had that special power that instantly calmed me. Just hearing it made me feel like everything was going to be okay. My mom was awesome— bad taste in men aside.

  “Hey, Mom. I’m at my last job, but I’m running a bit late. I’m thinking I should be home by seven-ish.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Rach? This storm is getting serious.” The worry in her voice was tangible.

  “I know, Mom, but we need the money. I’ll try to hurry through the cleaning.”

  “Then drive slow. Take your time on those roads. We don’t need another…”

  “I will, Mom.” I answered when she couldn’t finish. We both knew the cost of rushing on roads like these. “How’s Wyatt doing?”

  “He’s good. We’re watching some superhero cartoon right now, and we’re gonna have dinner in a few. Everything’s fine here.”

  “Good, good.” It burned that I wasn’t there, that I didn’t get to see the enthralled look on his face when he watched his favorite superhero show or listen to the sound of his belly giggles when they did something silly. But I wasn’t. Someone had to bring home the bacon, and that was me. My phone buzzed with an incoming text. “Okay, Mom. I gotta go. Give him a kiss for me. Love you guys.”

  “Love you too, honey. Bye.”

  I ended the call then looked down at the screen.

  Erin: Are you okay there alone? If I can find a sitter, I can be there within the hour.

  I’d already turned her offer down once today, since her kiddo was sick with the flu. More than anything I wanted to get this job done fast and get home, but with this weather, and her history of babysitters, I’d probably be finishing up when she got here, and then we’d both be driving home in a hellish storm.

  Me: That’s okay. Client is nice and staying out of the way. Will let you know when I’m done.

  And then I got to work.

  I spent the next three hours scrubbing already clean surfaces and trying not to look out the windows. I couldn’t control the weather, and watching the snow collect on the ground only filled me with more anxiety. It helped that the bathrooms didn’t have windows looking out. The skylights overhead were already covered when I first came in to clean, so I was clueless about what was going on outside.

  A move I’d come to regret.

  When I came downstairs, my arms burning from scrubbing toilets and tile, and I saw the view from the cathedral windows, my heart sank. There had to be at least a foot and a half of snow covering everything outside. My car was entombed in a wide fluffy, cloud
of it. So much so that it was unrecognizable—it looked more like a marshmallow than a car. My grip on the mop, bucket, and rags went slack and they crashed at my feet before bouncing the rest of the way down the stairs.

  The sound jolted me out of my reverie. I bolted down the stairs, hoping I didn’t damage the floors. That would cost more than my car and rent combined, but someone beat me to the landing.

  “Shit, babe, you okay?” Austin blinked blearily up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

  I hadn’t seen him—or anyone else—while I’d been cleaning. I kinda thought he’d left or passed out somewhere else in the chalet. But there he was, beer in hand, swaying at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m fine. Sorry for the noise. And the mess,” I finished lamely as I climbed down the stairs. I avoided eye contact while I stooped down to collect my supplies. A bottle of bleach had broken open was soaking into the gleaming hardwood floors. “Oh no!”

  “It’s just some water. Don’t worry about it, babe.”

  My heart raced as I struggled to clean up the puddle of bleach. The scent burned my nostrils as I pushed the few rags I had around the puddle. Fortunately the wax did its job and protected the wood beneath. I didn’t bother to explain to Austin. Given his drunken state, I didn’t think he would understand my anxiety.

  “What are you still doing here, anyway? They closed the freeway an hour ago.”

  I piled my rags into the bucket then used my brown paper towels to give the floor one last wipe. “That’s just the Nevada side. I’ll be heading back to Auburn.”

  Austin grunted. “Nope. Both sides. They’re turning vehicles away at Truckee. I-80 is closed in both directions. No one is getting off the mountain anytime soon.”

  I looked at Austin in horror before whipping my phone out to check. But a low battery warning flashed on the screen just before it went black. Apparently I’d had it muted and playing music while sitting in my pocket for the last three hours. Dammit.

  “Looks like you’re spending the night with me.” Austin smirked just before he took a swig from his beer.

  Great. Just great.

  3

  Austin

  I’d honestly forgotten about the harried little maid. Shit like that tended to happen when I’d spent the better part of a day and a half at the bottom of a bottle—or working my way to the bottom. But it was a big cabin. There were more than enough bedrooms and food. She could have her pick.

  She just better not touch my booze.

  Before I could tell her as much, she bit her lip and looked up at me with tears welling in her bright blue eyes, and my heart stuttered for a second. I’d rather believe it was a sign that I needed a cigarette or a side effect due to my drinking. I didn’t need anything else on top of the shit I was already dealing with—especially woman shit.

  “Do you, er, would you mind if I used your phone?” Her voice was husky with her unshed tears.

  I nodded tightly. “Need to call your man?”

  Her brow wrinkled for a second before she looked at the ring on her left hand. She pushed to her feet with a soft laugh. “Something like that.”

  “Knock yourself out. There’s a phone in the kitchen I think. Then make yourself at home. I need a smoke.”

  I only got the craving to smoke when I drank. But given the awkwardness of that conversation, it was the perfect time to light up. I’d never been a white-knight kinda guy and I sure as shit wasn’t gonna start rushing to a chick’s rescue now. No matter how blue her eyes were or how soft her lips looked. That was a job for whoever gave her that ring.

  I needed a smoke.

