#HotAndHandy (Keeney Builds #1)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

T he driveway was full; Marcia’s Subaru Outback was parked behind Hilary’s Prius. Vincent wasn’t surprised. His mom hadn’t been home when he dropped off the cooler at her place. He parked the truck and turned off the engine, debating his next move. As much as he enjoyed talking to his mom at the end of the day, he really didn’t want to talk to Iris. Things were still kind of awkward, and Iris tended to flutter around him like a bird that didn’t know where to land. He’d found two new KBS shirts on his doorstep the other morning, which he supposed were a peace offering, but her siding with Eddie over the need for supervision still pissed him off, despite how much he enjoyed working with Carl. He’d never thought he’d like taking on an apprentice, but it was kinda fun to—using Hilary’s words—be teacherly.

He looked longingly at the tiny house. If he stuck close to the side of the garage, maybe he could ninja his way around the yard and make it to his place undetected. He shook his head and climbed out of the truck, muttering to himself, “Suck it up, princess.”

Through the window of Iris’s door, Vincent could see the two women sitting at the table, scrolling through their cellphones, a glass of iced tea in front of each of them.

He knocked once, then entered. “Hey.” Marcia dropped her phone, and Iris clutched the table edge. Vincent cocked his head to the side. They looked more guilty than startled. “What’s up?” He propped a hip against the kitchen counter and sipped from his ever-present water bottle.

Iris leaped up from the table and fluttered past him into the kitchen. “How was your day? You must be parched. Shall I get you some water?” She stopped when Vincent raised his water bottle at her with a small smile. “Oh,” she said, turning toward Marcia with big eyes. Marcia grimaced in response.

Catching the furtive exchange, he asked again, “What’s up?”

Iris found a spot on the counter needing her attention, grabbed a dishcloth, and started to scrub furiously. Marcia rolled her eyes and motioned Vincent to come and join her. When he was seated, she asked, “Have you been on the Keeney community Facebook page today?”

Vincent shook his head. “I haven’t been on it at all.”

Iris looked up. “You don’t do Facebook?”

“It’s a time suck. Besides, you and Ma tell me everything.”

“You know I’ve made a website for your business and that people post photos and reviews?” Marcia asked, picking up her phone.

Vincent nodded, wondering what she was getting at.

“Reviews on social media lead to more work. You did work for Jeanne Barclay?”

Uneasiness skittered through him. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Were there any problems?”

Jaw tensed, he looked down at the table. “Nothing I couldn’t take care of.” And nothing he wanted to tell them.

“What happened?” Folding her hands in front of her, she gave him a hard stare.

He didn’t say anything for a moment but knew she wouldn’t let up. When she wanted information, she was like a pit bull. Once she sank her teeth in you, she didn’t let go.

Gaze fixed on a spot on the wall, he said, “I installed a shower head for her a few weeks ago. Everything was fine. I got this feeling, though. She didn’t come out and say it, but she sort of let me know she would be interested in me personally.”

Marcia nodded but didn’t say a word.

“I got out of there as soon as I could. I don’t need her kind of trouble.” The lace panties he found in his toolbox seemed more like a threat than an invitation, and he’d put on rubber gloves before disposing of them. “Two days ago, she called me and said the shower head was leaking, so I stopped by yesterday morning to look at it.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair.

He really didn’t want to tell them about standing in the bathtub, arms raised overhead as he looked at the shower head, and feeling Jeanne’s talon-tipped hands stroking his ass, then sliding around his front to grab his crotch. He’d turned, grabbed her arms, and all but threw her against the bathroom wall. Heart pounding, it took him a moment to realize it was a horny housewife and not a predatory prisoner in front of him. Jeanne’s eyes were wide, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips. Vincent stepped out of the bathtub, lips curled in disgust. “The shower head is fine. Don’t call me again,” he’d declared before stalking out of the house.

“What was wrong with the shower?” Marcia’s question brought Vincent back to the present.

“There’s nothing wrong with the shower. I can’t say the same thing about Jeanne Barclay. Why? Did she complain to you?” Vincent twisted around to address Iris, who shook her head vehemently.

