Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  Luc is watching my face, and I’m probably turning green in front of him because as he waits for my answer, his eyes soften.

  “I’m being an ass,” he says.

  I swallow and stand as tall as possible. “You kind of are.”

  His mouth quirks and cue The Dimples.

  Goddammit. I don’t want to, but I crack a smile.

  He cocks his head to the side, but the look in his eyes is sincere. “If I say I’m sorry, will you let me move your fridge and pack up some of your stuff?”

  I sigh. What are my options? Death by refrigerator or life as the object of pity. Let’s face it. I’m already an object of pity to virtually everyone I know. Why does it matter if this gorgeous contractor thinks of me as his charity case?

  I clench my teeth. Because it does matter. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. But like I’ve said, getting what you want is overrated. Right now, I have to go with what I need. And fuck all if I don’t need some muscle to help me move that goddamn fridge.

  Begrudgingly, I nod. “Deal.” So, this is what crow tastes like. I prefer chicken.

  The smile he gives me—avec Les Dimples—makes my lungs empty when they should fill, and I sound like an asthmatic.

  “Millie?”

  “Y-yes?” My God, why does my name sound so good when he says it? It’s a terrible name. The worst name ever. It’s—

  His stare practically stakes me in place. “I apologize for acting like an ass.”

  “O-Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to apol—Oh, wait, this is you saying sorry,” I blither. I don’t know if I’ve ever blithered before, but blithering I indeed am.

  STOP BLITHERING!

  AND STOP THINKING OF FORMS OF THE WORD “BLITHER!”

  Luc’s top teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip in a way I’m sure means he’s trying not to laugh in my face.

  I need a bra. And shoes. And a shirt that covers my stomach. If he’s going to help me with all this shit, and I’m going to continue to make a fool of myself, I need to at least be decently clothed.

  Without removing my arms from over my boobs, I raise one index finger and turn on my heel. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  He nods, grinning. “Great. I’ll just go get that dolly.”

  It turns out moving a refrigerator is more involved than it sounds. Cleaning out the refrigerator is actually the first step in the process. I did not know this. Luc did.

  And guess what my life before didn’t prepare me to do? Yep. Clean out the refrigerator.

  It has been five months. Five months since my parents died. Five months since I moved back into this house. And I have not once cleaned out the fridge.

  Sure, I’ve thrown stuff out that was taking up too much space and tossed things that I’ve noticed looking… well… ancient. But large-scale culling of expired salad dressing and mold-growing sour cream and—

  God help me. What the hell is that?

  A mushroom panini? Someone’s liver?

  “What the hell is that?” Luc asks over my shoulder. He sounds afraid. I should have worn gloves. And a mask. And a hazmat suit.

  “Ignorance is bliss,” I declare, and drop the thing in the garbage. To my mounting humiliation, the bag is almost full.

  “How much more is in there?” He peers over my head. What remains is, at minimum, identifiable. Eggs. Lunch meat. Cheese without blue spots. Apples. Celery. Avocados that aren’t doubling as water balloons. And milk I bought Tuesday.

  But the dearth of old food means that suspicious and, frankly, alarming stains are visible on the shelves and crisper drawers.

  “Okay,” Luc says in a choked voice that makes me think he’s fighting his gag reflex. Again. “Got any spray-on bleach?”

  My spirits lift. “Yes. Plenty.”

  He nods. “Right. Put everything you’re keeping on the counter, and spray all in there,” he says, grimacing and waving a hand to encompass the fridge’s innards. Then he nods to the trash. “I’ll take this out. Then we’ll move the fridge.”

  He’s doing me a favor. I get that, but I just can’t help it. “Bossy much?”

  If his face were an egg, I’ve just cracked it. He stares at me, surprised, and then his eyes narrow. But maybe it’s the curling lashes. Or maybe it’s the almost imperceptible tugging at the corners of his mouth, but I know for sure I haven’t offended him.

  But he doesn’t take his eyes from me when his voice pitches low. “Twenty-four seven.”

  And now I’m the one who is stunned.

