“I-It’s stupid. For some reason, I just pictured you starting tomorrow,” she says, sounding embarrassed.
I sit up straight, surprised. “You’ve already packed up? Set up your temp kitchen?”
“Huh?”
It’s my turn to be silent because I don’t trust my voice. My face is split with a huge ass smile, and I’m afraid she’ll hear it. I clear my throat and pull it together.
“Um, Miss Del—”
“Millie,” she interrupts.
“Okay, Millie.” I say her name and smile again. How did she end up with such an old fashioned name? But maybe it suits her. She has a lot of responsibilities for someone so young. And it’s different. I don’t know anyone else named Millie.
I sweep these thoughts aside and focus on her kitchen. “We can’t get started until everything—all of your dishes, cookware, furniture, everything—is cleared out,” I explain, picturing the new footprint. “The first thing we’re going to do is rip out the cabinets and counters.”
“Oh shit,” she mutters. “I… didn’t think of that.”
I’m glad she can’t see me because my grin would probably piss her off. “So do you need the weekend to do that?”
She groans. It would be sort of cute if she didn’t sound so overwhelmed. And miserable.
“We’re not ready, Mr. Valencia.”
“Luc.” My name comes out soft, and I clear my throat again and speak with more force. “Call me Luc.”
“Well, Luc, we won’t be ready for Monday,” she says, disappointment heavy in her voice. “We’ve got too much going on this weekend.”
A light bulb goes off. “Soccer tournament Saturday.” Mami mentioned it Monday night.
“Yeah, and piano recital Sunday.” From her weary tone, I don’t think she’s looking forward to either.
I rub my forehead and think about the other jobs I have waiting in the wings. Maybe I could shuffle around a small one to give her a few weeks to get ready. I reach for the laptop beside me.
“Just give me a sec…”
“Sure.”
I cradle the phone between my head and shoulder as I type, but even though the speaker is not pressed directly to my ear, I don’t miss a loud chorus of barking that mutes the background music of Millie’s breath.
I chuckle. “You at work?” I ask, scanning over my waiting list.
“How’d you guess?” she asks dryly.
“Here’s one.” I open up the plans for a closet makeover. That’ll take three weeks. Four tops. “What if I shift some jobs around and get back to you next month?”
She gasps. “What?! No! Oh, please, no.” She sounds almost desperate. “We’re all looking forward to it. I-I still have tonight and tomorrow night. I’ll get it done.”
I frown. I can picture her doing it. Standing on a stepladder in her scrubs, taking down platters and Pilsner glasses from the highest cabinet. By herself.
I have the urge to offer to help her. And as soon as the impulse strikes, I really, really want to.
But she’s a client. We don’t listen to clients breathing and we don’t offer to help them pack up, the voice reminds me.
But this time, I argue back. What about the remodel we did for the guy with the spinal cord injury? Making his house wheelchair accessible?
Papi had made sure the guy and his young wife didn’t have to worry about moving furniture, picking up toys in the kids’ rooms, or emptying closets as we outfitted the whole house with wider doors. We’d done it all.
Yeah, but his skin didn’t make you think of ice cream flavors. And it’s NOT on your Daily Three.
“I just need to find enough boxes…” I hear her voice trail off, and I come back to my senses.
I have boxes. Plenty of boxes in the warehouse. The ones for light fixtures and ceiling fans are probably the size she needs. I could drop them off on my way home…
Stop.
“Ah!” she exclaims. “Pay dirt. Tons of boxes in the supply room. Good God. Who needs this much catnip?” She’s talking to herself. I grin. It’s a lot sweeter than the way I talk to myself.
Sounds of scuffing and shuffling have replaced sounds of barking dogs. “Schedule us for Monday, Mr. Val—I mean, Luc. We’ll be ready.” Then her voice drops, but I still make out the words. “Even if I have to pull an all-nighter to do it.”
I leave Red’s Health Club a little after six, my muscles rubbery after circuit training and heavy after the sauna and shower. I needed it, both the beating the workout gave me and the vaporizing heat.
