Her Man Upstairs

by Dixie Browning

  Marty insisted on going to the lumberyard with him, and Cole indulged her. It was her money, after all. She was still chafing over the dog—over missing such obvious clues. If he hadn’t known it before, he did now—she liked to be the one in control.

  Most women did. Paula had disguised that side of her nature with a helpless, clinging-vine act that had held up for almost a year after they were married. Helpless like one of those pretty flowering vines that could conquer anything in its path, given enough time.

  “Here y’ go, sir. That be cash or credit?”

  “Credit card,” Marty said, pushing her gold card across the desk. “Might as well earn the three cents interest on my money between now and the end of the month.”

  “Pick up around back,” the clerk said, and Marty marched ahead to lead the way through the vast metal building.

  Strolling along behind her, Cole deliberately shortened his stride to let her go first. Funny woman. Militantly independent, smart enough to know when to shut up and listen, yet unafraid to admit when she was out of her depth. The way she had watched, listened and learned when he’d demonstrated how to control that big goofy dog was a good example. You had to admire a woman like that.

  Somewhat to his surprise, Cole realized that he not only admired her, he liked her.

  He loaded the lumber into the back of the truck, secured it with ropes from the toolbox on back, and turned back to where Marty waited. “If you don’t mind my working late to make up the time, I’ll go with you again in the morning to make sure you can handle him. Trouble with a deaf dog is that once he gets away from you, calling and whistling won’t get him back.”

  “Believe me, I thought of that,” Marty said grimly.

  Before he could help her up, she grabbed the door frame and swung herself up into the cab.

  He closed the door. “You’ll do fine, but it won’t hurt to be doubly careful.”

  Once they got back to the house she insisted on helping him unload the truck. “I can carry one end of the boards while you carry the other.”

  “Be easier if I balance ’em on my shoulder.”

  She looked at the two-by-fours and the yellow pine boards, then looked at his shoulder. They did it his way, which was far more efficient than having to juggle each plank between them. She went ahead to open the doors, and he watched her simply because she was worth watching, even in a down-filled coat, with her windblown hair tangling around her earmuffs.

  By the time the last plank was stacked in the hallway upstairs it was almost dark. Marty insisted he stay for supper.

  “It’s the least I can do after you taught me dog language. It’ll be something quick and easy. I’ll just pop a couple of frozen dinners into the microwave.”

  Bad move, Cole told himself. Really bad move. After three days he was already having trouble thinking of her as just another employer. “You don’t have to do this. I can stop off on the way to the marina and get take-out.” In fact, he’d sort of counted on it. Meat, bread and two vegetables. Barbecue, hush puppies, slaw and fries. He knew how to take care of himself—had been doing it for nearly forty years now.

  He followed her into the kitchen. It was a nice room. It reminded him of his mother’s kitchen, only there was no sheet music scattered over every surface. Paula’s kitchen had looked more like a laboratory—not that she’d ever spent much time in it. It occurred to him that he’d never thought of it as their kitchen, not even when they’d first moved in a few months after they were married. Her father had insisted on giving them the house, which had prompted Paula’s one and only attempt at humor. She’d told him not to look a gift house in the mouth.

  Marty left the utility door open while she checked out the contents of a small, chest-type freezer. With her jeans stretched tightly over her rounded behind, she leaned over to scramble through the contents. Cole made himself look away. Against the taut denim he could see the faint outline of her underpants. Definitely not a thong.

  Cut it out, Stevens!

  So he forced himself to check out his employer’s kitchen instead of her personal assets, pretending a great interest in the double-hung windows over the sink, the leafy vine trailing down from a jar on the narrow sill and the sun-catcher hanging from the curtain rod. The yellow-and-white checked curtains matched the tablecloth. She went in for a lot of yellow. On a day like this, with barely enough daylight to wedge in an eight-hour day, it made the room feel warm and cheerful.

  “Here we go,” Marty announced, holding out two boxes, one a well-known diet brand, the other Salisbury steak with a side of macaroni and cheese. “Your choice.”

