Page 22 of The Fixer

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 arealshower, 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 tellherthat. No reason to piss her off until he had her signature on a contract.

Actually, he probablywouldn’thave 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 timepulling 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’twantto 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 screamedsmall-scaleArchitectural 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’twantto 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, andbeside 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 puttingmybuilding 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 letterH. Hailey?

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