6. Casa de Hunnicutt

Chapter 6

Casa de Hunnicutt

Charlie couldn't decide who pissed him off more … his dumbass employee who lacked one scintilla of diplomacy or his razor-tongued client. Neither one seemed to have a filter, and in a moment of maniacal insanity, he considered walking away and letting them figure out who could piss farther. Fortunately, or unfortunately, his rational brain understood what a bad idea that was, although he would have put his money on Joy. The woman had a wicked-smart brain to match her wicked-smart mouth.

Whistling to mask his exasperation only went so far, and he needed to come up with a plan to defuse the situation and preserve his mental health at the same time.

The smell of sour beer wafted up his nose, and he glowered at Cully. "Cully, would you check out the mechanicals in the basement? I haven't had a chance to look at them yet." Charlie tried to keep his tone light, but damn it, he didn't need Cully drinking on the job or sabotaging this already precariously balanced scenario with a woman probing for any excuse to send Charlie packing. With him out of the picture, who the fuck knew which unqualified, incompetent poser she'd hire? She had lots to choose from, and no doubt at least one unscrupulous asshole was in the mix who would be willing to demolish the place—at a price that would appeal to her miserly nature—and skip town right after doing the deed. Yeah, that guy—whoever he was.

Fuck!

Cully grabbed the last pastry and ambled toward the basement door, leaving Charlie alone with Joy. One down …

Charlie speared his hands through his hair. This was one of the few times he missed the longer strands he could yank on.

Oddly enough, the beer smell didn't go away. In fact, the closer he stood beside Joy, the stronger it got. She didn't look like a day drinker, but how could one tell for sure? It might explain her temper.

He resumed whistling a forgotten tune from his childhood, biding his time until Joy finished her third pastry—where did the woman put it?—and swigged more coffee. Maybe the sugar and caffeine would improve her attitude. Wishful thinking. It would probably amplify her saltiness instead.

While she licked the last of the tart off her fingers, he had a brainwave that might get her out of his hair. "If you're looking to get cleaned up, I'm sure Noah wouldn't mind you using his place."

"But what if he's sleeping in after a late night?"

Good point. "You can use my place," he blurted before he could stop himself. Shit! What is wrong with me? He liked helping people out, but sometimes his mouth carried him to places he didn't want to go. He started backpedaling, lamely adding, "It's a little messy."

"Do you have hot, clear water?"

"I do."

Joy huffed a sigh. "Sure. Why not?"

Damn it! And wow. Let's not go over the top with the gratitude thing. Did he want this ingrate in his house? No. "I also have two dogs, and I'll be gone all day, so …" Someone as grumpy as Joy Holiday had to be a dog hater, so he reckoned this was his ticket out of his impulsive, regrettable offer.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, seeming to reconsider, and abruptly came back to standing. "What kind of dogs?"

Not what he'd expected. "A yellow lab rescue and an everything-bagel mutt."

"Are they mean? "

"No, of course not!"

Amusement seemed to flicker in her brown eyes. "Then your place will be fine. Can I walk to it from the hotel?"

Fuck. Me!

He refrained from smacking himself on the forehead, and before he knew it, he and his big mouth drove her to the hotel, waited while she got her stuff, and took her to his nineteenth-century Victorian located several blocks from Bowen Street. While it was only a few unpaved streets over, it literally sat on the outer edge of town.

She hopped from his truck while he grabbed her bag from the back seat, and her mouth slackened. "Wow. Did you restore this one yourself?"

"Yep. It was kind of my practice house. Every single mistake I've ever made I made here first." As his experience and skill had grown, he had painstakingly fixed his own errors and any others he'd found. Despite the bungalow's flaws, he was damn proud of the result, and if it convinced Joy he could do the same for her mother's place, all the better. Maybe bringing Joy here hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

I am a genius.

"Did your girlfriend pick the colors?"

Purple, in two different shades, green, and cream. He loved the combination. Was she fishing for girlfriend intel or merely insulting him? "I did, with my mom's input."

"I like it. Bold but not garish, and well-suited for the house and its surroundings." She nodded her approval as though she were a queen bestowing a knighthood. "I'm surprised you're not on Bowen Street, though, where all the action is." She smirked at the word "action."

Yeah, he got it. But he liked Fall River's pace; big cities were overrated. Besides, when he needed "action," he drove to Grand Junction or Durango. If his hankering went beyond what they offered, he could always mosey over the Divide to Denver or catch a flight to somewhere completely different. So she could take her "action" and shove it up her bony ass.

"I picked this location because I was able to buy the lots on either side," he explained. "Gives the dogs lots of space and room for my equipment and a workshop."

