I swallow my own curses. “How—how much do you think a new window will cost?”
He does some mental math, staring at my ceiling for a moment. “I could probably get it done for a couple hundred bucks, say three to five hundred, depending on a few factors.”
I fight the urge to cry—I really, really don’t have that much to spend on this. “Damn it.” I turn away, staring at the stupid window. “It was stuck, and I was hot, and I’ve had a shitty day.”
“I get it. This has been a scorcher of a summer. Today especially.” He lifts a tape measure from his tool belt, leans over the sink, and takes a few quick measurements; he pulls a cell phone from his back pocket and taps the measurements into a notepad app. Then, with a wince, he glances at me. “So, a little bad news. This house is old, right?”
I nod. “Around a hundred years old.”
“So, back then, window sizes weren’t really standard. Getting a window to fit this space is gonna be tricky. You could end up paying more for it, just because of the unusual size. Usually, you pay more for bigger windows, obviously, right? Well, in this case, you’re gonna pay more for less. The other option is to get a standard window and widen the opening, but you’re gonna pay me the difference in labor. Plus a special order window takes a while to arrive, so you’ll be living with a boarded up window longer than you want.”
“None of that sounds great,” I say, still swallowing hard past my emotions.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” He peers at the window from one side and then the other. Another glance at me. “It was nailed shut, by the way. That’s why it wouldn’t open.”
“But I looked for nails!” I protest, with a shake in my voice.
He reaches up and fingers a spot on the frame, where there’s a slight bump in the paint. “They used pretty small nails and then painted over them. Barely noticeable unless you know what to look for.”
“Why—why would they do that? Why would anyone nail a window shut and then paint it?” I ask, unable to make sense of it.
He shakes his head. “Who knows? Folks back then did a whole lot of weird shit—stuff, I mean. I’ve been working on houses most of my life, and I’ve seen all sorts of goofy things. Bricked-in doors, bricked-in fireplaces, including the original mantle, wacky additions with no adherence to code or even common sense.” He glances at the ceiling, at the light fixture that hangs loose from the ceiling, showing a dark gap. “You ever have your electrical looked at? The wiring in some of these old houses can be wonky.”
“We did have an inspection done, and the guy said it all looked okay.”
He nods. “Well, that’s good.” He jerked a thumb toward the front door. “I’ll grab some stuff and get this boarded up before the rain comes.”
“Thank you.” I am desperately trying to infuse myself with a sense of calm and collectedness, and only partially succeed.
“Haven’t done anything yet except talk.” He gestures at my empty wineglass on the counter. “Sit down, have another glass of wine, and relax. This is taken care of.”
Well, put it like that…
I crack open the other bottle, promising myself I’ll only have one more LITTLE glass.
A few minutes later, I hear him in the landscaping bed outside the window. Then I see him—he’s got on a pair of thick leather work gloves, and he reaches up and pries loose the remaining shards of glass from the window, tossing them in an old, paint-crusted bucket. He then lifts up a ragged section of blue tarp, using an industrial staple gun to fasten it to the outside of the window.
“This won’t be pretty, but it’ll keep the rain out,” he says.
“It’s only temporary, anyway, right?” I say, sipping my wine.
He grins at me through the opening. “Exactly! Always look on the bright side of life.”
“You’re not going to sing Monty Python, are you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Well now I am!” And he breaks into the chorus of the song, in a surprisingly good voice, and in a British accent to boot.
He surprises me by continuing to sing the song as he works, stapling the tarp up over the window. And then, singing a Journey song—the Journey song, “Don’t Stop Believin’”—he nails a piece of plywood up over the tarp. It takes him all of ten minutes, and then he’s back inside, stuffing his gloves behind the buckle of his tool belt.
“Normally this is where I say it’s good as new, but we’re not quite there yet.” He tugs at his beard. “So. What do you think? Order a window to fit, or find one and make it work?”
