#HotAndHandy (Keeney Builds #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

H ilary pulled into the driveway with a sigh. The water damage in her office hadn’t been too bad, but assessing the property for damage and getting a crew to do cleanup took two hours. What saved her from a tension headache were the texts from Vincent. He’d moved the desk into the apartment and placed it under a bedroom window. Then he took a photo of it and sent it to her with a question mark. She’d texted back a happy face. This was the routine for any piece of furniture that did not have an obvious location. The photo of her printer in the bathtub made her smile. And the last picture of an empty pod made her respond with an applause GIF. She hadn’t known what to expect when Iris suggested he help her and went into the day hoping they’d complete the job with minimum fuss. His sense of humor was a nice bonus.

Yanking down the visor to access the mirror on the back, she applied lipstick and fluffed her hair, grimacing at her reflection. Makeup wasn’t going to help; she still looked like a forty-year-old woman. A forty-year-old woman who was about to spend time with a much younger, hot guy. A much younger, hot guy who made her heart go pitter-pat. She and David had been together for twelve years. When he left her, she thought she’d never feel this awkward, tongue-tied sensation again.

It had been so long since she had chatted with an attractive man. Did she still know how to do it? She hadn’t spoken to Vincent for fear of saying something stupid like offering to wipe his sweat off with her tongue. Perhaps they should just send GIFs to each other.

Grimacing again, she shoved the car door open. She had one hundred dollars in her back pocket and carried two six-packs—one of Pepsi and the other of a local microbrew—which she had every intention of sharing.

Music played in the apartment. Closing the door, she looked around with a satisfied smile. The furniture was exactly where she wanted it. Small appliances were lined up on the counter, and boxes of kitchen goods stood on the peninsula separating the kitchen from the dining area. She placed the six-packs in the fridge and followed the music to her bedroom.

Vincent was muscling the mattress into place and singing along to Bon Jovi. If you could call it that. It wasn’t the worst she’d ever heard, but she hoped karaoke wasn’t his favorite pastime. That would be painful. Leaning against the door frame, she took a moment to admire the way his butt filled out his jeans. Two perfect globes begging to be squeezed. Her divorce was finalized more than a year ago, and the last time she’d had sex was…she could not count that high.

She took in the boxes stacked against the walls, labels facing outward, just the way she had organized them in the pod. Clasping her hands so they wouldn’t go wandering uninvited, she cleared her throat. “You’ve gotten so much done.”

Vincent jumped. “God, woman! I’m gonna have to put a bell on you. ”

“Sorry about that.” She grinned. “I’ll be sure to stomp next time.”

“Do that!” he replied with a scowl that was chased away by a twitch of his lips.

With a slight bounce and a quick nod, she said, “Thanks for assembling the bed.”

He stretched, loosening the muscles in his back. “Not a problem. Do you want help unpacking? I can do the books for you.”

“Are you a reader?”

“I am. I’ll read just about anything, but I prefer historical fiction when I have a choice.” He stood with his hands on his hips, smiling easily.

“That’s an odd way to put it.”

“I assume Iris told you I’d been in prison?” He continued at her nod, “We didn’t have the greatest library, and the pickings were sometimes slim. I was like a kid in a candy store when I walked into the Keeney Library.”

“I can see that.” Look at her, talking to the hot guy without drooling all over him. Inwardly, she gave herself a high five. “I have some Mary Stewart and Ivan Doig. Have you read any Dick Francis? I have all of his books.”

Vincent’s eyebrows came together. “Horse racing mysteries, right?”

Unpacking the books was way down on her priority list, but she’d move it to the top if it meant spending more time with him.

“There’s some drinks…” Hilary stopped speaking when she spotted the trunk. The lid was ajar, and the corner of a quilt peeked out. With three quick steps, she crossed the room and snapped open the lid, stiffening when she saw the photo album. Her heart sank, and she whirled around to glare at Vincent.

“You went through my things? Is this why you were so eager to help when I was gone? So you could pry?” She yanked the money out of her pocket and thrust it at him. “Here. You’re done for the day.”

Wide-eyed, Vincent opened his mouth. Then closed it and shook his head. Dropping tools into the metal box on the floor, he slammed the lid shut with a clang. With quick, jerky movements, he shut down his cellphone and shoved it in his pocket. It was a moment before he reached out to take the money. He returned her glare and made his way out of the silent apartment.

She moved to the trunk and retrieved the photo album when she heard the door close. It opened to a page of vacation photos of her younger self with David. On a beach, holding up tropical drinks and smiling at the camera from lounge chairs. She was pressed against David, breasts practically falling out of the bright yellow bikini. She slammed the album shut and buried it beneath the quilt.