  With that, he cinches the red ties of the garbage bag, yanks them into a knot, and lifts the thing out of the trash like it weighs no more than a Kleenex.

  “Trash bin is in the garage,” I say, giving him a helpful nod to the side door. I’m proud of myself. My words sound completely steady—as if that low rumble in his voice didn’t just cause a seismic event in my lady parts.

  But it did. The ground shifted. Pebbles scattered. And boulders threatened to break free.

  I gulp a few lungfuls of air and step deeper into the cavity of the refrigerator, letting its artificial cold tame the blood that has rushed to the surface of my skin.

  By the time Luc comes back inside, every shelf and drawer in the fridge is awash in Clorox spray, and I am in a fierce battle against a sticky brown stain that I hope is congealed maple syrup.

  “Where’s your temporary setup going to be?”

  “Just inside the living room,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder. “We can move the table in there, and I have a stand for the microwave. I just don’t know where I’ll put the dishes I’m going to leave out.”

  Luc gives me a confused look. “What do you mean?”

  I blink at him. “The one’s we’re going to use.”

  He gives me a slow shake of his head. “You shouldn’t leave any out.”

  “Why not?” I ask, frowning.

  A kaleidoscope of responses passes over his face. Surprise. Curiosity. Amusement. Each morphing quickly into the next without any one holding sway. His mouth opens and closes. I catch sight of the crooked incisor as his dimples emerge. “Millie, where are you going to wash them?”

  I turn to point to the sink and stop midway. “Oh.”

  To his credit, Luc just sniffs when he could double over at my stupidity. Why is there never a convenient hole to crawl into when you need one?

  “You have paper plates? Plastic utensils?” he asks, smiling.

  My face makes a big to-do about trying on shades of red. “No, but I’ll get them.”

  “Some people set up a basin by an outdoor faucet to wash dishes, but it gets old.” Luc shrugs. “That might be worth it if you barbecue a lot and you have tongs and basting brushes to wash.”

  I’ve never barbecued anything in my life. My dad’s gas grill is on the back deck, and, honestly, I wouldn’t even know how to light it. But Luc doesn’t need to know that.

  I press my lips together and nod. “Good idea.”

  It’s after nine when Harry comes home, starving, as usual. He strides into the kitchen, finds me packing dishes into boxes with a strange man, and blinks at me.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  I’m wrapping a juice glass in newspaper. Boxes, empty and full, cover the kitchen floor. I give Harry a long look. “Hi Millie. Who’s our guest?” I say, doing my best Harry impression with exaggerated politeness.

  My brother gives Luc a sidelong glance, but he does it wearing an abashed grin. “Hi Millie,” he drones, his deepening voice sounding nothing like my impersonation. “Who’s our guest?”

  With a hand covered in newsprint, I gesture to the man who has been helping me for the last three hours. “This is Luc Valencia. He’s our contractor.”

  Luc steps forward, hand extended. “How’s it going?”

  “Nice to meet you.” Harry shakes his hand, looking at him more closely. “Valencia?” he asks with emphasis.

  Luc’s smile is easy, and even though I’m ready for The Dimples, they still hit me
like an electric charge.

  “Yeah, my brother Alex is on your soccer team.”

  Harry’s eyes go wide. “No way! Alex is your brother? Man, he’s a beast!”

  Luc chuckles. “Thanks, but he’s not the only one. I’ve been to a few of your games,” he says, looking impressed. “Starting goalie? You’ve got skills.”

  The sight of my little brother puffing with pride has me riveted. Did he just grow taller right before my eyes?

  “Oh… thanks,” he mumbles, but he looks ridiculously pleased. He clears his throat and glances back at me. “So, is there any food?”

  “You didn’t eat at Connor’s house?”

  My guess is Harry is going to be a defense attorney one day. He looks at me doubtfully. “I didn’t say that.”

  I roll my eyes. “What did Mrs. Owens serve?”

  “Meatloaf… with mashed potatoes and peas,” he says. “I had seconds.”

  “Well, no wonder you’re still hungry,” I tease, but I was prepared for this scenario. “Pizza’s in the oven.”

