Drilled

by Jasinda Wilder

  Eventually, I have to go home, and the moment I’m alone, the cycle starts.

  I’m going to do something stupid tomorrow, I just know it. I’m already trying to convince myself not to, but it’s a losing battle.

  Chapter 3

  I pull up to the curb outside the Waverley property, shut off the car, but don’t get out. Instead, I sit gripping the steering wheel, trying to talk myself out of being stupid.

  “Do not get out of this car, Audra Donovan,” I tell myself, out loud. “Go home. You don’t need the drama, and you don’t need him.”

  I groan and thunk my head against the steering wheel—because I know damn well I’m not going to listen to myself.

  “Fuck it,” I argue back. “I know why I would have snuck out, but I deserve to know why he did.”

  I gather my breath, hold it, and then let it out in an angry exhale. He has me flipping in circles, and talking to myself. I don’t need this. But yet, I find myself exiting the vehicle anyway, adjusting my boobs in my bra, tugging my shorts up so the lower edge of my butt shows, and pushing the waistband down to bare more of my abs and a hint of the V-cut leading down to my hoo-ha.

  Franco has a thing for my V-cut—I know this for a fact because the first thing he did when he got my clothes off was run his tongue up and down those grooves. I shiver at the memory, and then shake my head to dislodge it; I’m here to yell at him for ghosting on me, not…well, not anything else.

  There is, unfortunately for me, a gaggle of guys out in front of the house…which includes the same three bricklayers from the other day. New to the scene are five guys working on the landscaping—laying sod, planting bushes and flowers, carting wheelbarrows of mulch from place to place…

  All eyes are on me, and all work stops.

  First, yes, it’s immensely flattering to know I can still bring a scene to a standstill just by showing up—especially when my forty-first birthday is coming up in a month. But second, it’s more than a little mortifying when the three guys doing the brick paving whistle at me.

  “Hey, fellas, it’s that hot-ass beer lady!” one of them calls, tossing his handful of bricks into the dirt at his feet. “Got any more beer for us?”

  “No,” I say, giving them a smile. “Sorry, not today. That was a one-time-only special.”

  “Hey-yo, mama, didn’t you wear that yesterday?” one of them asks, eyeing me blatantly up and down.

  “I ain’t your mama, or anyone else’s,” I snark back. “And no, actually, this is a different outfit.”

  “Looks the same to me, chica.”

  “Well, it’s not. Those were white shorts, these are ivory, that sports bra was cherry red, and this one is navy blue.” I lift an eyebrow at him. “Would it be a problem if it was the same outfit?”

  “Hell nah,” he says, backing off. “Just wonderin’.”

  I stare him down. “I didn’t realize this job had a stylist. And I’m wondering if you’re being paid to ask me questions, or to lay brick.”

  He shakes his head and mutters something in Spanish under his breath—which I assume isn’t polite, but I’m not about to ask for a translation. I head inside, ignoring the stares as I move past them. I find Ryder in the kitchen at a switch opening, twisting wires together, with green, red, and yellow wire-cap things clamped in his teeth. He sees me, jutting his chin up in my direction as a greeting.

  The electrician of Dad Bod Contracting, Ryder is on the shorter side at five-seven or five-eight, but he’s seriously jacked—he has the body of someone intensely dedicated to a lot of heavy lifting, and who also watches what he eats pretty carefully, but not obsessively. He has bright red hair—a true redhead, with freckles and pale skin. His hair is short on the sides, longer and messy on top—truly messy, as if he just doesn’t give a shit about taking the time to style his hair, but on him, it somehow just works, like he rolled out of someone else’s bed. He has a short beard, hazel eyes, and a spray of freckles across his nose, and cheeks that would be almost unbearably adorable if they weren’t also insanely sexy. The men of Dad Bod Contracting are…a lot to take in, quite honestly. I’ve never seen them all in one room before, but Imogen has and she claims it would be bad if I did, because my libido would short-circuit in the presence of so many sexy men. And she may be right, because Ryder’s not even my type and I’m attracted to him, same with both Jesse and James. Franco, now…that man is a whole different story. “Attracted” doesn’t quite cover the way my libido feels about him.