His mother answered. “She went onto Facebook and trash-talked you instead. She claims you do shoddy work, are totally lacking in customer service, and she didn’t feel safe around you.”

Vincent’s hands curled into fists as he swore softly.

Marcia had more good news to share. “Iris had two customers call today to cancel projects.”

“Three.” Iris clutched her necklace tightly.

“You told me two.” Marcia frowned.

“I managed to convince one of them not to cancel.”

Vincent focused on not losing his temper.

“Then the trolls came out,” Marcia stated.

Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Trolls?”

“Social media trolls,” Marcia sneered. “People who lurk in the background and like to stir the pot by getting nasty. Trying to piss people off.”

His knuckles whitened. “Are they saying lies about me?”

Marcia’s lips thinned. “No, they’re questioning the program you took in jail and whether it was legitimate. They intimate you’re not licensed or insured.”

“And they’re wondering if you were part of a gang,” Iris chimed in.

Vincent couldn’t take anymore. He shoved his chair back from the table, wanting to hit something but not knowing where the target was. Of all the ways things to go sideways, he hadn’t expected this. He headed to the door.

“You can’t take off. We need to figure this out.”

“Ma,” he said. “I’m a little frustrated right now and I don’t want to say something I might regret. So, please, just give me a few minutes.”

H ilary coasted down the driveway on her bicycle. At the end of the street was a narrow path connecting to the Burke/Gilman trail, a wide, paved pathway that followed the Sammamish slough from Redmond to Lake Washington and then into the neighborhoods of Seattle before ending near Ballard. The ride from the house to the college took fifteen minutes, and it thrilled her to get some exercise while commuting to work instead of adding to traffic congestion. She’d bought a cruising bike with no gears. It had a basket on the front, and she could sit upright and wear work clothes instead of cycling gear because she had no desire to show up to work in bike shorts. Helmet hair was a real thing, but her curls bounced back, and fresh air and exercise at the start and end of her day were better than therapy.

She’d just parked her bike beneath the stairs when Vincent exited Iris’s apartment, moving at a fast clip. “Hey,” she called, her heart beating a staccato rhythm. He flipped a hand but didn’t slow down, didn’t even look in her direction. Disappointed, she started up the stairs. She was only going to tell him that she’d enjoyed the book he recommended. He disappeared inside his house momentarily, then came back out and crossed to the garage. A minute later, she heard the lawn mower start up. Hilary was on the third step before she stopped.

Today was Thursday. He mowed the lawn on Saturday mornings. Always.

He attacked the grass with swift, jerky movements, unlike the smooth control usually a part of his routine. He was clearly agitated. Should she go to him? And what? He’d probably think she was a nosy old busybody. She continued up the stairs, digging her keys out of her tote bag.

After removing her work clothes, she hung her light gray pantsuit and pale peach blouse in the closet, then pulled on a pair of gray leggings and a baggy gray sweatshirt with Keeney College printed across the chest. Padding back up the hallway barefoot, she heard a tapping at the door. Iris stood there with another woman. The other woman was slightly younger looking and wore a bold, red quarter zip sweater over fitted, dark jeans and red ballet flats. A stark contrast to Iris’s pale blue cardigan over a pale blue blouse, mom jeans, and orthopedic shoes. The dark hair, dark eyes, bronze complexion, and firm set of the jaw gave the other woman away as Vincent’s mother.

Hilary glanced between the women on her doorstep and Vincent furiously attacking the lawn. This could not be a coincidence. She opened the door and smiled politely.

“Hi, dear.” Iris bobbed her head and twisted her hands. “This is Marcia Ortiz, she’s Vincent’s mom. I hope we’re not bothering you. Marcia wants to ask you a question. It shouldn’t take long, but if you’re busy—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Marcia thrust herself in front of Iris. “We’ll be here all night if you keep that up.” She switched her gaze from Iris to Hilary. “Can I talk to you about social media marketing?”

Hilary blinked in surprise. “Um…sure.” She opened the door, and Marcia brushed past her, heading toward the table. Iris followed at a slower pace, patting Hilary’s arm in passing.