"You take care of this yard by yourself? Like, did you plant the flowers? "

What, did she think he was incapable of tending a yard? "I take care of the grass, and my mother filled in the beds with her favorite perennials. I just water them. When she's in town, it gives her something besides me to fuss over." Not that she fussed over him any more than she did his brothers. "The trees do their own thing. Not much to it."

He strode up the walkway, but she lingered behind, her eyes scanning the house, the yard, and the outbuildings beyond. What kind of verdict was her critical mind coming up with?

She surprised him when she said, "It must be a lot quieter here too."

"It is, but that'll change when the train starts running again. The tracks are only a hundred yards away. You can see them from the backyard." He let himself into his closed-in porch and keyed the code into the security lock on his front door. Most folks in Fall River left their doors unlocked, and while anyone could access his porch, he always kept his front and back doors locked. He'd worked with too many felons to understand it wasn't the town that was unsafe—it was the people in it, whether they were residents or transients.

Movement beyond the frosted panels of his front door caught his eye, and he smiled to himself. His dogs had known he was home the moment his truck turned into the drive. Sunny was springing in place, and Luna turned in excited circles. God, he loved getting greeted like that! Nothing better for a lonely guy at the end of a hard day—or a guy with a sulky guest in the middle of the day.

He held the door for Joy, who took a tentative step inside. His dogs charged her, and he raised a closed fist. Recognizing the silent command, they came to a screeching halt and sat, their little butts wiggling on the hardwood floor from their wagging tails.

"Good girls," he cooed. He dropped Joy's bag beside the living room fireplace. "The big lab is Sunny, and the little squeaky one is Luna."

Joy's mouth curved into a genuine smile. "Is it okay if I pet them?"

He lowered his fist. "Absolutely." This would be interesting. His dogs were people pleasers, but they were selective about their people. They could smell bad attitude from miles away. They'd probably smelled Joy's testy temper from blocks away at Crystal Harmony Haven.

One eye on him and one on their guest, the dogs crept toward her. Yeah, they were definitely sussing out this stranger. Smart girls .

To his surprise, Joy leaned down and held out her palms for sniffs, then quickly moved on to head pats and neck ruffles. She even offered her chin for licks. "Aren't you sweet girls? Soft and beautiful too."

What the hell? The little traitors were barely able to contain the excitement in their fuzzy bodies. He leaned against the fireplace mantel, both peeved and fascinated. Again, not what he'd expected from this woman with the jagged edges. Dog slobber on her pristine self. "Didn't figure you for a dog person."

"I've always loved dogs. They're so … easy with their affection. No judgment. Just pure love and trust, even when we don't deserve it." She was too busy petting the dogs to look up at him when she answered, but her answer struck a note of raw honesty. How much baggage did the woman carry around on her slight shoulders? Not his concern.

Soon his pups were laving her everywhere, and she laughed and straightened. "Okay. I came here for a real shower, not a doggie-licky one."

"Speaking of showers …" He picked up her bag again and showed her to the guest bedroom, which opened onto a bathroom shared with his larger bedroom. Opening a linen cupboard, he pulled down a fresh towel, washcloth, and hand towel for her. "Help yourself to whatever you need. I'll let the dogs out, grab a couple of things from my office"—he gestured toward the third and final bedroom, which he'd converted into a home office—"and then I'm on my way to another job site. You sure you're okay walking back when you're done?" Please say yes. He'd already put himself too far out there; he didn't relish playing chauffeur too. Fortunately, she gave him the answer he wanted.

"I'll be fine. It's a gorgeous day, perfect for the short walk."

He gave her instructions on locking up before he left.

"Thank you, by the way." Her voice held a note of sincerity and was almost … soft.

He flashed her a polite smile on his way out. "My pleasure." Hell, if he'd do it for her, he would have done it for anyone. But he wouldn't tell her that. No reason to piss her off until he had her signature on a contract.

Actually, he probably wouldn't have opened his house to just anyone. What the hell did I just do? he asked himself as he climbed into his truck.

"It's okay," he muttered. "She got the Sunny and Luna seals of approval." He shook his head .

Either he had just pulled off a stroke of genius, or he'd left himself wide open to be totally fucked. And not in a good way.

Joy took her time pulling her toiletries and a change of clothes from her bag as she waited for the click of the front door that would signal Charlie's departure. Then she glared at her stinky shoe. Gingerly, she slipped it off her foot and looked around the small, efficient full bath—complete with claw-foot tub—for something to wash it with. Though he'd warned her the place was messy, Charlie Hunnicutt was a neat freak who apparently didn't believe in clutter, so her choices were limited. Finally, she settled on some man shampoo in a dispenser affixed to the tile shower wall—right next to the sandalwood man bodywash that smelled like him . Not that she'd sniffed him or anything, but sitting in his truck, the woodsy, masculine scent drifting off him had been hard to ignore.