  “Thank God,” he mutters and steps over the three packed boxes that block his path as if they are just cracks in the sidewalk. The oven door gives a squeaky groan as he wrenches it open, revealing the two pizza boxes. “Yeah, Papa John’s. What kinds are they?”

  “One’s Garden Fresh and one’s Ultimate Pepperoni.” He removes each and sets them on the stovetop. I brace for the complaints I know are coming, but I pinch a sheet of newspaper and grab the next glass, determined to keep working.

  “Of course there’s like a thousand slices of veggie left and only two with actual meat,” he grouses.

  “You were at Connor’s,” I remind him tiredly.

  He reaches up and opens a cabinet, only to find it empty. Harry looks back at me, clearly perplexed. “Um, no plates?”

  I wave a hand to indicate the boxes crowding the kitchen floor.

  “I’ll just eat over the box,” he says, transferring two of the unpopular Garden Fresh slices to the near empty box of pepperoni. “I have two more chapters of Les Mis to read for tomorrow. I’m gonna take this upstairs.” He high steps over the boxes, moving toward the door.

  “Please don’t leave that box in your room overnight,” I beg. “It’ll attract vermin.”

  Clarence has been stretched out on the floor, keeping watch since Luc and I have been working, but when he sees Harry leaving with food, he scrambles to his feet to follow.

  “Clarence will catch any vermin,” Harry says, grinning.

  “Please, Harry. Please bring the box down.” I’m still trying for politeness, but I hear the edge in my voice. I’m his sister. I’m his guardian. But I’m not Mom or Dad. What can I really do if he doesn’t listen to me? I have to pick my battles, and if we start butting heads now, what’ll it be like when he’s sixteen and driving?

  Harry’s eyes roll skyward. “Fine,” he drones. “I’ll bring it down.”

  “Thank you, Harry.”

  My brother grumbles something under his breath, but then proves he still has some manners when he turns to Luc on his way out. “Nice meeting you.” Harry leaves with Clarence at his heels, the dog’s black nose tipped up in the air, following the alluring scent of pizza.

  It’s all I can do not to heave an exhausted sigh, but I don’t need Luc Valencia to pity me more than he already does. My guess is he has an opinion on the little vignette he’s just witnessed, but I don’t really want to hear it.

  That’s another thing I’ve had to get used to since assuming the role as guardian of the household. Other people’s opinions. What I’m doing right with my siblings and what I’m doing wrong. Usually, it’s what I’m doing wrong. As soon as people know our situation, all they want to do is dispense advice. At the doctor’s office. At Mattie’s piano recitals. At school. Emmett’s school counselor is particularly vocal.

  So I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the newspaper I’m stuffing into the last juice glass. But I can hear Luc employing the Sharpie on the box of coffee mugs, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see the leg of his jeans and steel-toed boots.

  I’ve never really appreciated how good jeans and steel-toed boots look on a guy.

  I appreciate it even more as a solid two minutes pass, and Luc hasn’t uttered a word.

  And then the unmistakable grumble of an empty stomach fills the kitchen. It’s so loud I actually jump.

  I shoot him a concerned look. He’s unloading the spice cabinet into a box on the counter and soundly ignoring my stare.

  “Would you like some pizza?” I offer, realizing with a belated pang of guilt that I should have offered him something long before now. We’ve been at it for hours, and I’m sure his caloric needs far outweigh mine. I mean, you don’t get muscles like that without consuming some serious fuel.

  “I’m fine,” he says, waving a hand in my direction, but still not looking at me.

  With a shrug, I get back to work until his stomach roars again less than a minute later.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Earlier,” he says, but this time, he glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes inscrutable.

  I move to the sink to wash the ink from my hands. “How much earlier?” I’m standing closer to him, and he abandons his task to face me.

  “Lunch.” He says it almost like a dare. I dare you to hassle me to eat.

  I scoff. He has no idea that I hassle people about eating properly three times a day. Just no one as big as he is. I dry my hands before opening the still-warm oven.

  “You haven’t had dinner. You’ve got to be starving,” I say, pulling out the box. “There’s still half a pizza in here.”