“How long will it take to order one, and how much will it cost?”
“Could take weeks, and with labor, probably over a grand.”
Ouch. I really don’t have that. “And if you just make it work?”
He shrugs. “Same as before. Three to five hundred. I’ve got some building supply contacts, so I may be able to get you a deal on something. Maybe not perfect, but it’ll look nice when I’m done. And it will open.”
“You have a really nice voice,” I blurt, and then promptly regret it.
“Thanks. I have garage band with some buddies. We play at dive bars in the area, but we’ve never had anything pan out beyond that, so…here I am fixing windows.” He grins. “I don’t mind, though. I don’t think I’m cut out for the rock star life.”
I laugh. “No? Why’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m getting too old to act like a twenty-year-old. Besides, this business keeps me pretty busy.”
“Well, I guess it’s good for me that your musical career never panned out, huh?”
His eyes bore into mine, full of humor and heat. “Yeah, I’m thinking it’s working out for both of us.”
And then we stare at each other for an awkwardly long time, neither of us saying anything, until he blinks as if coming back to earth from a daydream.
“Um. So. I’ll find a window for you and be back to put it in by Friday at the latest.”
“Sounds good.” Am I whispering? Why am I whispering? I try again, louder, more firmly. “Um. Sounds good. Thanks, Jesse.”
“My pleasure, Imogen.” He huffs a laugh. “I really like that name. Never met anyone named Imogen before.”
“It was my grandmother’s name, and her grandmother’s.”
“Well it’s a pretty name.” He scuffs a toe. “So, you gonna name your granddaughter that?”
Oh god. Ouch. He can’t know the hurt accompanying that question, but still…ouch. “Um. Well, I don’t have any kids, so…probably not.”
He senses something in my voice, in the way I answered. “Wrong question, huh?”
I frown at his perceptiveness. “I…it’s a long story. Don’t worry about it.”
He tugs at his beard. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
“It was an innocent enough question, and you had no way of knowing—” I cut off abruptly, sighing. “Well, like I said, it’s a long story, and I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”
He waves a hand, and then hooks his thumb behind his tool belt buckle. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you rest. I’ll have a window for you ASAP. I’ll call you when I have something figured out.” He turns to leave, waving at me as he lets himself out the front door. “Have a good night, Imogen.”
“You too, Jesse. And thank you for fixing my window.”
“Ain’t fixed it yet, just patched. But you’re welcome. Talk to you later.” He grins at me. “And Imogen?”
I hesitate at the humor in his voice. “Yes?”
“It’s probably best to keep hammers away from windows.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll leave the hammering to the professionals in the future.”
He quirks an eyebrow and smirks, making my innocent remark a double entendre without saying a word. My face heats, and my thighs involuntarily clench together.
Oh boy.
This guy shows up and suddenly trouble is spelled J-E-S-S-E.
3
In typ
ical fashion, work the next day is slow. We’re booked solid for appointments, but we have very few walk-ins, and there was another scheduling mishap, so we have an extra nurse on duty, which means I spend a lot of time sitting at the nurse’s station, playing with a stapler and daydreaming.
One guess as to what—or whom—I’m daydreaming about.
Hint: six-four, big muscles, a sharp, quick sense of humor, and kind eyes.
And a big hammer.
Yeah, Jesse. The man fills my thoughts as I remember our conversation last night. He seems pretty much perfect. And…that ass. I mean, the man’s butt is museum quality.
I almost hope for an even hotter day on Friday when he comes to install my window, just so he’ll take off his shirt and give me a better look at his body. He’s around my age—around forty—so not a young man anymore, but he is clearly in decent shape. Strong, well-built, and fit. There may have been the vaguest hint of a belly—meaning he didn’t fit the romance book description of “not an ounce of fat anywhere on him,” but men like that don’t really exist. Or, if they did, they probably wouldn’t want anything to do with a woman approaching middle age, whose body is showing all the effects of gravity and time.