"Ha! Wash your shoe with this stuff, and you'll always smell him," she mumbled to her reflection. Wait. She didn't want to smell him on her foot. Or anywhere!

Finally, the rumble of his truck engine faded, so she tiptoed out of the bathroom, shushing the dogs when they pranced around her. God, they were cute, but oh so noisy! A peek out the front window confirmed Charlie was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief and dropped onto his leather couch. She swept the room with her eyes. The place screamed small-scale Architectural Digest . Every piece of furniture fit, and while the pieces weren't matched sets, they were obviously expensive and went together flawlessly. The vibe was modern and casually elegant in a neutral palette that conveyed masculinity. It was also so neat that it screamed, "Girlfriend!" or possibly, "Boyfriend!" Then again, judging by how he kept his truck, he was a tidy sort. Only his hair was ever out of place, but that added to the whole "sex-on-a-stick" thing he had going on. And good Lord, did he have it going on! Still, this image of Charlie Hunnicutt was completely at odds with her initial impression of him as a beer-belching, ass-grabbing Neanderthal with an eighth-grade education—after going through all twelve grades .

And one of those images—him as a broke contractor—was also being challenged.

With Sunny and Luna supervising, she drifted from the living room to the dining room, examining framed photos that captured the town's past in its scant buildings and its unsmiling, hardscrabble miners. She searched the grainy faces, looking for recognizable features, but they were hard to pick out beneath the grime. Was one of them related to Charlie?

In the dining room, she ran her fingers over a handcrafted, thick wooden tabletop held up by old metal wheels that looked like they'd once been part of the mining equipment in the framed photos. A small brass tag along one thick edge read, "Made by Charlie Hunnicutt," with a date. Okay, wow. So he was crafty too. Not her style, but the piece was beautiful in the grain of the wood and its originality, and it fit so perfectly, like its owner, who had created it with his bare hands.

Her out-of-control thoughts took a detour to those hands and their long, strong fingers turning wood, coaxing it into something exceptional. Fingers that could coax more than wood.

She hadn't gotten a close look at the silver rings he wore and idly wondered if he had made those too or if they were sentimental pieces, like the exquisite tattoo was a nod to his hometown.

Her attention drifted back to the table. Six chairs surrounded it, each one similar yet unique. How often did he entertain five other people? The dining area opened onto a bright, airy kitchen boasting simple lines and crisp white cabinets and floors. The counters were black stone, providing a stylish contrast to the cabinets. A tile backsplash in muted grays and a few decorative touches here and there made the space inviting. It was large enough for several bodies but not too big like some kitchens. She didn't cook, but she'd be tempted to take it up in this particular kitchen.

Checking out his home like this felt like an intimate invasion, as though she were crossing some invisible line into forbidden territory. She shouldn't be snooping, yet maybe he wanted her to in an underhanded way, to convince her he had the credentials to turn her mother's shop into something truly spectacular and befitting the town. Except she didn't want to turn it into anything but a distant memory, a fact he needed to get through his thick blond skull.

She wandered into the last room, his neat office. Along one wall hung another series of photos. Each frame featured a sad old building, and beside it was the stunning "after" version. The buildings all looked familiar; she suspected she'd passed them along Bowen Street.

"Good for you, Charlie Hunnicutt," she muttered to herself. "But you're not putting my building on your wall."

Stacked bookshelves caught her eye, and she approached warily, suddenly eager to discover more about the man who was going to help her get rid of the albatross her mother had hung around her neck. At the same time, her pulse jumped with trepidation. What if he had cameras everywhere and could watch her nosing around his private stuff?

There's nothing wrong with looking at someone's book collection.

His were mostly about construction and restoration. He had a number of picture books and coffee-table-style books of Victorian houses from around the globe. Only images; no words. She didn't know him, yet she pictured him opening them, running his fingers reverently over the glossy pages, endlessly staring at them.

Another shelf displayed historical nonfiction—mostly about the Civil War and in alphabetical order—and above that was a collection of novels. Spy thrillers, mostly. Between several volumes was a sign in all caps that read, "Sorry I wasn't listening, I was thinking about Zoe Saldana," beside a slim children's book about superheroes—with Zoe herself gracing the cover. Affixed to it was a sticky note with a feminine scrawl that read, "Since you love her so much, here's a little something to get your engine revving." It was signed with the letter H . Hailey?

So Charlie did prefer women—or at least he had a thing for Zoe Saldana. Joy felt an unexpected flutter of relief, followed by a surge of happiness, which made absolutely no sense.

"Okay, that's enough," she said aloud to herself or the dogs, she wasn't sure. "This girl needs a shower so she can get to work at her mother's house."

Ugh. What a downer that thought was.

She trudged back to the bathroom, closing the door on two curious puppy faces. "I shower alone, girls. Well, unless there's a hot man wanting to shower with me. Yeah, that's never gonna happen."