  He appeared to study the two flat boxes before choosing the two-hundred-and-eighty calorie delight.

  She looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

  Sure he was sure. It would serve as an appetizer until he could stop for his usual barbecue plate on the way to the marina. Odds were she was in for the night, and he didn’t want her going to bed hungry.

  They didn’t talk much over supper. He studied the three tablespoonfuls of whatever it was he was eating and hoped his belly wouldn’t embarrass him by protesting too loudly.

  A few minutes later Marty shoved her plastic tray aside. “As Faylene would say, it’s pretty good, what there is of it, and there’s plenty of it, such as it is. You said you’d met her—Faylene Beasley? Bob Ed’s friend? That’s the way she talks most of the time.”

  “In circles, you mean,” Cole said as he tried to remember what the woman had said about her friend who needed a small remodeling job done. “Look, about tonight—I said I’d work overtime to make up for taking off early, so—”

  “You didn’t take off early. You were still—that is—”

  “Still on the clock?” he suggested, amused because she looked so embarrassed. He knew better than most that knocking down the barriers between employee and employer was asking for trouble.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she said primly, and he had to laugh.

  To hell with the barriers.

  And then she laughed, too. He lapped it up like a cat with a saucer of cream—the way her eyes kindled, the way her lips twitched at the corners just before she gave in and laughed aloud. He had a strong feeling that she hadn’t done too much of that lately—laughing, that is. He didn’t know why it bothered him, but it did.

  When she stood and reached across the table for his tray and coffee mug, her hair swung over her shoulders, and he caught a whiff of that mysterious fragrance again. Flowers. Something soft, subtle and sweet—maybe shampoo, maybe hand lotion. Odds were she hadn’t bothered to douse herself with perfume just for his benefit.

  Jeez, he’d known her all of what—three days? A smart man would get the hell out before he did anything crazy, like touching her. Like seeing if all that rich mahogany hair of hers was as soft as it looked. Granted, he’d been through a long, dry spell—he was probably suffering from a buildup of testosterone. But there was nothing wrong with his brain. He knew what he ought to do.

  The hard part was doing it.

  “Tell you what,” he announced, sliding his chair away from the table and glancing down to make sure he could pass muster without pulling his shirttail out of his jeans. “I’ll measure up one of your bookshelves and cut the end boards and braces before I leave. First thing tomorrow we can finish it up. Then, while I work upstairs, you can decide if you want the rest of them cut down the same way. What do you say?”

  She said yes.

  They worked in the garage, with barely enough room to move around. The only way he could keep from brushing against her was to work on the opposite side of the project, but even that didn’t prevent contact. As the garage wasn’t insulated, Marty had bundled up in an old coat and pulled a stocking cap down over her ears. She should have looked like a ragamuffin kid. Instead, she looked—

  Yeah, well…let’s not go there, Cole warned himself.

  “That ought to do it,” he said after the final cut had been made and the short secti
on laid aside. He stood, flexed his back and looked around for a broom.

  “Don’t bother, I’ll clean up in the morning,” she told him. “Would you like—that is, the coffee’s still warm.”

  And so was he. Warm didn’t begin to describe the way he was feeling after spending the past half hour working in a small crowded space, brushing hands and shoulders, even backing into her a few times. Purely accidental touches, but that didn’t make it any easier to ignore the electricity that sparked between them.

  He wondered if she’d even noticed, and decided she hadn’t. Otherwise, she’d never have invited him to stay for coffee.

  “I’d better get on back to the marina and run the bilge pump before I turn in.” Yeah, that’d do it, all right. Cram his six feet two inches and one-hundred-eighty-seven pounds into a shower a quarter of the size of a phone booth while he rinsed off the sawdust, and then try to get to sleep on a bunk designed for a guy half his age and half his size.

  It occurred to him that the lifestyle that had seemed so great back when he’d first decided not to look for an apartment in the Norfolk area wasn’t turning out quite the way he’d planned.

