10. Dudley Do-Right

Chapter 10

Dudley Do-Right

"Hey, Estelle. I'm going to need more time out here. Can we go over my calendar?" Joy had cleaned up the Haven's kitchen table, which was now strewn with papers, pens, sticky notes, a notebook, and her laptop. In other words, it looked like her office back in Chicago, with a grimy surface in place of smoothly polished glass.

"Sure thing, boss, although it won't take long. I anticipated you might need a week or two, so I cleared your calendar before you left. As stuff comes up, I'll add it to Sterling's calendar. He'll never know."

"He owes me anyway," Joy snorted. Sterling never hesitated to stack Joy's calendar when he needed a mini-vacation, and he needed them often. "Seriously, though, uh, thank you." Had she ever thanked Estelle before?

"You're welcome. Now tell me the good stuff. How are things going with Mr. Hottie?"

"Well, that's one of the reasons I'm delayed. Mr. Hottie still owes me his bids, which means I need to hang tight so I can review those with him in order to get the ball rolling." And I have a date at the end of the week—that's really not a date—to go to some music festival in a town that's even smaller than this one. She still wasn't sure how she'd fallen into that one. Maybe it was because it had come across as a challenge, and Joy relished rising to challenges.

"I take it you haven't seen him in his tool belt with no shirt on yet."

Joy choked back a laugh. "No, nor am I planning to. This is strictly professional."

"Well, that's too bad … and boring."

Joyce smirked. "I had dinner at a local tavern last night owned by his brother, and he was filling in behind the bar. I heard one of his many admirers refer to him as a ‘golden retriever.'" Joy couldn't remember if it had been uttered by Neve or her admin person. "I'm not interested in shredding the vendor-slash-client relationship for a … dog."

"A really hot golden retriever whose head I'd love to have in my lap," Estelle gushed.

After Joy picked up her jaw, she came back with, "I'll save him for you. Of course, you'll have to wrestle every other female in town for him—maybe the entire western half of the state—but my money's on you."

Estelle brayed. "Sounds like I need to travel out there and stay for a little while myself. Speaking of which, since your time is up at the Majestic, I took the liberty of looking for other digs—"

"I've got it covered."

Estelle's eyes went big and round. "You do?"

"You don't think I'm capable of handling my own accommodations?"

"Uh, no."

Desperate times call for desperate measures. "I found a place with running water and a decent bed. I can stay as long as I need to, but room service sucks."

"Really? Did you find an Airbnb someplace?"

"Not exactly. Here, let me give you a little tour." Joy stood and panned her phone around the kitchen. "Welcome to Crystal Harmony Haven."

"You're staying at your mother's store? "

"I'm just as stunned as you. But it has running water chock full of minerals—good for the skin, I hear—lots of space to spread out, and it's a block away from the best pastries ever."

"Huh. Since when do you care about pastries?"

"Since I found the best pastries ever."

"You don't sound like my boss. Should I be worried about what all that mountain air is doing to you?"

Joy explained that she couldn't take another night in a stuffy hotel room with no running water and questionable decor, so after dinner at the Miners Tavern, when she'd returned to said stuffy room, she'd decided to vacate the not-so-grand Grand Majestic. She'd packed up, driven to her mother's store, and moved in. What she didn't elaborate on was how she'd downed half of a bottle of wine she'd found unopened. The alcohol had wrapped her in a glowing, mellow haze, and she had seen the place through a soft-focus lens—a much less jaded view—that put the spotlight on the positives.

The store had no shortage of its own dubious furnishings, of course, but she made the happy discovery that her mother and sister had spared no expense when it came to the new king-sized bed—a Sleep Number that was ridiculously comfortable. After a short debate, Joy had stripped it and washed the coverings. While the washing machine she vowed she'd never use ran, she opened up windows and let the crisp night air chase away the musty smells.

"Once I aired it out and put on fresh linens, it wasn't so bad." Before she'd gone to bed, though, she had purged the enclosed laundry porch and kitchen pantry, leaving her exhausted but featherlight, so that when she'd finally dropped onto the plush mattress at 3:00 a.m., she'd drifted off without so much as a toss or a turn. Which was a good thing because the morning had brought with it those awful childhood memories in vivid color. Had they invaded her thoughts when she'd been settling into sleep, she would have stayed up all night instead of half of it.