“Would you like a glass of water, wine, or some tea?” She wasn’t prepared for guests; she only had a half bottle of wine in the fridge that would not go far split three ways, so she was relieved when they declined. She got herself a glass of water before sitting at the end of the table with Iris on her left and Marcia on her right. Iris surveyed the room while Marcia scowled at her phone.

“What’s this about?” Hilary asked, taking in the tightness of Marcia’s posture.

Brow furrowed and lips thinned, Marcia looked directly at Hilary. “You know what my son does for a living, right?”

Hilary nodded, brow furrowed as well. “He’s a general contractor, and does home repairs and renovations. He did this apartment and does really good work. ”

Marcia relaxed a bit while Iris beamed. “Do you follow his work on Instagram and Facebook?”

Her face heated up, but she wasn’t about to mention her addiction to #HotAndHandy. “I’ve seen a few photos. It’s obvious the local seniors love him.” As well as the cougars .

“Someone posted a bad review on the Keeney community Facebook page that’s practically gone viral.” Marcia thrust her phone at Hilary, who took it and looked at the post. It was a photo of a tiny blue-haired lady beaming up at Vincent, who, in turn, looked very uncomfortable, with a stain on his shirt and a scowl on his face. The caption beneath it read, “Ex-con fleecing our elderly?”

“I’m assuming there’s no truth to this.” Hilary glanced up at Marcia with a frown before reading the rest of the post. “Do you know who it’s from? Perhaps the person…” She stopped speaking when she found the profile. Jeanne Barclay loved taking selfies. She had mastered the head tilt-chin lift combo that hid double chins and accented cheekbones. She also appeared to have an endless wardrobe of cleavage-revealing tops.

“Vincent did some work for her, and he won’t say it, but I think she hit on him, and he turned her down.” Marcia’s tone reflected her anger and frustration. “She doesn’t hear no very often.”

“Now you’re repeating rumors.” Iris tapped her on the arm in a gentle reprimand.

Marcia rolled her eyes at Iris. “Jeanne Barclay is a spiteful bitch, who goes through men like Kleenex.”

Drawing both lips between her teeth, Hilary scrolled through the comments. “There are some supportive comments about Vincent’s work.”

“Yeah, but they’re hidden by the mean ones. Someone else has jumped on the bandwagon and is gleefully crucifying Vincent. ”

“I don’t know who wouldn’t want Vincent to succeed,” Iris said, shaking her head.

Marcia rolled her eyes again but wouldn’t look at her friend. Hilary saw this and wondered what lay beneath the surface.

“What do you need from me?” Hilary asked, putting the phone on the table.

“Is there a way we can spin this? Make it go away?” Marcia leaned forward and took her phone back.

“This was on the Keeney community page?”

Marcia nodded.

Propping her elbows on the table, Hilary steepled her hands. “Most community groups have rules about trolling. You can approach the administrator about taking it down.”

“That’s Kush Patel from the senior center,” Iris clarified. “I’ll give him a call.”

“You don’t acknowledge the post itself, because that just gives it a longer life. Did Vincent do work for the lady in the photo?” At Marcia’s nod, Hilary continued, “Was she happy with the work?”

Iris nodded like a bobble-head. “Oh, yes. Vincent replaced her rickety outdoor staircase. Phyllis couldn’t say enough about how pleased she was.”

“That’s great,” Hilary replied. “You need to include testimonials like that. Call her back and ask if you can quote her. Then post photos of the work itself, not of Vincent. Every couple of days, do posts of gleaming counter tops or whatever the job was. Consistently use a hashtag linking Keeney Building Supply and satisfied customers. Make sure the website address shows up. And keep your website up to date with before and after photos of jobs.” She turned to her landlady. “Iris, for anyone who has canceled a job, offer them a huge discount in exchange for great reviews.”

Iris stood from the table, smiling as if she were thrilled to have a specific task to complete. “I’ll do that right now.” She hurried off. Marcia was slower to stand.