Jesse is sexy as hell and there has to be a line a mile long to get into his bed, and he probably never sees the same girl twice. And they’d all be younger than me, with tighter bodies than me.
Ugh.
Why am I even thinking about him? Why waste my time on this? I’m not in the market for anything with anyone. The ink on my divorce is barely dry.
But Jesse is just…so hot and impossible to ignore.
I was never a bad boy sort of girl—not that having long hair, a beard, and tattoos necessarily mean he’s bad or a bad boy, mind you. It’s just that I usually went for the clean-cut guys. The kind who wore A+F and J. Crew and played soccer or tennis and drove newer used cars they’d bought themselves by being responsible and working on the weekends.
Which had led me to date Nicholas in the first place. We met when I was twenty-eight, and he was thirty-two. He was a guidance counselor, drove a gray Ford Focus he’d bought used, wore polos and button downs even on Saturdays, owned precisely four pairs of shoes—all plain black or brown or tan oxfords, which he shined regularly—and watched CNN and Fox News religiously. He watched both, he said, to get an evenly balanced view of the news. His idea of exercise was walking from the parking lot to the door, and I doubt he knew a socket wrench from a screwdriver anymore than I did. Which made it all the more confusing that he wanted a fixer-upper, but he was insistent and I just went along with it, even though I thought it was a stupid idea.
The real question is, why did I date him in the first place? What had I seen in him? Well, he was steady and reliable, for one. Predictable. Staid. Paid attention to me, at first, at least.
So yeah, maybe I had some issues, but I knew I wanted a man I could rely on, who would be there for me, who I knew would treat me decently. A boring, middle-class, buttoned-up guidance counselor had seemed like a safe bet. And I’d been starved for attention. My last boyfriend before Nicholas had not been a great experience, and the breakup had been worse.
I was feeling bad about myself, when I met Nicholas at…well…Target, as a matter of fact. He was buying towels, and I was buying new bed sheets, because I’d wanted to erase any memory of the guy I’d been dating. We started talking about thread counts, and he asked me on a date, and I said yes.
He had all his hair back then, and no obvious belly. Not that I judge a man’s worth based on his hair or belly—I’m not that shallow. If the right guy came along and made me feel like—well, like Jesse made me feel last night…and happened to be balding and a little out of shape, I wouldn’t care.
I’d like to spend time with Jesse, though. Feel those hands on my hips…I bet he can dance, too. He probably has amazing rhythm.
“Imogen?” I hear a voice, and for a moment I can’t place who is talking to me. Jesse’s voice is deep and rough, and this one is rather high-pitched and soft.
“Huh?” I ask, blinking rapidly.
An amused snort greets me, and I see Dr. Bishara standing in front of me. “I have been trying to get your attention for several moments. Are you okay?”
I blink at him, still working on getting my bearings; right—I’m at work, and this is my boss. “Um. Yeah, I’m good, sorry. Just…spacing out, I guess.”
Dr. Bishara chuckles softly. “Spacing out, yes. Precisely.” He smiles at me. “You did the work of two people yesterday, Imogen. Why don’t you go home early?”
I want to, so badly. But I can’t. “I need the hours, Dr. Bishara. Why don’t you send Kathy home instead?”
“There will not be any more spacing out if I keep you here, will you?” His smile is gentle, but the question is sharp, pointed.
“Nope. I’m good.”
“Very well, then.”
The rest of the day goes by a bit faster, leaving me little time to spend thinking about Jesse, which is probably for the best.
Once the day is over I head home with plans to hit the shower, make a nice little dinner and chill out in the backyard. It rained a little bit this morning, but then it turned super hot and I’m dying to cool off…in more than one way.
Wait till Audra hears about my new handyman.
My phone rings as I’m getting into my car to head home.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Imogen, this is Jesse.” A brief pause. “The contractor from yesterday. I boarded up your window?”