  Hell, now he even wanted to get himself a dog.

  The first day of February produced a few adventurous crocuses and the promise of an early spring. Marty had slept like a log—dreamed a lot of crazy stuff that left her tingling and vaguely unsatisfied when she first opened her eyes, but the dreams quickly faded as she stood zombie-like under the shower.

  Walk the dog. Had Cole said to wait for him? She couldn’t remember, but even if he had, she didn’t recall agreeing. Better if he started putting her amputated bookshelf back together while she put Mutt through his paces.

  Hand signals. Surely she could remember the ones he’d showed her yesterday. Right, left, stop, sit, stay. What else? Quit peeing on the dandelions? Leave that poor cat alone?

  She saw headlights flash across the front window before she’d even gotten the coffeepot ready for when she got back. Darn it, she needed to do this by herself, if only to prove that she could.

  But it was Sasha’s red convertible, not Cole’s pickup truck that pulled up behind her minivan. Curbing her impatience, she opened the front door. “Isn’t this a bit early, even for you?” Contrary to appearances, her glamorous friend started her working days early and sometimes worked into the wee hours.

  “Give me a doughnut and tell me how he’s working out,” Sasha demanded.

  “They’re in the freezer. You’ll break a tooth. How who’s working out?” As if she didn’t know. Where bachelors were concerned, Sasha’s radar system was the envy of governmental agencies all over the world.

  The interior designer stamped the damp earth off her three-hundred-dollar stiletto-heel shoes, then brushed past Marty and headed for the kitchen in a cloud of her favorite Odalisque. “Open your eyes, take a deep breath and wake up, hon.”

  “Don’t you have anything to eat at your house?” Marty grumbled. Sasha knew she was never at her best this time of morning. Today was even worse than usual, thanks to spending half the night dreaming dreams that refused to disperse.

  “Why bother? I’m always out for lunch and dinner, and you’re right on my way for breakfast.” Sasha plopped her well-rounded behind in one of the mule-eared kitchen chairs. “So tell me this—have y’all been to bed yet?”

  Marty was tempted to say yes. Technically, it was no lie. She’d been to bed and she assumed Cole had, too—only not together. “Sash, he’s my carpenter. That’s all he is, okay?”

  “Just asking. I still want him for Lily. Faye says he’s perfect, but if you’re interested, I guess we can find somebody else for her.”

  “I am not interested!” Marty all but shouted. “At least not that way. But if you distract him so he can’t finish up my work on time, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Pish-tush. Course you will, honey. Besides, all we want for Lily is whatever’s left after you get through with him.”

  “Argh,” Marty growled.

  “Did I tell you I’m doing this place on the bay for the CEO of PGP? Hey, if you don’t have Krispy Kremes, how about some cinnamon toast? Lots of butter, lots of sugar, just a dash of cinnamon?”

  “Sorry, I burned up all my cinnamon. Plain buttered whole wheat is the best I can do.”

  “Oh, God, you’re just so disgustingly wholesome. Is that him? I heard a truck out front.”

  Well, shoot. “You hung around deliberately just so I’d have to introduce you, didn’t you.”

  The redhead’s smug look was all the answer Marty needed. By that time Cole was at the door and there was nothing she could do to postpone the inevitable.

  “You ready to roll?” he called as he stepped into the hall.

  “Come on in the kitchen a minute. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Sure, she did. Like she wanted a face full of zits.

  “Sasha, this is Cole Stevens. Cole, Sasha.” Through narrowed eyes, she watched for any reaction.

  Cole grinned and looked over the short, shapely, overdressed redhead without even bothering to disguise his interest. Amazement or amusement, she couldn’t be sure.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. uh—Sasha. I believe we spoke on the phone.”

  Sasha all but drooled. “Well, my goodness gracious, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Sasha,” Marty warned softly.

  “I just meant, poor Marty’s been so desperate for a man—that is, for someone to tear her house up and put it back together again.”