With a jagged exhale, she studied the boxes neatly stacked against the walls. She could pick them up, stuff them back into the pod and leave. And go…where? Back to Olympia? Back to familiar faces and places, for sure. But also back to loss and pain and sadness. Olympia was where cancer had caused the loss of her breasts, her inability to bear children, and eventually, her marriage. No, Olympia was not an option. Her parents had passed, and her only sibling, a brother, lived in Maryland, so she didn’t have any close connections anywhere.

She slumped onto the trunk and rubbed a hand across her chest, feeling the mastectomy scars through the fabric of her shirt and staring at the bed. The mattress was stacked neatly atop the box spring. The nightstands were nestled against each side. Her eyes drifted toward the boxes once more. The box on top of one stack was labeled BEDDING. The one next to it said BEDROOM LAMPS. She snorted. Vincent might be nosy, but he was organized. She pushed herself up and set about making her bed .

T hrowing a ball of wadded-up newspaper against the wall wasn’t satisfying, so she tried slamming a cupboard door. But her nosy handyman neighbor had installed cupboard doors with hinges that refused to slam. Sighing, Hilary pulled out a glass and filled it with water from the kitchen sink. Big mistake. Through the window, she could see Vincent stomping back and forth across the yard from the garden shed to the garage. He looked pissed. He should look guilty. He should be in hiding.

Righteous anger had fueled her drive to unpack the boxes in the kitchen. Dishes, pots, pans, and cooking supplies were now stored in their new homes. The only thing left was to flatten the boxes and take them to the recycle container beside Iris’s garage. She checked the window again. Vincent wasn’t in sight, so she gathered up the cardboard and newspaper and headed down the stairs.

Closing the lid to the recycle bin, Hilary looked up at the sound of a car. She wanted to head back into the house but figured ignoring her landlady would be rude, so she waited for Iris. The older woman parked in the garage, taking forever to retrieve her belongings and exit the car. Hilary glanced over her shoulder, hoping Vincent wouldn’t appear.

“How’s it going?” Iris emerged, squinting against the sunshine, a bright smile on her face.

Hilary gave a one-shouldered shrug and dredged up a smile of her own. “Almost done. A few boxes to unpack still.”

Iris peeked into the empty pod and clapped her hands. “It’s empty! Isn’t Vincent wonderful? He’s such a good worker.”

Hilary hummed in agreement, not trusting herself to speak.

“Can I give you a hand?” Iris turned for the stairs.

“No! ”

Iris started.

Hilary blew out a breath. “Sorry.” She sidled around Iris and stopped two steps above her, effectively blocking her path. “It’s been a long day, and I want a chance to settle in.”

“Okay,” Iris said slowly.

A noise caught their attention, and they looked over to see Vincent using a crowbar to take apart an old potting bench. Hilary huffed, then stomped up the stairs and disappeared into the house.

The bathroom was the perfect place for covert observations. Of course, that meant standing in the bathtub in order to peer out the window, but needs must. She wasn’t able to hear the conversation, but she watched anyway.

The wood from the potting bench wasn’t going to be of any use if Vincent kept up his attack on it. Iris stopped well out of the distance of flying splinters. He tossed the crowbar to the ground, gesturing at the house. Iris covered her mouth with her hand and moved like she was going to the house. He snagged her arm and shook his head. Shoulders slumped, she turned back toward him. Hands on hips, he stared over her head at the garage wall while she spoke. It seemed to work because the rigidity left his posture, and he reached into a pocket to thrust something at Iris. She backed up and shook her head. He tried again, but whatever Iris said had him shoving it back into his pocket. He bent over and retrieved the crowbar. As Iris walked away, he started to pick up the pieces of wood strewn around him and stack them neatly in a pile.

Hilary climbed out of the bathtub and went into the kitchen. She made herself busy filling up the kettle to make tea, expecting to hear a knock from Iris any moment. It never came. She opened the fridge and stared at the beer inside. She didn’t like beer. She glanced over her shoulder at the man working in the yard.

What had he seen? What must he think of her? Had she overreacted? No. He’d invaded her privacy like he had a right to do so. She was definitely not going to lend him any of her books!

T he small painting was of a lone gnarled tree on a cliffside with a swirling ocean in the background. She’d forgotten about it. She’d forgotten she once displayed her work proudly. She’d forgotten creating art had once been her passion. About to store it in the back bedroom, a knock sounded. The problem with having French doors as your entrance was that you couldn’t hide from unwanted visitors.

Iris stood hunched over a plate of cookies, a sheepish look on her face. “Don’t be mad at Vincent,” she said, thrusting the cookies at Hilary when she opened the door. “It must have been an accident.”

Hilary accepted the plate and set it on the counter. “I know you two are close, but I will not have my privacy intruded upon.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

Iris shifted from one foot to the other. “Didn’t he break something?”