Firing. Hector. Sucked.
The guy had the nerve to act surprised. Even after what happened Tuesday. Even after I recounted the list of screw-ups—costly screw-ups—he’d made under Papi.
He’d scowled and told me I’d never be the boss Papi was. And when he said it, I knew what this was all about. Him not wanting to take orders from me. The boss’s son. Who’s now the boss.
And that sucked too. Because I’ve sensed a little of that from all the guys, the way their eyes cut to each other when I come down on them or make them redo sloppy work. The yes, sirs with just a hint of attitude in the sir.
They may not know I never asked for this. Never asked for Papi to get sick and retire early. He sure as hell never asked for diabetes. Papi has a gripe about nearly every call I make, but I know part of that comes from being sidelined before he was ready. And I know him. I don’t even need to pick up the phone and ask him what he would do. Every call I make is with him in mind.
Papi put everything he had into this business. When he finally got his green card, he worked three jobs, seven days a week, to finish building the capital to buy the equipment he needed to strike out on his own. It took him two solid years. And then he busted his ass to build a reputation based on efficiency, honesty, and affordability.
When I started working with him at seventeen—which was when he could actually afford to pay me—he told me we had to work harder than all the white contractors. People here look at us and expect us to be lazy, he’d said. They’ll try to catch us cheating them or stealing from them. We can’t just be good enough. We have to be great to be good enough.
I’ve been doing this almost ten years, and while our clients are hiring us because they’ve heard of our reputation, their neighbors are always watching. Waiting. We still have to be great to be good enough.
So, yeah, I can be hard on our guys. And maybe I’m being harder on them than Papi would have been. Because if he had to be great to be good enough, then I have to be frickin’ perfect to be great to be good enough. Because he’s watching, and I can’t let him down.
And I’m not stupid. Nobody’s perfect. I fuck up too. And I try to balance being a hardass with giving credit where it’s due. That means keeping my eyes open. Which of the guys is doing a stellar job? Who needs to be singled out and patted on the back? Who needs a raise? Who’s going to take Hector’s place as site manager?
I toy with this last question as I walk to my truck. The Lambert’s job definitely needs a manager, and I can’t do it. I move around too much. Before firing Hector, my plan was to put Miguel, Sam, and Donner on the Delacroix job with Miguel as manager. All three of those guys are careful and don’t need much looking after—even Sam, who’s just nineteen.
Until I can hire someone new full-time, I’d probably be better off leaving Tony where he is at the Sterling’s, moving Miguel to the Lambert’s, putting a temp worker to follow Donner’s lead at the Delacroix’s, and checking in on them and helping out as often as I can.
I reach my truck and spot the half-dozen boxes I’d pulled from the warehouse this afternoon. Millie Delacroix said she had plenty of boxes, but I pulled them anyway.
Don’t go over there. We don’t see clients at night without an appointment.
The voice is right. I might make a night time stop at a new construction site or a home the owners have moved out of for a major renovation, but I don’t disturb families after dark unless I need to meet with a homeo
wner to go over plans or changes and they can’t fit me in during the work day.
But I hear Millie’s voice, and it’s even louder than the one in my head. We’ll be ready...even if I have to pull an all-nighter to do it.
It’s almost as though the truck drives itself.
That monster of a dog is barking from inside before my boots even touch the ground.
This is a mistake, the voice warns. Ignoring it, I slam the truck door and pluck two of the boxes from the bed. The front door opens as I approach, and the bear dog steps out, still barking, but he doesn’t charge me the way he did Tuesday. He just walks to the edge of the porch and barks up toward the moon, just two or three great bellows.
Behind him, Millie’s brother, the young one, stands in the open door, staring. I approach with the boxes, but I stop at the foot of the steps under his suspicious gaze, letting the dog sniff me, and I see the moment the boy’s eyes narrow with recognition.
“Hey, you were at the game the other night,” he says, almost accusing.