When she'd awoken, it had taken her a moment to shake off the fog of sleep and recognize where she was. Shock at what her mother had done, raw and white-hot despite the years, had torn through her, leaving her emotionally bloodied all over again. Her mother had chosen this life over her own daughter .

Estelle's voice snapped her back to the present. "Boss, did you hear what I said?"

"Sorry, I wandered for a moment."

"Gee, what a surprise." Sarcasm laced Estelle's voice. "I said, if you want any help getting the place cleaned out, I'm serious. I'll come out there and pitch in."

Unexpected and unwelcome tears stung the corners of Joy's eyes. What the hell? She never cried. "I'm, uh, thankful for the offer, but I need you back there to herd the cats for me so I can focus on this … this … mission."

"Okay, but promise you'll holler if you change your mind?"

"I will. I holler very well."

"Yes indeed, you do," Estelle laughed.

They hung up, leaving Joy to ponder why she hadn't been dealt a mother with Estelle's nurturing instincts. Instead, she'd drawn the short straw and gotten a self-centered, mentally and emotionally absent parent who was so far into woo-woo that when she had been present, she'd acted more like a mothership ripping Joy's roots of reality from the ground in order to beam her up.

"All right, enough of the ‘poor me' crap, or you'll never get anything done," she admonished herself.

She stepped into the shop, paused, and zeroed in on one corner ripe for decluttering. The overwhelm pushed a sigh through her chest. What had Estelle said about the general store selling boxes?

A knock came at the back door.

Resting her hand on the doorknob, she called out, "Yes?"

"It's Charlie Hunnicutt," came a deep, muffled voice.

She opened the door to his brilliant smile. Did the man ever sleep? Or get grumpy from lack of sleep? Or look anything but fresh out of some beach body video? And it wasn't a smarmy smile, either. It was genuine and warmed parts of her body she'd neglected of late and conveniently forgotten about. No wonder women fell over themselves to get a piece of him. Not that she was one of them. No, sir.

"Good morning. What brings you here?"

In one hand, he held up an insulated cup of what she hoped was coffee; a crisp white paper bag with twine handles dangled from his pinkie. In his other hand, he clutched a folder. "Breakfast and bids. "

"Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Whatever it takes. I'll even help with the mess outside."

"Mess?" Joy craned her head around the doorframe, catching a whiff of his woodsy, masculine scent. But when her eyes fell on the backyard, the pleasantness tickling her senses dried up like jerked meat in a dehydrator.

"What happened?" she cried. At the end of the big purge in the middle of the night, she had carefully placed bags filled with the pantry's discarded foodstuffs just outside the back door. Now every single bag was ripped apart and their contents strewn across the yard.

"Critters. Could have been moose, dogs, coyotes, maybe a bear." Charlie slid her a sidelong look. "Why didn't you use the garbage shed?"

"Garbage shed?"

In answer, he jerked his chin toward a metal double-doored structure snugged up against the back of the building.

"I didn't know there was one. I didn't know I needed one! And it was two o'clock in the morning when I finished." God, she felt stupid … and defeated. All the good feels from her organizational triumph scattered like the litter across the yard. "I'm not wise in the ways of wildlife, you know."

Amusement danced in his eyes. "Not exactly a news flash."

She proceeded to lead him inside when he stopped her. "Hang tight." He passed her the coffee, the bag, and the folder and loped to his truck, which was parked once more on the back lot bordering the yard. There he pulled out work gloves and a box of heavy-duty black bags.

When he returned, he ripped off a length of bags. "Go on inside. I'll take care of this."

"Y-you're going to clean up my trash?" Who does that?

"Someone has to." He donned his gloves and started shoving trash into the bag with an abundance of energy and a whole hell of a lot of whistling.

She set her load down on a shelf beside the door. "I'll help."

He divided the bags and handed her a wad. Then he grinned, damn him. "Let's see what you got."

She snapped a bag open and gingerly picked up a soggy, half-eaten box of cornflakes before moving to a destroyed package of spaghetti. Keeping her gag reflex in check, she pinched the pasta between her thumb and finger, trying not to picture a moose gnawing on it.