“I don’t think so.” Hilary crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the counter. “Did he say that he broke something?”

“Didn’t he?”

“Did he?” Hilary shook her head. “I’m confused. Come in.”

Closing the door behind her, Iris silently switched her gaze from where Hilary stood in the kitchen plugging in the teakettle to the living area where an open box sat on the coffee table, colorful pillows and a crocheted afghan poking out of it.

“Is it strange seeing someone else’s belongings in your house?” Hilary asked, pulling mismatched mugs out of the cabinet.

Iris looked to be in her late sixties, with soft gray hair, soft features, and a soft belly. She’d told Hilary that she hadn’t wanted to leave her house, but it was too big for her, which led to the decision to renovate.

Taking a tentative step forward, Iris agreed, “Yes. But without the wall between the kitchen and the living room, it looks so different. The hardwood flooring and the pale yellow paint, it doesn’t look like my house at all. So…it’s good.”

The kettle boiled, and Hilary set about making the tea. With two steaming mugs in her hand, she froze when she saw Iris holding the painting. She willed herself to relax and put a mug on the table. Iris smiled, placed the painting down before picking up her tea, and followed Hilary to the seating area.

Both women sat, their stiff postures negating the coziness of the scene. Hilary took the initiative in order to forestall questions.

“Why do you think Vincent broke something?”

Iris sipped her tea and threw a tense glance at her. “He didn’t say so, but when I asked him how it went, he grunted at me and stomped off. Vincent has been accused of things but is a good, honest boy. He would not have taken anything.” When they’d signed the rental agreement, Iris had told Hilary that she believed he’d been wrongfully accused.

Her concern for Vincent was palpable. But Hilary was too tired to care what was at the root of it. She shook her head dismissively. “Nothing is missing, and nothing is broken. He did go snooping, though, and I snapped at him.”

“Snooping?” Iris frowned, and then her face cleared, “Oh! The photo album.”

“What do you know about the photo album? Did he show it to you?” Hilary left Olympia to make a new start. To get away from gossip and false concern. Was Keeney going to be the same thing?

Shaking her head vehemently, Iris spoke in a rush, “Don’t blame Vincent, it was my fault. It was…there was a quilt sticking out of the trunk, and I opened the trunk to tuck it back in.” She leaned forward to touch Hilary’s hand. “The photo album caught my eye, but I never opened it.”

Was she telling the truth, or was she covering for Vincent?

Hilary didn’t know Iris well enough to answer the question. However, her distress was obvious and Hilary wanted to believe her. Which meant Hilary had snapped at Vincent without reason. Dismissing that uncomfortable thought for the moment, she said, “I haven’t been a tenant in a long time and have never been in a place where I lived so close to the owner. And I know this is new to you.”

Iris nodded.

“Can we agree that no one will enter my home without my approval? You won’t let anyone in here without my say-so?” She softened her request with a slight smile.

Iris nodded again with big, serious eyes.

“Good,” Hilary said, rising from the couch. Iris rose as well and took her half-finished tea to the counter. “Thanks for stopping by and clearing things up.”

Iris moved to open the door, looking both relaxed and tense at the same time. “Do you want me to talk to Vincent?”

“No, that’s fine, thank you though. Good night,” she replied and watched Iris walk down the stairs. Blowing out her breath in a big gust, she dumped the two mugs of tea in the sink and stared broodily out the window at the yard slowly coming alive after a long winter.

April was not a kind month in Western Washington. Days were normally wet, soggy, and uninviting. The backyard of Iris’s home was no exception. Tall evergreens ringed the property, sagging under the weight of wet branches. There were bare deciduous trees that would be lovely in a few weeks’ time but now looked sad and lonely. A vegetable garden in the right-hand corner was awaiting preparation for planting. The only evidence that rebirth was coming was the smell of sawdust emanating from the old garden shed.

The four places she’d looked at before finding Iris’s were cramped and dark. None with access to the outdoors. Living above the landlady wasn’t ideal, but the trees and back deck sold her. She figured she could get outside, and if the garden shed dweller wasn’t too much of a troll, the place might be quite peaceful. Then she’d spotted Vincent hauling something from the garden shed.

She had no idea what he was carrying because she was fixed on him from the top of his head, covered in curly, blue-black hair, over bunched tan biceps, and corded forearms, past washboard abs and narrow hips peeking over low-slung jeans which clung to muscular thighs. When he turned and bent to drop his load, his perfect butt came into view, and her knees gave out. Seeing him every day would not be a hardship.

Working with him today hadn’t been a hardship, either. It was enjoyable until she assumed the worst, jumped to conclusions, and didn’t bother to hear his side of the story. Seeing a light come on in the little house on the other side of the yard, an unpleasant tingle that felt suspiciously like guilt assailed her, and she kicked herself for misjudging him.