What a Woman Gets

by Judi Fennell

  Mac picked up a misshapen blue ceramic mug. Mr. Davison’s fourth grade project. She had the same one, though hers was a little more even than Jared’s. “How about if I start upstairs and work my way down? Will that interfere with your schedule?”

  Jared looked at her as if he didn’t understand a word she was saying.

  She set the mug down next to a picture of thirteen-year-old Jared with Mildred at one of Jared’s Little League games. Mac knew exactly how old Jared was in that picture—actually knew it to the day; that’s how infatuated she’d been with him. Her poor deluded, prepubescent self . . .

  “Mac, what are you doing here?” He laid the dishtowel on the side of the sink, folded up all nice and neat.

  Who did that? She cleaned for a living and didn’t do that in her own house.

  “I’m here to clean your grandmother’s house.”

  “No. I mean, why are you really here?”

  “Really here? I don’t understand the question.”

  Jared stared at her as if he were trying to figure her out, but finally shook his head and turned away.

  And winced.

  He stumbled a little and Mac was at his side, under his arm with hers wrapped around his waist before he could protest.

  Not that that stopped him. “I’ve got this, Mac. I got the crutches. You don’t have to try to carry me.”

  “I’m not trying; I’m doing. I don’t need you breaking something on my watch.” She grunted with the effort it took to keep him upright. He might not be aware of it, but he was no lightweight. All that muscle put some major poundage on him.

  Not that she was paying attention or anything.

  “So you’re saying it’s okay if I break something later?”

  Wow. His tone put Gran’s skin-slicing ability to shame because Mac figured out right away that he wasn’t her biggest fan. Still harboring resentment that she’d practically been his shadow all those years ago? She’d love to tell him to get over himself—that she had—but Gran and Mildred wouldn’t be happy if she blew this contract, so it was time to cut her losses.

  Hands up, Mac backed away. Let him fall; see if she cared. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just get started and you go do what you do and I’ll stay out of your way.” Far, far out of his way.

  He gripped the countertop and worked the one crutch under his arm. “Fine. You do that.”

  “Fine. I will.” She should probably hand him the other one that was by the sink, but screw it. If he was so “I got this” then let him get his own damn crutch.

  She spun around and strode toward the back steps. She’d find the farthest corner of the house from here, and take out her emotions on the dirt—

  Except she needed her cleaning supplies that, between the soup and the bells, she hadn’t had enough hands to carry in. Which meant she had to go back downstairs. Past Jared.

  Great. Fabulous.

  Executing a ninety-degree turn that would stop an army drill sergeant in his tracks, Mac strode toward the front door.

  “Leaving so soon?” He didn’t have to sound so happy about it.

  She turned around. “Look, Jared, I’m here as a favor to your grandmother and mine. If you have issues with that, take it up with them.”

  She so would have loved to slam the door behind her, but it was Mildred’s front door, not Jared’s, and she wasn’t about to let him see her sweat.

  Because, damn it all, he actually could still make her sweat.