  I spent the next couple of minutes poking around the garage while I puffed on a rare cigarette. Cole spent way too much money on his toys. Not that I was one to talk, since that was how we’d become friends. Still, a snow mobile, two side by sides, and one, two, three four wheelers seemed like overkill to me. But then again, I wasn’t a famous rock star, so what did I know?

  When I left the garage, I found my cleaning lady wiping the countertops with a frenzy that could only be described as insane, given how shiny the granite already was before she’d started.

  “Everything okay?” I grunted as I passed by her to the equally gleaming stainless-steel fridge.

  She made the saddest sound I think I’d ever heard in my life—a cross between a laugh, a sob, and defeat. I swung around to look at her, but she had her back to me as she scrubbed the countertop.

  “Totally fine,” she replied in a tone that belied her words.

  I didn’t know what her issue was. She was spending the night in Cole Jackson’s fucking chalet. For free. No strings or anything. I shook off the urge to talk to her as I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. My buzz was starting to wear off.

  And then she made that sound again.

  I closed my eyes in frustration. I was going to have to deal with this shit after all. Everything looked better with a full stomach, right? I pulled a few things out of the fridge and slapped them down on the counter next to the stove.

  “Sorry. I’ll just get out of your way,” she said as she skittered around me.

  “Freeze,” I barked. It was at that moment I realized I didn’t even know her goddamn name. I scrubbed a hand over my head. “What was your name again, sweetheart?”

  I was trying for a gentler tone, but given how she answered, I’d failed.

  “Rachel,” she mumbled, shuffling toward the exit.

  “Rachel, sorry.” I bared my teeth in an attempt of a smile. “Look, we’re gonna be stuck here together for a while, so how about I make you sandwich, and we get to know each other a bit?”

  She stared back at me with wide eyes while I tried to smile again.

  “We’ll get to know each other some so it’s not awkward.” I lifted my chin. “More awkward anyhow.”

  Rachel laughed softly, breaking some of the tension. “Okay.”

  “Great. Take a seat. You allergic to anything or a vegetarian or something?”

  “No.” She twisted her fingers together then took a step toward me. “I could help if you’d like.”

  I shook my head. “My kitchen, my rules. Take a seat.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled as she hurried around the bar. Judging by the way her clothes hung off her body, she was wearing a top at least two sizes bigger than she actually was. It gave the illusion that she was larger as long as she didn’t huddle into herself the way she currently was. It reminded me of that mutt we had when I was little before everything went to hell. Molly. I couldn’t remember my dad ever hitting the dog, but the way she’d grovel every single time he came home from work had made me sad. And sick. Molly would leave a trail of piss down our driveway every time she saw him. He literally scared the piss out of our sweet, little dog.

  Which was kinda the way Rachel was making me feel right now. That I was the big, bad monster lurking over her and scaring the piss outta her.

  Fuck, maybe I was just like the old man.

  I shook my head as I grabbed a griddle pan from a cupboard. “What’s going on?”

  “What was that?” Rachel asked from the other side of the kitchen.

  I had to laugh. She couldn’t hear me? That was rich. The pan landed onto the stove top with a clatter that had her jumping. I closed my eyes and looked away. Now she was reminding me of my mom and all the times she jumped when my dad raised his voice. Or his hand.

  Fuck me.

  I busied myself lathering a few pieces of bread with butter as I avoided looking at her. “Does your old man get pissed when you’re not home on time?”

  “I-I-I’m sorry?”

  “Are you shitting me? There’s no way you didn’t hear me that time.” I swung around to glare at her with the butter knife jutting out of my hand. Her gaze jumped to the knife and her eyes widened. I awkwardly cleared my throat then dropped the knife onto the counter top. “Sorry. I just…the way you’re acting seems like you’re worried your old man at home is pissed at you or something.”

>   “I don’t…I mean, I do have a man in my life. It’s just that he’s not exactly old. I know that’s just a saying, but he’s... He does get mad when I’m not home on time.” Rachel’s lips curled in as she shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure,” I snorted. I might’ve only been eight when all the shit went down with my parents, but I still remembered all the excuses my mom had for my dad. He was just tired. He still loved us. He didn’t mean it. Or the awesome times when she’d blame us for riling his temper—like a bunch of ankle biters had control over how a fucking man should act. “You shouldn’t have to put up with shit like that. No one should.”

  Rachel shook her head wordlessly as she stared down at the ring on her hand. She spun it around a few times but still didn’t speak. After a few moments I turned back around and got to work on our dinner.

  I cooked in silence—from time to time I felt Rachel’s eyes on me, but when I glanced over, she was fidgeting with her ring or her fingers, always with her gaze on the countertop. Finally I grabbed our plates and crossed the kitchen. I set both down near her. “What do you wanna drink?”

  “Water’s fine,” she answered in a soft voice, still not looking at me.

  I rolled my eyes, filled a glass of water, and grabbed my beer before I joined her at the bar.

  “Thank you,” she said as she stared down at her plate with a slight smile. “It looks delicious.”

  I craned my neck until I felt a pop and repeated on the other side. I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared you or whatever, but we’re gonna have to figure out how to be together for the next little while. I-80 isn’t opening any time soon. We might as well play nice until then.”

  “Play?” Rachel cleared her throat. “What does that mean?”

  I grunted as I took a huge bite of my grilled ham, apple, and cheese. “It’s a figure of speech, sweetheart. Believe me—nothing is gonna happen between us as long as you got that ring your finger. I might have a shit-ton of faults, but I’m not now, or ever been, a fucking cheater.”