Chapter 3

Jack

C ynthia Sinclair kisses as if every kiss is the last she’ll ever have. At first, it turned me on. But now, I find keeping up with her frenetic desperation is more of a chore than a turn-on.

When I pull away, she blinks up at me with lust-heavy eyes. “Is that a screwdriver in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” she purrs.

Okay, I might be hard as stone, but it’s not like I’m made of stone. No, it’s not a screwdriver.

“All of these houses are empty, right? Let’s sneak into one and do it,” she whispers with a giggle. She grabs for my hand, but I catch her wrist.

“Cynthia, we need to talk.”

“We do!” She smooths down her hair. “I forgot to tell you. I pitched my idea to Diane and she adores it. She’s already scouting locations for us to move in together. Only when filming, obviously, but it’ll be an instant hit. You’re a reality TV darling already, and I’m, you know, me. I think we’ll call it Cynthia Loves Jack. Or Jack Loves Cynthia? Diane would want me to push for top billing, but I think Jack Loves Cynthia is sweeter.”

Last night, on a video call that I tried to keep brief, Cynthia informed me of the five year plan she’d made for her life. Great. I’m all for a life plan.

What made my balls feel like she was tugging at them – and no, not in a pleasurable way – was when she divulged the role she wanted me to play in that plan.

I thought when I’d ended that call we were on the same page about not being on the same page. We’re not even in the same book.

“Listen, Cynthia, like I told you last night–”

“So what do you think? Jack Loves Cynthia?” she bulldozes on.

I close my eyes. Diane, her agent, is the sister of Eric, our show’s sound engineer. When they set us up I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious. How did we get here?

One desperate kiss at a time, I suppose.

“I’m sorry, but the thing is, I don’t love you.”

Also, as I’ve told her about a million times, when 1 Girl, 10 Hammers wraps, so does my stint in reality TV.

She swats me playfully on the arm. With an eye roll, she replies, “Duh. And I don’t love you. You’re not at all what I’m looking for long-term. Don’t get me wrong, you’re hot as fuck, and one of the best lovers I’ve ever had– and I do mean that, babe. But you’re not soulmate material, you know what I’m saying? At least not for me. You’re a bit too rugged, too rough around the edges. Actually that will be a part of your character arc on the show, I think. The extremely hot makeover of a Hammer brother.”

I open my mouth.

“Now, Jack Hammer, don’t you dare look surprised! You should know better than anyone that reality television is all about the fantasy. It’s fiction– fake . But doing this will catapult our careers into the stratosphere.”

Her career is already in the stratosphere and I’m content with my next career move being: has-been D-list celebrity. Designing and building houses in the country, far from all the lights, cameras, and actions related to a TV show, is my kind of life. I’ve loved every minute of 1 Girl, 10 Hammers, but I want my privacy back.

“Just say yes, babe. Come on. You know you want to.” She shoves my arm playfully, but I recoil from her touch.

“There’s nothing fake about our show.” Has she even heard a single word I’ve said? Ever?

My attention strays. Across the street, Winnie has her hand on Max’s shoulder. Maybe standing a little closer than friends should as she looks up at him. I scowl and run a frustrated hand through my hair, recognizing that I’m actually jealous of my brother. It’s just that when I’m talking to Winnie, I always know she’s listening, absorbing every word, truly paying attention and valuing what I have to say. I’d give my right nut to trade places with Max right now. Both nuts, even .

Cynthia snaps her fingers. “For god’s sake, Jack, would you stop gawking at Winnebago and–”

“What did you just say?” I cut her off, my hackles rising.

“I said stop gawking over there and pay attention to me!”

“No.” A cold fury settles in my chest. “What did you just say about Winnie?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a silly name people call her.”

“It’s what assholes call her,” I growl.

Cynthia looks startled. “Jackie, I didn’t mean–”

“I don’t care what you meant.” I’m bone tired, all of a sudden, drained from interacting with this woman. “I care about what you said. Winnie is my best friend. She’s family.”

As I’m speaking to Cynthia, my gaze roves over to Win.

“She’s everything,” I say, mostly to myself.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I manage to tear my eyes away from Winnie. And Max. I can’t tear my thoughts away from the fact that she seems to be touching him a lot more than usual. I watch as she gives him a kiss on the cheek before she scurries off, as if someone has summoned her.

“Look, Cynthia. I think… no, I know… you and I are done. Actually, I don’t know if we ever really got started.”

Cynthia shapes her glossy lips into a pretty pout. “What about Italy?”

“Pasta gives me indigestion. You go and have fun, though. ”

She stares at me, with one eyebrow arched and both arms folded across her chest. After a moment, she whips out her phone. Typing away, she says, “For the record, the official story is going to be that I dumped you .”

I nod. “Fine by me. Take care, Cynthia.”

I leave her and jog across the street.

Why do I keep wasting my time with women like Cynthia Sinclair, when what I really want is a woman like Winnie?

You don’t want a woman like Winnie, that annoying little voice creeps into my head. A woman like Winnie doesn’t exist. Winnie is one of a kind.

I want Winnie. It’s not the first time I’ve had the thought. And it won’t be the last, I’m sure. But as far as romance goes, between Winnie and me, that’s not an option.