Hilary rose at the same time and pushed her chair in, happy to have been able to help. Not counting the conversation in the driveway, she’d hardly spoken to Vincent since spiralizing her thumb, both relishing the memory of being with him and cringing at being tipsy and out of control.

“Thank you. I was so mad I could spit.” Marcia sighed. “I’m pretty sure it was Iris’s son Eddie who stirred the pot. He wants to see Vincent fail.”

How was she supposed to respond to that? She’d seen firsthand how they felt about each other, but why would Eddie want to damage the family business? Marcia stopped beside her at the door, and, for a moment, they watched Vincent cut the grass. His movements less frantic, his shoulders sagging as he maneuvered around the yard. When his back was toward the house, Marcia said a quick thank you and goodbye before heading down the stairs to let herself into Iris’s apartment.

Holding a glass of wine, Hilary stood by the kitchen sink, watching Vincent through the window, wishing she could walk out there with an offer of support and friendship. She caught her reflection. Thin, flat-chested, and gray-haired. Friendship was about all she had to offer.

A ss dragging from a sleepless night, Vincent hauled himself up the stairs to the KBS breakroom. Normally he entered through the front doors, happy to be seen in his company T-shirt. The checkout clerks would greet him and introduce him to customers. He’d picked up a few clients that way. Today, he parked at the back of the building and slunk past the guys at the loading dock, barely acknowledging anyone. The door to Iris’s office was closed, and he sighed in relief, not wanting to face her this morning. He would grab his gear out of his locker, check out his job sheet with Ali—if in fact he had any jobs—and get to work. He had no interest in talking about the shit on social media. He had no interest in talking to anyone.

Carl was at the table scrolling through his phone. They’d been working together for six weeks and had fallen into an easy routine. The kid was quick, careful, and eager to learn. Not perfect, he accepted Vincent’s critical eye and listened closely to instruction when faced with a situation his schooling hadn’t covered.

“Ha! I beat you. This is the first time I’ve gotten to work before you.” Carl sat up straight and beamed at Vincent.

Vincent eyed him sourly. “I’m not on the clock until 8:30.”

Cocking his head to the side, Carl agreed, “Yes, but wasn’t it you who said if you weren’t fifteen minutes early, you were late?”

Vincent’s narrow-eyed look was lost on Carl, who had returned to gazing at his phone. Vincent opened the door to his locker and froze. “Did you go into my locker?”

Carl didn’t look up. “Yeah, I borrowed a carpenter’s pencil.”

“Don’t go into my stuff. Hear me?” Vincent slammed the door.

Smile disappearing, Carl looked at Vincent. “Um, sure. It’s just, I left mine in the truck yesterday and I knew you kept extras.”

“I don’t care if there were twenty of them, you don’t touch my stuff without asking first.”

Eyes big, Carl stared and nodded his understanding.

Vincent stalked toward the coffeemaker, then swore when he picked up the empty pot. “How hard is it to make a fresh pot. You’re not the only person who works here. You—”

“I finished the coffee,” Ali’s hard voice came from the doorway. He scowled at Vincent before shifting his gaze toward Carl. “Head on down and start loading the truck.”

Carl bolted from the room, shooting Ali a look of relief in passing.

“Sit down.” Ali placed his clipboard on the table and a fresh can of ground coffee on the counter. He took his time refilling the water reservoir and replacing the soggy, used filter with a clean one. The smell from the open can of coffee warmed the air but did nothing to dispel the frosty silence. Slowly scooping in the coffee, Ali asked, “What was that about?”

Vincent crossed his arms and scowled at the table. “Nothing.”

“I don’t care who cut you off in traffic, don’t take your shit out on the intern.” Ali put away the can and the filters, then wiped off the counter. Only the sputtering sound of the coffeemaker filled the silence. With skill borne of practice, Ali shifted the pot from beneath the spout, filled Vincent’s mug, then shifted the pot back onto the burner. He placed the mug in front of Vincent, who glanced up in surprise and muttered his thanks.