  “Oops, look at the time. I guess you’ll have to stop off at IHOP on the way north,” Marty said with a grim smile. Sasha didn’t have a mean bone in her body, but mischief was her middle name. “Cole’s got work to do, I’ve got to walk Mutt, and then we’ve got loads of stuff to accomplish today—Isn’t that right, Cole?”

  He nodded obediently, those tarnished brass eyes gleaming with amusement. She would have swatted him if it wouldn’t have given Sasha so much satisfaction. Nothing the redhead liked better than stirring up a hornet’s nest.

  “Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

  “Oh, would you just listen to that. Isn’t he sweet?”

  “Sasha…”

  “Have you thought any more about those colors I showed you?” she asked as Marty urged her toward the front door. “With that big north-facing window—”

  “I’m giving it a lot of thought,” Marty lied as she all but pushed her friend out the door. And then listened to the throaty chuckles that drifted in her wake like a cloud of her favorite perfume. “With friends like that,” she muttered, “who needs enemies?”

  “Is she, uh, in show business?” Cole asked when she rejoined him in the kitchen.

  “You mean just because she’s wearing a red leather skirt, a yellow fur jacket and chandelier earrings, not to mention white lace stockings and those five-inch heels? I think it’s the Napoleon complex. She doesn’t want to risk being overlooked.”

  Cole shook his head slowly as he led her out to the truck. “Not much chance of that,” he said. “I didn’t catch her last name. Does she have one?”

  “She has at least five—one of her own and four ex-husbands to pick from. I never know which one she’s using, so I usually don’t bother to use one.”

  “Madonna. Cher. Sometimes one name’s enough.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but that’s probably it.”

  Evidently done with the subject of her friend’s various names, he said, “I figure we can put Mutt through his paces and be back by eight, unless you have stops to make.”

  She didn’t. And this wasn’t the way she’d planned for the morning to go, but she surrendered to the inevitable. Less trouble that way.

  She really should have insisted on taking her car, though, because his truck was a little too cozy. The scent of leather, soap and coffee from the mug in the cup-holder teased her senses. That was before he switched on the engine and the strains of cl
assical piano poured from the speaker.

  Classical piano? Had he made a mistake and turned on WUNC, the closest PBS station?

  Halfway to the kennel, the music was still playing. She recognized it vaguely as Chopin, but couldn’t have named it if her life depended on it. While they waited for one of Muddy Landing’s three streetlights—the last two were new, and they hadn’t quite got the timing down yet—he whistled softly under his breath, following the melody perfectly.

  “You want me to take him?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I can do it now that I know what the problem is.”

  “Fine,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll just stick around in case he gets distracted by that cat again. Like I said, if he gets away—”

  “I know,” she cut in. “Call nine-one-one and get someone to sound the tornado warning.”

  She knew what to do about the dog. What she didn’t know was what to think of a man who drove a truck that had to be at least ten years old and was showing signs of rust. A man who lived on a boat and whistled Chopin.

  A man who barged into her private dreams as if he had every right to be there, leaving her all hot and bothered. If she couldn’t manage that damn dog, it would be his fault, not hers, Marty thought rancorously.

  In fact, Mutt was on his best behavior. Thanks to the hand signals, he actually allowed her to fasten on his choke collar without stepping on her feet more than a couple of times. Of course he whacked her with his stub of a tail and slobbered on her hand, but, as Cole said, that was only because he liked her.

  She hated to think of the damage the creature could do if he didn’t.

  They’d gone only a few hundred feet down Water Street when the gray Mercedes pulled away from the curb and crept forward.

  Cole touched her shoulder and said quietly, “Keep going. I’ll catch up with you.”

  Before she could ask what he was going to do, he wheeled around and jogged back along the weedy path. Turning to stare after him, Marty was nearly pulled off her feet until she remembered the hand signal that meant Be still, you big lug.

  Just as Cole got to within twenty-five feet of the car, the driver hooked a left and took off down Third Street. Cole stared after it for several moments before returning to where Marty and Mutt waited.