  “Which you are saving for lunch tomorrow.” Amused certainty plays in his dark eyes, but he doesn’t openly smile.

  I blink. “How did you know that?”

  Luc chuckles. “It was just a guess, but why else would you get a large veggie pizza if your brothers and sister don’t like it.”

  “But—I—” My mouth opens and closes, but he’s right. I was saving some of it for lunch. Then inspiration strikes. “I’ll only eat two pieces. There are four left. You should take two.”

  His eyes narrow, but now he is grinning. “Then you could have it for two lunches.”

  I pull a face. “I’d be sick of it by then.” It’s true, but I’d probably eat it anyway. I mean, Saturday is going to be crazy. It’ll be a mad dash to get all of us out of the house for Harry’s tournament. Two pieces of stale pizza could be my breakfast.

  Screw it. We can get donuts on the way to the soccer field.

  I give him my best level stare. “I really can’t let you pack one more spice jar on an empty stomach.”

  Laughter takes him off guard, and holy shit. It’s better than chocolate cake. It’s better than a foot massage. It’s better than dewormed puppy kisses.

  And for the record, a kiss from a dewormed puppy is the only kind of puppy kiss I’ll accept. Advice to live by.

  Luc laughs, and I know for sure I’m total crap at cooking because it’s the best thing I’ve ever made in this kitchen. By a long way.

  The sight of it makes my stomach muscles sashay like they are “New Orleans Ladies.” Unable to speak, I do the only thing at my disposal. I open the pizza box and thrust it toward him.

  His awesome laugh turns into a wry smirk. Luc leans toward me, and for one shocking moment, I think he’s going to plant a kiss on my cheek, but he’s just reaching past me to tear a napkin from the roll mounted under the counter.

  “Unlike Harry, I’m not going to eat over the box,” he says, drawing back and then claiming a slice. Luc takes a bite. Watching that is almost as good as watching him laugh. I forcibly tear myself away, putting the still open pizza box on the counter and blithering a bit more.

  “I’ll just put two of these into a Ziploc,” I say, awkwardly narrating my actions. “Good thing we haven’t packed these.” I raise the box of gallon size bags like I’m a marching band conductor.
>
  Shut up, Millie. Just shut up!

  Leaving the biggest for him, I pack up two slices of pizza. I’m certain that tomorrow over lunch I’m destined to be reliving this moment and having inappropriate thoughts of Luc Valencia.

  And then it hits me. Tomorrow is one thing. Monday is something else. When the work actually starts, is he going to be with the crew? And what time are they going to get here every morning? He’s the only kitchen contractor I want to go braless in front of.

  Wait. That didn’t come out right.

  He’s the last kitchen contractor I want to go braless in front of.

  No. What I mean is I DON’T WANT TO GO BRALESS IN FRONT OF ANY MORE CONTRACTORS!

  There. That’s better.

  I give a decisive nod to my internal monologue, except my nod is external, and it’s the movement that pulls me out of my head—and my head out of my ass—to discover Luc watching me with a slight frown of concern, mid-bite.

  “I—uh—zoned out for a minute there.”

  He bites, chews, and swallows, but even through these actions I can see the corners of his mouth tipping upward. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  I hear the irony in his voice, but even that is delivered gently. He’s teasing, but he’s not mocking.

  And I’m embarrassed, but I’m not offended. Still, “I have a lot on my mind.”

  His smile fades. Those dark brows draw together. “Yeah,” he says. “That I’ve noticed.”

  Chapter Nine

  LUC

  I beat the crew to Millie’s on Monday morning. It’s no accident. But it’s also not to see her. I successfully avoided running into her at the soccer field on Saturday. Mostly because I only stayed for half a game and I stood on the sidelines the whole time I was there.

  Mami was not happy about it.

  But I wanted to be the first one here today because Donner, Sam, and the temp, whoever he is, don’t make up my ideal team. The thought chafed at me all weekend. This is a chance for Donner to prove himself and be promoted to site manager, but I don’t want his lack of experience to cause any problems for Millie and her family.