“Yes, of course I remember you,” I say. As if I could forget him.
“So, I have a window for you. I could have you all fixed up tonight if you’ll be home.”
“Already? Yeah, sure. I’m on the way right now, actually.”
“Sweet. I’m in the area, as a matter of fact, so I’ll see you there in fifteen or twenty minutes?”
Sweet? Is he a prepubescent surfer?
“You got it, dude,” I say.
He laughs. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” He says it, once again, in a near-perfect replication of the inflection and tone from the scene in Toy Story.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” I say, answering the quote. “Buzz, look! An alien!”
He laughs even harder. “Oh man, I still love that movie. I used to babysit my nieces on Saturday mornings, and they’d literally watch that movie on repeat. I know just about every line.”
“I do too, actually,” I say. “I worked at a daycare when I was in nursing school, and that was one of about five movies the kids would watch.”
I’m in my car by this point and then plug in my earbuds and back out of the parking lot, still chatting with Jesse about our favorite kids’ movies—we share an affinity for them, oddly, despite us both being forty-ish and single and without children. His favorite is The Emperor’s New Groove and mine is Lilo & Stitch, and we trade favorite quotes from both movies as I drive home.
I’m home in a few minutes. I pull onto my street, and see a giant pickup truck sitting at the curb in front of my house. By giant, I mean a heavy-duty black Silverado with massive, knobby, thick-sidewall tires and a lift of several inches, tubular chrome steps, an LED light bar across the top of the cab, a winch at the grill, an oversized, built-in toolbox in the bed, and a back rack with rear-facing work lights.
“Is that you parked in front of my house?” I ask, still on the phone with him.
“Yeah,” he says. “When I said I was in the area, I sort of meant in the same neighborhood. So I’ve just been sitting out here. That’s you pulling up?”
“Yep.”
He hangs up without warning as I bump into my driveway, which is nothing but a pair of hard-packed dirt ruts in the grass beside my house—there’s no garage, not even a carport. Another item on the list of things I’d wanted to do to the place—build a garage addition. Parking outside in the Illinois winter sucks.
He’s sitting in his truck as I park, all the windows down, an arm hanging out.
The engine is off and the radio is on—playing “music” that sounds like someone put a spoon in a garbage disposal and recorded the resulting grinding noise, with a lot of unintelligible shrieking over top of it. He’s bobbing his head to the music, and his fingers are fiddling on the outside of his truck door, mimicking the movements of the guitar chords, I realize.
The radio shuts off as he opens the door of his truck and jumps down.
“Hey there,” he says. “Long time no talk.” His grin is addictive and sexy and easygoing.
“Hi.” I gesture at his truck. “What was that you were listening to? Your band?”
He laughs as he leans into the cab and withdraws his tool belt, buckling it around his hips—which, holy shit, is a sexy thing to watch. “God, you think I just listen to my own music? I hope I don’t come across as that egotistical, Jesus.”
“No, I just—I don’t know.”
He elbows me in the ribs. “I was kidding. Mostly. Number one, I don’t listen to my own music. Mainly because we don’t have an album or even an EP or anything. We’re just a dive bar band. We play covers and shit, mostly, with a few of our own originals tossed in now and then, but there are no recordings of us. Number two, that’s not the kind of music we play.”
I sigh in relief. “Good. Because I’m sorry, but that sounded awful.”
He just laughs again. “Eh, it’s not for everyone.” His eyes twinkle, amusement rife in them. “That’s my cousin’s band.”
I blanch. “Oh. Um. Sorry? I didn’t mean to offend you, or—god.” I let myself into my house, Jesse on my heels. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
He just laughs all the more. “I’m messing with you, Imogen, relax.” He shrugs. “I mean, it is my cousin’s band, though.”
I set my purse on the bottom stair and head into the kitchen. “It’s definitely not my thing. I didn’t mean to insult your cousin’s band, though.”