I nod. “I was.” What’s his name? Evan? Eric? “I’m Luc, and I’m going to be working on your kitchen. Is Millie home?”
He blinks, surprised, but then his expression turns bored. “She’s in the shower.”
I’m mounting the steps, but at this I halt. She’s in the shower? The knowledge grabs me by the throat. To swallow… breathe… speak, for a moment, is impossible.
Go. Leave the boxes and go, the know-it-all voice commands.
But I don’t. I can’t explain it. I know I should. I should just drop the boxes, tell the kid to give them to his sister, and come back Monday with the crew.
The words just won’t come. Not those words, anyway. Instead, different ones open my throat.
“Has she started packing the kitchen?” As soon as I ask, the urge to push my way inside and start helping her with the task has me gripping each box with shaky force.
The kid shrugs. “She started, but—”
“Emmett, who are you talking to?” The female voice has me looking past him, but it isn’t Millie. It’s her sister. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name either. At least I know Emmett’s now.
But when she steps up behind him and sees me, her eyes widen. “You’re Alejandro’s brother,” she says, a little breathless.
I crack a smile. “Yeah, I’m Luc.” I tuck one box under my arm and step forward to offer my hand. She takes it, but her gaze moves behind me, searching, looking hopeful.
Is she looking for Alex? Puta madre. She has a crush on my brother.
My smile widens. “I’m a contractor. We’ll be doing your kitchen remodel.”
Her eyes come back to me, alight. “Does Alejandro work with you?”
This has me smothering a chuckle. “Not yet. He’ll work with me this summer though.”
“Oh.” Clearly, she’s disappointed. Her gaze sharpens and a blush climbs her cheeks. She doesn’t have her sister’s stunning red hair. Hers is a cinnamon brown. But she’s cute. Really cute. Alex should count himself lucky. If he knows… “I’m Mattie. Can I help you with something?”
She’s going to take the boxes and send me on my way. I should be relieved. A part of me is relieved. But another part wants to see Millie.
Who am I kidding? All of me wants to see Millie.
“I brought these to help with the packing.” I hold out the boxes, and she takes them, thanking me.
“There’s more in the truck.” I turn and head that way, resolving to hand over the rest of the boxes. Yeah, I want to lay eyes on Millie Delacroix, but what good could come of that?
None at all.
Maybe one of my Threes tomorrow should be Dating. It’s been a couple months since Ronni and I split. This redhead is the first woman to catch my eye since then, and that’s probably all this is. A sign that I’m ready to get back out there.
Carrying back the load of boxes, I’m relieved. This is an issue I have the power to address. I climb the steps wearing a self-satisfied grin and stop dead. Emmett and Mattie are gone.
But Millie, wet hair framing her face and spilling over her shoulders, stands in the doorway dressed in a long-sleeved crop top and drawstring pajama pants.
Relief—along with all the moisture in my mouth—vanishes.
I only let myself take in the expanse of bare skin at her midriff for about .3 seconds, but Dios mío. Demasiada belleza.
But it’s what I see in her eyes that does me in. She’s surprised—and confused—to see me. Yet beyond that, she looks tired. Faint smudges of fatigue paint the fair skin beneath her eyes. Dressed in her pjs, her hair still wet, she looks soft, unprotected, and bone tired.
I don’t even think. My mouth just opens. “What can I do to help?”
Chapter Eight
MILLIE
Maybe it’s seeing Luc Valencia on my front porch. Maybe it’s his words. Maybe it’s standing in the open doorway with wet hair on a November night. But the tiny blonde hairs on my arms stand on end, and my nipples pebble under my pajama top. And then I do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Ever.
I look down.
Yep. My headlights are on. High beams. Shining right at him.
And, of course, because I’ve looked down, so does he. I know because it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots through his body, and he says something in rapid Spanish. Turning a shade of red somewhere between fire-roasted tomato and old timey barn, I swiftly cross my arms over my chest and brace myself to meet his gaze.