Easing into a chair opposite, Ali pulled his clipboard toward him. “Do you think you can finish up that vanity install this morning? ’Cause, if so, Jerome Haskins wants you to take a look at his back deck. He thinks the wood is rotting. Definitely wants new stairs, but look at the deck itself.” When Vincent didn’t say anything, Ali looked up and settled back in his chair.

“You’ve got new work for me?” Vincent asked softly.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t the shit hit the fan, and I lost some jobs?”

“Social media crap. There should be a special place in hell for internet trolls.” Ali tapped his mechanical pencil on the table.

“You know about trolls? ”

“Of course I do. Where the hell have you been lately?” Ali caught the hard look on Vincent’s face. “Right. Sorry about that. Anyway, Jeanne Barclay’s post disappeared, and there’s been a lot of photos put up from satisfied clients.” He fished his phone out of his shirt pocket, scrolled for a few seconds, then grunted in satisfaction and handed the phone to Vincent. Three posts in a row mentioned him by name. He recognized the interiors of two homes he’d worked on, but the last post gave him pause. He stared at the photo and then read the accompanying comment. “Vincent Ortiz is a craftsman. His painstaking work is exquisite. He goes out of his way for his clients, focusing on their needs and safety. I would be happy to have him work in my home any time.” The photo was of the same bathroom pictured on the website. But the website photo was taken by Marcia when the work had just been completed, and Hilary hadn’t moved in. In this photo, bright fluffy towels perched on a small stool next to the tub, and a glass bowl filled with colorful soaps sat on the vanity. A flash of guilt shot through him as he handed the phone back to Ali. He’d been short with his mom and Iris yesterday and knew they were behind the new flattering reviews. They must have put Hilary up to making that post, too. A warm feeling went through him, and he made a mental note to thank all three and an additional note to apologize to Carl.

Ali tapped at the clipboard. “We’re not going to let the trolls win. Are you ready to get to work?”

Vincent nodded once and rested his arms on the table. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I ris acted like she’d never received flowers before in her life. She’d hugged Vincent, accepted his apology and the grocery store flowers, and clapped at his offer to take her, his mom, and Hilary out to dinner the following night .

Hilary was parking her car when he emerged from Iris’s place and waited for her to get out of the car. “Hi,” she said, giving him a small smile.

“Hi. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replied, her gaze moving past him to the stairs. “What’s that?”

He snatched up the small houseplant and held it out to her. “This is for you. A thank you gift for cleaning up that mess on Facebook. I really appreciate your help.”

“Oh! You’re welcome.” She accepted the plant with a smile that lit up her face. “It was no trouble at all. I’m glad it worked out.”

Feeling mighty pleased with himself, Vincent beamed before noticing the tote bags Hilary carried. “Oh. Sorry. Let me take that for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, transferring the plant to his hands. “I need to get my keys.”

He followed her up the stairs and waited for her to unlock the door. She dropped her bags inside and turned back to take the plant, admiring its bright green leaves.

“Thank you. The builder installed a garden window over the kitchen sink. I think this little guy will be quite happy there.”

Vincent smirked. “That builder sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, but let’s not tell him so it doesn’t go to his head.”

Propping a shoulder against the open doorway, he watched her put the plant in the window, then remove her blazer and drape it over the back of a chair. She wore a high-necked, blue-gray sleeveless T-shirt tucked into loose, light gray slacks, a thin silver necklace, and small silver studs in her ears. She looked polished and professional, yet the outfit seemed to be chosen to blend into the background. Color stained her cheeks when she caught him looking, and she turned away, hunching her shoulders .

Hurt at her reaction, he blurted, “Want to go to dinner with me?”

“What?”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “I want to take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Me?” She stared at him as if it were a foreign concept. Her shoulders relaxed, and her face brightened as the words sunk in. “That…that would be nice.”

“Cool. We can—”

Iris’s excited voice interrupted him. “Well? Did she say yes? Is she coming with us?” She clambered up the stairs not waiting for an answer. “Come with us, Hilary. Vincent’s taking you, me, and Marcia to that new Korean barbecue place where you cook the food at the table. It will be fun.”

“That does sound fun,” she said brightly, but Vincent didn’t think she meant it.