  “Hranco izh downstairzh,” he says, around the caps.

  “Thanks.” I hesitate, and then glance at Ryder. “He say anything?”

  Ryder doesn’t answer right away, instead finishes twisting the wires together, screws on the cap, and then repeats the process twice more.

  When his mouth is empty of caps, he scratches at his short, neat red beard. “To me? Nah. But he wouldn’t. Franco keeps that shit to himself.”

  “Which shit?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Um, the kind of shit that has him acting like a cranky dick?”

  “Oh.”

  Ryder takes the switch plate and starts screwing it into place. “Just so you know—”

  “Ryder?” I interrupt.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t. I’m just going to talk to him real quick.”

  “Okay, but all I was gonna say is that Franco doesn’t like to mix personal shit with business shit, so he may not be super receptive to your visit.” He shrugs, and steps away from the finished switch, flipping his screwdriver in the air and catching it again.

  “How do you even know it’s personal?”

  He snorts, his eyes raking over me—not lecherously, not in a way that creeps me out, but making it obvious enough that he appreciates the female body. “Well, you left here together yesterday, and Franco showed up wearing the same clothes as the day before, and he was a cranky asshole all day.” He laughs, shrugging. “I’m an electrician, so I have to be pretty good at math, you know? And that’s pretty simple addition. Two plus two equals you guys boinked.”

  I snicker involuntarily at his word choice. “Boinked? What are you, twelve?”

  “At heart, yes,” Ryder says, laughing.

  His phone rings, and I think both of us are glad for the excuse to exit the conversation without any awkwardness. I have no idea where the stairs to the basement are, so I have to wander the house looking for them. I catch a glimpse of James in a half bathroom, inspecting the grout in the floor tiles and the caulk around the base of the toilet.

  I met James once, yesterday. He’s the tallest of the four men, at six-five or six-six, and he’s built like a refrigerator, if a refrigerator featured broad, heavy shoulders, twenty-inch biceps, thighs the size of my damn waist, and a chest you could use as an anvil. He’s…well…he’s magnificent, is what he is. He has short, neat brown hair sprinkled with silver at the temples and a matching, neatly groomed brown-and-silver beard. His eyes are a deep, dark, mesmerizing, forest green. Despite being built like a god, he is gentle and kind.

  He glances at me as I pass, and stands up to lean out of the bathroom. “Audra, right?”

  I reach out to shake his hand. “Yeah—hi, James.” I frown. “Wait—if you, Ryder, and Franco are all here, why is Jesse off?”

  James laughs. “Ryder has some electrical to wrap up, Franco is finishing the wine cellar, and I’m going through and double-checking that everything has been done right and to my personal standards. Jesse doesn’t have anything to do here now that the construction is done, so I gave him the weekend off and he’s starting demo on a new renovation Monday.” He turns the faucet on and off, nudges the mirror to make sure it’s stable and centered, and tries the vent fan, then looks at me again. “Franco is in rare form yet again today. Do I have you to thank for that?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations.”

  He just laughs again, a hearty, amused boom. “He’s in the basement. Stairs are over by the garage.”

  I
wave as I walk away. The basement is bright and airy and open, being a walkout consisting of a large den area, a smaller side room, another half bathroom, a kitchenette, and a workout room with mirrors on all four walls, and a wine cellar; the latter space is where I find Franco. He has a brad nailer and is installing a built-in wine rack—which, from the look of it, has been custom-made by Franco himself. I know he’s a carpenter, but this is the first of his work I’ve actually seen, and I have to say I’m damned impressed. The room is easily twenty-by-twenty with ten-foot ceilings, and the built-in racks stretch from floor to ceiling on three walls, the fourth wall being the glass-fronted entrance. A railing runs around the top of the racks, and I see a ladder with rollers lying on the floor, allowing someone to easily reach a bottle near the ceiling. The racks are works of art, with elaborate scrollwork decorating the face of each diagonal support beam, stained a rich deep mahogany, and polished to a high gleam.