When I do, it’s terrifying. I’d expected him to at best look embarrassed—not as embarrassed as I am—and at worst to be leering, giving me a wolfish grin.
But he’s scowling. His frown is downright menacing with that scar notching through his left brow. Why the hell does he look so grumpy?
He shakes his head, and his expression eases. Just a little. He’s still frowning. “You’re finished with the kitchen already?”
“I…” I glance down at the boxes in his arms. Is that why he’s pissed? Because he brought me boxes and he thinks I don’t need them? If so, that’s messed up, and he’d be wrong anyway. I don’t have enough. “I’m not,” I say, swallowing as I recount the barest of scratches that I have put into that monster of a job. Who knew Mom had so many dishes? And crystal? And appliances? “Not even close.”
My tone sounds suspiciously like despair, so I clear my throat. “That’s why I had to take a break,” I blather on, shrugging a shoulder in the direction of the stairs. “A cold shower wakes me up better than anything else. I’m about to dive back in.”
He’s still frowning, but he looks more confused now than annoyed. “But you’re in pajamas,” he says, almost absently.
Now it’s my turn to frown. Like it’s any of his damn business. What’s he doing here anyway? If I hadn’t already crossed my arms over my chest, I’d do it now with a flounce. “Yeah, so after I work until I collapse, it’ll be one less thing I have to do before I face-plant on my bed.”
He blinks, drawing back a little, and I think maybe my words came out a bit too snippy. We stare at each other, and I’m pretty sure I’m giving him the same uncertain look he’s giving me. I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say to him now, but I’m not about to be the first to look away. That’s for chickens, and I won’t spend the next three to six months letting this guy think I’m a chicken.
Luc raises his armload of boxes, and I think he’s about to hand them over and get the hell out of Crazy Town, when the hint of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “I can help knock that out. I brought boxes.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer. He steps forward, and I can either let him crash into me with his bunch of boxes or I can move aside and allow him in. I move aside. “Wait. You don’t need—”
He walks past me toward the living room. “Yes, I do.”
I follow, my bare feet slapping on the wood floor. “This isn’t your responsibility. I can handle it.” I grab his arm, and we both stop.
Arm? Did I sa
y arm? His bicep has to be made of cedar.
Luc swings his dark gaze to me, skepticism hard in his eyes. I let go.
“You’re doing this by yourself?” he asks, his eyes snapping to Mattie and Emmett on the living room sectional. Mattie’s surrounded by books and papers. Emmett holds his Nintendo Switch, but they are watching us, silent and wary-eyed.
I scoff. “Yes. I’m the adult.”
Mattie has an AP Bio test tomorrow. Harry is at a friend’s working on a world geography project, and Emmett is only eight. I’m tempted to tell Luc this, but what business is it of his? I don’t owe him an explanation.
His brow quirks as though he’s debating the truth of my last statement. With a subtle tilt of his chin, he indicates my clothes, and I know exactly what he’s thinking, the bastard.
What kind of adult is already in pjs at six-thirty at night?
Luc shakes his head. “This isn’t a one-person job. You need help. I’m already here,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Let’s get to it.”
Thirty minutes ago, I was dead on my feet, but now I feel like I could go thirteen rounds with this guy without taking a break. I need help?! How dare he?
“I. Do. Not. Need. Help.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m not helping you. I’m helping me,” he says with a slight bow of concession. “If the crew and I get here Monday morning, and the kitchen isn’t ready for demo, it’ll cost me money in wages and push us off schedule.”
I scowl. “But it will be ready—”
“Have you set up your temporary kitchen yet? Moved your fridge? Your microwave? The table?”
This brings me up short. “N-not yet.”
“Do you have a dolly for moving the fridge?”
I press my lips together. “No.”
“I have one in my truck,” Luc says with a glint in his eye. “Would you like to borrow it?”
I try to picture moving the refrigerator by myself. Could I even manage it without the thing crushing me flat? I honestly hadn’t even thought of moving it. Maybe Harry and I could handle it together, but what if he got hurt?
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