Shucking her clothes, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her critical voice yapped, "You're all ribs and bones, and what padding you have is in all the wrong places. No wonder you're showering alone." Her gaunt face stared back at her; her shoulder and collar bones protruded obscenely. Flat stomachs were a good thing, right? Except hers was concave, accentuating the sharp points of her pelvis. The image unsettled her, and without thinking, she grabbed the mirror's edge and yanked, revealing a medicine cabinet.

"Ha! Even this is neat." Curiosity had her scouring the sparse contents, immediately noting no feminine articles were among them.

The inner voice hissed at her to shut the door, but she couldn't resist investigating her contractor just a wee bit more. She was being a responsible detective—one needed to know what kind of character one was embarking on a business journey with.

Regular toothpaste—not the whitening kind—an electric shaver, a bottle of ibuprofen, a comb, and a bottle of pleasant-smelling aftershave—which she sniffed twice—made up the bulk of the cabinet's contents. Would he keep condoms in here? She went up on tiptoe to inspect something suspiciously compact and flat, brushing her fingers against a glass shelf. The shelf tilted. To her horror, the thing collapsed into the sink, bringing everything with it, including the other shelves and their items.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

Her phone clanged not two beats later, sending her pounding heart into a frenzied rhythm. Estelle's smiling face filled her screen, and Joy quickly picked up. "H-hello?"

"Are you jogging? You sound like you're out of breath," her astute assistant quizzed.

"No, I'm panicking!" Joy blurted out.

Alarm rose in Estelle's voice. "Why? What's going on?"

Joy explained as she gathered the debris from the sink. Thank God the shelves were intact, and thank God Estelle could keep a secret!

"Just put it back the way you found it," Estelle advised helpfully.

"I don't remember how I found it! Worse, this guy barely has anything to rearrange."

"Perfect. Makes it simpler."

"No, it really doesn't," Joy spat. "It makes any rearranging glaringly obvious. He's a total neatnik. You should see this place."

"Just tell him you needed something, and you looked inside the cabinet, and whoops! There it went. "

"And just what was I trying to find in his medicine cabinet that sounds legit? ‘Hey, I needed to shave my legs with your electric razor.' That's a hard no!"

"I think I need to fly out there and help you."

"No, you really don't."

"Okay. Let's figure this out from a man's point of view."

"Which neither of us has."

"Minor detail." Estelle talked her through what might go where, relying on her experience with her brothers and boyfriends. And oh, the "condoms" which started this whole crazy mess, turned out to be sample packets of cold medicine.

"Oh, good grief," Joy wailed. "I have no idea if anything's in the right order, and he'll know it was me the next time he looks in here!"

"Unless a hookup stops by between now and then. It's a sacrifice, but I volunteer my services."

"Would you just stop it? You're not helping."

"Says the woman who couldn't figure out where to put the toothpaste," Estelle snorted.

"Um, I really do need to take a shower and get going. Were you calling for a reason?" Joy's tone carried more of a bite than she'd intended.

"I was, but first I'd like to point out that it's Sunday , and that I'm the fifth assistant you've had in six months. And after going through the mess my predecessors left behind, I'm sure I'm the best of the bunch, so I wouldn't be trying to get on my bad side. No, wait. You're already on my bad side, so if I were you, I'd be doing my damnedest to switch sides."

Ouch! Okay, maybe I deserved that.

"Now, are we done being snippy?" Estelle continued in a professorly voice.

"Yes," Joy groused like a petulant elementary schooler.

"Good. I called to let you know that I got the utilities turned on and also to tell you that the general store in town sells moving boxes and packing materials, in case you want to set anything aside from your mother's store."

Oh. All on a Sunday? "That was nice of you to check."

"I'll take that as a ‘Thank you, Estelle.' It's a good thing I've got a thick hide that usually lets shit roll off my back. "

"Yes, it is." Tail metaphorically tucked between her legs, Joy made a note to give Estelle a hefty raise when she returned to Chicago.

They talked a few minutes longer, mostly about Joy's plans for the store, and when they hung up, Joy's shoulders bent under the weight of the looming labor. Oddly, the medicine cabinet crisis had whisked that worry away—probably because it was a different, albeit temporary, disaster.

That chaos caused something new to bubble in her brain: the reveal of the multi-dimensional man behind the contractor persona. Charlie Hunnicutt had intriguing layers; he wasn't just a pretty face women drooled over. Not that she was going to do anything with this discovery. Nope, no sir. But now that she'd seen this other side of him, remorse rose up inside her. After she did what she would do tomorrow, she hoped he only disliked her a tiny bit more than he did now. In fact, she prayed he didn't out-and-out hate her.

It was time to give her battle armor a fresh polish.