  “This is really beautiful,” I say, by way of greeting.

  Franco glances at me, shock rippling across his gorgeous features before he carefully neutralizes his expression. “Thank you.”

  “You handmade all of this?” I gesture at the cellar.

  He nods. “I did. They’re very serious about their wine, so they really wanted this room, especially, to be totally custom.”

  I frown. “Isn’t the entire house a custom job, seeing as the four of you built it?”

  He smirks, shaking his head. “Nah, custom means I personally made this built-in rack from scratch. I designed the rack, chose the wood, cut it, shaped it, stained it, polished it, and installed it, as opposed to a prefab rack that I’d have just fixed into place. The cabinets are prefab, for example, because as cool as it is to say you have custom cabinets for your kitchen, they’re stupid expensive for a product only nominally better than a readily available version, not to mention if you need to replace or repair a custom cabinet, you’re gonna pay out your ass.”

  “Oh, so I should rethink the custom cabinets I was considering for my kitchen remodel?” I ask, grinning.

  “You’re remodeling your kitchen?”

  I shake my head. “No, I was joking. My kitchen is already amazing and needs no renovation.”

  “Oh.” He reloads his nailer, sets it aside, and then eyes me. “So. Um…you’re here.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Yeah, unlike you, yesterday morning.”

  “Audra, can we talk later?”

  “You could have at least left a note. Didn’t have to be elaborate. Could’ve been as simple as, ‘I had a great time, Audra, maybe we’ll catch up again sometime.’”

  “I am at work, so maybe we could—”

  “But no! You just vanished. Poof. Gone. I came out of the shower talking to you, but you weren’t there. Imagine my surprise.”

  “Audra—”

  “I mean, it was a hookup, goddammit! I knew it, you knew it—we both knew it. I wasn’t expecting much—I would have been fine if you were just like, ‘yo, I gotta go to work, see ya.’” I say this in my best approximation of a deep, gruff, gravelly voice that is nothing at all like Franco’s voice, which is deep but fluid and smooth and quiet.

  “I don’t sound like that,” he says.

  “That’s not the point.” I’m winding up for another salvo, but I’m stopped by Franco’s hand across my mouth.

  “Audra.” His piercing blue eyes are pale and icy. “I’m working. I can’t do this with you right now.”

  “You’re just trying to escape.”

  He flares his nostrils, which shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow is. “I take my work very seriously. The clients are inclined to show up on a whim, without warning. I will not be found having a personal discussion on a client’s property and on their time. They are paying me to be here, and while I’m here, I’ll do my damn job.” He pulls a tiny spiral notepad from his pocket, a pencil from behind his ear, and scrawls on it: Callihan’s 7:30; he rips the paper free from the spiral across the top and hands it to me.

  “Callihan’s is—” he starts.

  “I know where it is,” I cut in.

  “You have it in writing—I’ll meet you there at seven thirty, and you can bitch me out then, okay? Just not here, not now.”

  I stare at the paper and allow my thoughts to range past feeling pissy at him for leaving, to how attractive he looks with the tool belt and tight T-shirt and tight, ripped jeans and backward ball cap with his Oakleys upside down on the brim, to being irritated with myself for being so attracted to him.

  The thought that filters through to my brain past my emotions and libido is that I’d be irritated if someone showed up at my place of work and tried to have a personal discussion with me while I was with a client.

  “Fine. Callihan’s, seven thirty.” I stare hard at him. “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be there.” He holds up a finger for me to wait, and then crouches to rummage in a toolbox on the floor; he withdraws a huge hammer, old and rusty and pitted, the leather wrapped around the handle tattered and rotting away—he hands it to me. “If you need insurance that I’ll be there, take this. It’s my grandfather’s hammer, and it’s one of my most prized possessions. He gave it to me himself when I was eleven.”

  Something inside me melts a little. “Franco, you don’t have to give me your granddad’s hammer.”