Charlie yanked off his gloves and tossed them to her. Without another word, he bent back to work .

"Um, thank you," she squeaked.

He answered with a grunt. Ten minutes later, she'd barely filled a corner of her bag, and he had tied off his first one and was halfway through his second. She watched him covertly, noting his swift, graceful movements. In vain, she tried not to admire the long line of his back or how well his butt filled out his jeans or how the smooth muscles across his broad shoulders bunched and flexed beneath his body-hugging long-sleeved T-shirt. Or the way his golden strands glinted with the sunlight. Or how his bracelets accentuated the tanned skin on his manly wrists. She'd never been into machismo, but she could hear Estelle yapping in her head that she needed to reconsider—not that Charlie had shown much in the way of macho tendencies, but he was built as though he could walk straight into a Clint Eastwood movie and hang with the boys—or look really, really good in a tool belt and nothing else.

She gave herself a hard mental slap.

Another ten minutes passed, and he had nearly single-handedly cleaned up the yard. Taking her bag from her hands, he dropped it and his into the receptacles inside the garbage shed, informing her, "Garbage pickup was yesterday, so you'll want to conserve what little space is left for the next two weeks."

She blinked. "There's garbage service in this town?"

Tilting his head, he shot back, "Of course there is. We're not a backwater stuck in the nineteenth century, even though some people think so." He seemed truly offended.

"I just meant … I mean, this seems so far from … Is there a landfill nearby?" Oh, witty stab at conversation, Joy. She was so out of her element here.

Confusion furrowed his brows—or maybe it was irritation. "We have a transfer station just north of town."

"Oh." Whatever that was. In Chicago, she merely put her garbage in the chute in the hallway. Rather, the house cleaner did.

His features softened. "I'll be headed there in a day or two for a drop. If you want, I'll add your trash to my load."

His generosity—and her clumsiness—flushed her cheeks with embarrassment, and she crossed her arms over her stomach. "That's really nice of you. "

"Isn't it, though?" He flashed her his pearly whites. "C'mon. Your coffee's getting cold. I also brought you some of those almond things you like. You eat, and I'll go through the bids."

"Any chocolate ones in the goodie bag? Cully beat me to it yesterday."

"I saw that, and I apologize. But don't worry, I got the last one for you."

The man was observant, and he seemed to be bend over backward for her. Though she hated to admit it, he was thoughtful and kinda sweet—even if he did have ulterior motives.

He opened the back door for her, and as they stepped inside, his eyes took a tour around the kitchen and landed on her sorted piles. "Whoa. When did you do all of this?"

"Last night, after I left the bar. Told you I was up late."

"Guess there were two of us burning the midnight oil."

"What were you doing in the middle of the night?" Burning up the sheets there, Mr. Hottie? Why had she asked? She really didn't want to know.

He snatched the folder off the shelf and waved it in the air. "Working up your estimates."

Oh. Why that gave her a rush of relief was beyond her. Really, being around this guy was muddling her mind.

As they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, she ripped into the bag and ogled the pastries for a beat before choosing one and biting into it. She let out an errant moan that drew his interest.

He cleared his throat. "This place is looking much homier. You planning to move in?"

"I already did."

One corner of his mouth hitched. "No shit?"

"No shit. I decided it was better to stay here where there's running water."

"Yeah, there's a lot to be said for having water at the turn of a tap. Is it still brown?"

"No, it's clear."

He nodded as if this were no surprise, and the thought struck he might have had something to do with the water's clarity.

"Before we review the bids, I want to clear the air and address Carl Weatherly's accusation about inferior materials. I will admit—and this is for the first time ever—that we had an issue with the wrong stuff showing up on two jobs here in Fall River. One I caught in time, but the other I didn't."

"So this is the first time ever that you're admitting this problem?"

"No, no! That's not what I meant. I meant it's the first time it's happened."

"What happened with the one you didn't catch in time?" she mumbled around the flaky pastry. So good!

"Had to rip it out and put in the right stuff." His tone implied, "Of course, duh."

"That sounds expensive."

"It was. For me."

"Couldn't you have simply offered the client a discount once you discovered the error?"