But.

I can’t deny how damn much I’m going to miss her when she’s not a constant presence in my life. The show has been the glue keeping her with all of my brothers and me. Keeping all of us in the same place at the same time. Suddenly, I want a ninth season more than I want my privacy back.

Could I convince them to go for one more?

Nah. The triplets are done with the show, more so than I am. It wouldn’t be fair to try to twist their arms into agreeing to keep going. We agreed it had to be unanimous.

Us and our damn agreements.

I head back into the house, planning to get back upstairs where I was installing the recessed lighting fixtures before Cynthia showed up. But I hear something in the powder room off the kitchen. I edge closer to the door, and, yep, there are undeniable soft sobs coming from inside.

Rapping lightly with my knuckles, I whisper, “Win? Is that you?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, but I know it’s her.

It takes a moment for her to open the door. She was trying to gather herself, to hide the fact that she was crying, but her red-rimmed eyes tell the tale and my heart pains from her obvious distress.

Win, you don’t have to hide your tears from me. You don’t have to hide anything from me.

I don’t dare say those words out loud. She’d probably roll her eyes and tell me that after we wrap, I should try my hand at writing romance novels.

“Hey,” I gently say, concern lacing my voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

She takes a shuddering breath, attempting to compose herself. “I’m not,” she argues, but a tumult of emotion surges behind her eyes.

I gather her into my arms, breathing in her strawberry-scented hair. She sinks into me, all soft curves and sweetness. I’ll never get tired of how it feels to hold her.

Fuck, maybe I should try my hand at writing romance novels.

“Winifred,” I say, a warning note in my voice. Winnie isn’t short for anything.

“Jackhole,” she retorts with a snuffly laugh, pressing her forehead against my chest .

“Oof. Not Jackson or Jackmire, even? Straight to Jackhole?” I stroke her back, then add, serious and gentle, “Tell me. I’m here for you.”

But she doesn’t answer.

It kills me that she won’t tell me what’s weighing on her heart.

The soft glow of the pendant lights above the sink create a serene ambiance, and I decide to lighten the mood for her.

“This house is turning out really beautiful. What a shame it’ll never be as elegant and sophisticated as the first house we ever built.”

She tenses just a fraction, and I bite back my smile.

“You remember it, I hope,” I continue. “It was the epitome of rustic and you gave it the perfect little kitchen, complete with toy stove to bake mud pies…”

I can feel the pull of her cheeks as she smiles against my chest, remembering the tree house we built for her in our backyard when we were kids. A sanctuary for her and her alone.

“You’ve come a long way since your infamous treehouse building days,” she says.

“Hey, that ‘treehouse’ was a masterpiece of engineering.”

“It barely held up my stuffed animals!”

My brothers and I were full of ambition but without any carpentry skills.

“It was a disaster,” I admit

“It was,” she agrees with a small laugh. Then she links her arms around me and squeezes. “But it was our disaster. ”

She lets out a breath and then says, “I just got a call from the probate lawyer and a real estate agent. Someone wants to buy the house as a tear-down for the land.”

Her voice trembles. She’s talking about the house where she grew up with her grandmother across the street from us. That is, until her Gram passed away just after she started high school, and her rarely present deadbeat dad settled in for good, treating her like trash and filling her head with garbage thoughts about herself. After he died during his final stint in prison a few years ago, she inherited the house.

“I’ve just kind of been pretending it doesn’t exist and now I have to make a decision.”

She isn’t kidding when she says she’s been pretending it doesn’t exist. And we’ve all been helping her with that. We never go home to celebrate the holidays. Instead, we pick a spot on one of our bucket lists and fly our parents out every year to celebrate Christmas there. And all of us gathering at Winnie’s cottage for Thanksgiving has become a can’t miss tradition.

“What do you want to do?” I ask her, softly.

“I want to tell them just to do whatever and send me a check when it’s done and I’ll donate it to charity or something. But…”

“You feel like you need some kind of closure?”

“My mom grew up in that house. It’s all I have left of her. How can I just let them bulldoze it?” She nods against me. “But on the other hand, how can I go back there? It would be like stepping into a time capsule of awful feelings.” Her voice sounds heavy, as though weighed down by her memories. “I used to dream about living at your house, where it was warm and welcoming, everything Gram’s wasn’t.”

She lifts her head off my chest to glance around the room. “Our show and all of our renovations have always represented a fresh start for me. A chance to leave the wreckage of the past behind and create something beautiful.”

“And you’ve done an amazing job. You’ve turned so many homes into sanctuaries, proof of your resilience.”

She peeks up at me and her eyes are two warm pools of blue in the soft glow of the lights. “You think so?”

I squeeze her tighter in my arms, not wanting to let her go anytime soon.

“It’s true. You’re incredibly brave, Winnie.”

The disbelieving smile she flashes cracks my heart in two. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to face that house again.”

“You are. And I hope you know I’ll support you every step of the way.”

Though I hate to see her hurting, I suddenly have an idea how I can keep us all together for at least a while longer. How we can help her get some closure.

But first I have to talk to my brothers.

No way will I be able to convince Win to go for this by myself. I’m going to need all ten Hammers to get the girl on board.