  He looks relieved as he takes the hammer back. “Thank god. I’ve never let that hammer out of my possession in the thirty-four years I’ve had it.” He places it back in the toolbox, and then withdraws something else—an old drill, a huge, heavy, bulky one from about fifty years ago. “This was his, too. Still good insurance that I’ll meet you, but not as hard for me to let go of.”

  “Franco, I don’t need a drill. I just need your assurance you’re not gonna stand me up to get out of having this conversation.”

  He places the drill in my hands, and it’s even heavier than it looks. “Take it.” He grins. “Maybe the insurance is for me, not you.”

  “Because if you know I have your granddad’s drill, you have to show up?”

  “Exactly.”

  I wind the long cord around the handle and body. “In that case, I will take the drill.”

  He chuckles. “Good idea.” He picks up the nailer again. “I have to finish this. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”

  “See you.”

  I head upstairs and toward the front door, but I don’t get out of the house without passing James again. His eyes land on the drill in my hands, and a deep frown wrinkles his brow.

  “Is that…? It is! That’s Franco’s grandpa’s drill.” His eyes flick up to mine. “Why do you have it? He never lets anyone touch that stuff—not even me, and I’ve known him thirty years.”

  I don’t know how to answer that without giving him an explanation he doesn’t need, so I just shrug. “Ask Franco. It’s complicated.”

  I exit the house and scurry to my car before he has a chance to say anything else, and before any of the guys outside can say anything. I set the drill on my back seat, next to my workout bag—the clunky, rusty old drill looks incongruous on the creamy tan leather of my Mercedes-Benz, and it leaves a funny feeling in my gut.

  When I get home from work, I take a long, hot, much-needed shower, depilate my legs and hoo-ha, and then wrap up in my favorite robe—a tiny little terrycloth thing that I’ve had since high school. I do my hair while it’s still damp and workable and then sit on my balcony, sipping a glass of cab sav, and flip through my email and various social media notifications, enjoying the sun on my skin. My apartment is on the top floor and my neighbors on either side never go out on their balconies, and there’s no building across the street from me, just the parking lot and the back of a strip mall, so I often lay out on my balcony with my robe open for optimal sunbathing. It’s my secret to being evenly tanned all over, and one of my favorite ways to relax after work.

  Since all I have to do to get ready to meet Franco is put on minimal makeup and get dressed,
I let myself relax for a while, indulging in a second glass of wine. I catch up on some light reading—by which I mean my favorite romance author’s newest book, a guilty pleasure I’d never admit to anyone, not even Imogen.

  My phone dings and a text message alert slides down from the top of my phone’s screen, rudely interrupting a…ahem…a climactic scene in the book.

  Franco: I’m ready a little early. Pick you up?

  It’s six forty-five. I’m not ready. Nor am I ready to let him pick me up—and to know where I live.

  Me: You just want your drill back.

  Franco: Nope. Just don’t see any point in waiting around another 45 minutes if I don’t have to.

  Me: Fine. I can be ready in fifteen. Text me when you’re here and I’ll come down. I text him the address to my building, but omit my unit number.

  Franco, after a pause: That condo complex is less than five minutes from me. I’ve done renovation work in that building. You leaving out your unit number bc you’re worried I’ll show up early?

  Me, after a longer pause. See you outside in fifteen minutes?

  Franco: …

  Franco: yeah, just go ahead and avoid the question. LOL. ;-)

  Me: …

  Franco: We can exchange vaguely suggestive ellipses until doomsday, if you want. I’ve got unlimited data.

  Franco: … … …

  Me: k bye see you soon

  Me: … … … … …

  Franco: Fine. I’ll let you win this round…For now!

  Is he text-flirting with me? Because it definitely feels like he’s text-flirting with me. Why would he text-flirt with me? Did he miss the part where he ghosted on me and then refused to talk about it? Sure he was at work, but still. Plus, I’m mad. Why would he flirt?

  Ugh.

  I glance at my phone and realize I’ve been sitting here for five minutes stewing on whether or not he was text-flirting with me, and now I only have ten minutes to get ready. And I’m still naked!