"No way. Either you do the job right or you don't do it at all." She detected a distinct eye-roll in his voice. "Now, if you want to see how the projects turned out, I'll give you the addresses so you can judge for yourself. I've also noted those clients on my list of references." He opened the folder and slid out a piece of paper with at least a dozen contacts on it. Wow. That was more than she'd expected. In fact, she hadn't expected any references since she'd already hired him. The man was thorough, she had to give him that, and she liked precision.

"So tell me about Carl Weatherly. What's his beef with you?"

"I prefer not to badmouth the guy."

"Well, he sure badmouthed you . Here's your chance to even the playing field."

He shook his head. "Not behind his back. That's not my style. I'd rather focus on my work and let it speak for me."

"That's big of you. Be careful he doesn't take you out while you're being so magnanimous."

"Is that how you do it in the big city? ‘Take people out'?" A spark in his eyes hinted at contempt. Apparently, she was dealing with Dudley Do-Right … crossed with a golden retriever.

She plucked a second pastry from the bag and pointed it at him. "It's not so much a big-city thing as it is the kind of business I'm in. If playing cutthroat serves my clients' best interests, I'm all in. And I'm very good at what I do. "

Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an appraising sweep. "I don't doubt it."

Why his comment unsettled her, she couldn't say. His expression and tone were neutral, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that he was judging her behavior and finding it wanting. And though her comment about being good was more fact than brag, she wasn't sure she disagreed with the opinion she read in his orbs. Even to her own ears, she came across as arrogant and obnoxious. Her confident, take-no-prisoners persona served her well in M they'll need those resources for inventory and marketing. They'll also be in a rush to launch—preferably in April, right before tourist season—to get that income flowing in as quickly as possible. If the place is done, it ticks off all their boxes. Also, it'll be easier to finance—banks aren't crazy about putting up money for places that still need work—and the buyer won't mind paying a higher price because that extra spread over a mortgage term won't add a ton to the payment."

He had some good points, damn it.

"So what price point do you think it'll come in at in these various scenarios?"

He listed ranges of numbers, along with logic that supported each of them. He was confident and smooth in his delivery, like he knew what the hell he was talking about, which irritated her further. Not because he was irritating in this moment, but because she didn't know enough about the market to challenge him—and she hated that she wasn't in control.

Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the edge of the table, and his sleeve rode up, exposing part of his tattoo. "There is one exception to that scenario I'm aware of."

She tore her eyes from the tat, raising them to his. "And that is?"

"Hailey. Her bookstore is bursting in that coffee shop, and she needs to expand, but she can't afford more than the middling solution. While that might not work for most retailers, it could be ideal for her. She could keep running her business out of Mountain Coffee while she and Noah got this place the rest of the way finished. I know a few people who'd chip in to get them there too." Joy had a feeling she was looking at one of those "few people."

"I need some time to digest."

His eyes widened, as though her answer surprised him, and quickly narrowed. "How long?"

Her stubborn streak pushed back. "I'll give you an answer Saturday."

"How about tomorrow?"

They were negotiating now? "I'm going to need more time. You've given me a lot to process. I can't decide just like that." She snapped her fingers.

"Isn't that something you do every day at your big-city job?"

"No, it's not. Besides, it's not the same thing." Because it's not personal like this is.

He flipped the folder closed and stood. Sliding his keys from his front pocket, he tossed them in the air and caught them over and over as he contemplated her. Long gone was his cheerful, tail-wagging demeanor. He moved toward the door, his hand poised on the knob. Slowly, he turned to face her, calculations seeming to stream behind his eyes. The familiar grin began a lazy spread over his handsome face. Yes, Estelle was right—he was handsome. Big deal. Didn't mean anything.

"All right. I'll give you the time you need to make the decision." He stuck out his hand, and she took it, relishing the warm roughness of it engulfing hers. This was a working man's hand, and the realization sent tingles rushing up her arm and cascading down her spine.

Whoa!

His eyes held hers captive, and his smile widened as if he was fully aware of the sensations his touch kindled inside her. Suddenly, she was filled with anticipation for their non-date at a dive bar in a nothing town she didn't want to go to.

As she watched him walk through her door and close it behind him, she couldn't hold off the tendrils of guilt twining inside her; she wasn't easy to work with—nor could she ignore the melancholy simmering in her chest. She hadn't felt so alone since her mother had left her on her aunt and uncle's doorstep.