Page 4 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
He groans like I just told him we’re working for free, and I let the corner of my mouth twitch. This is why I asked him to come for the first stretch, his noise fills the space, so I don’t have to think too hard about what’s just across the street.
I tell myself I’m here for the job. Get in, get the work done, get out. The rest, the memories, the people across the street, they’re not my problem.
Not anymore.
Ronnie’s always had two settings; working and talking. Today, he’s doing both at full blast.
The hammering echoes off bare walls, the sound sharp in the empty space. He’s talking about some job in Portland, a woman who made him repaint her kitchen three times because she couldn’t decide between “cream” and “eggshell.”
“It’s the same damn color,” he says, prying at a stubborn nail. “Whole time I’m thinking,lady, just pick one before I lose the will to live.”
I grunt, not looking up from the board I’m cutting. “You ever consider that maybe your bedside manner sucks?”
He smirks. “My bedside manner’s great. That’s why I keep getting referrals.”
I shake my head, line up the saw, and the blade bites through wood. The Old Lawson house is built solid, better than most in this town, but a decade without upkeep have made it soft in the wrong places. Every creak under my boots is a reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve been in here, reallyinhere.
Ronnie moves to the front windows, measuring the room. “So, you gonna tell me why you didn’t just hire local guys to help? This isn’t exactly a one-man gig.”
“I told you, more money I get to keep. I need capital to keep this business going,” I say.
He raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Fine. Your time, your dime.”
It’s not just about the work. Hiring local means talking, and talking means gossip, and gossip spreads fast in this town. I’ve done my time as the subject of everybody’s favorite story. I’m not interested in a rerun.
Ronnie keeps going on about a new taco place he heard about near the harbor, about a boat he’s thinking of buying. His voice is a steady background noise, like a radio on low. I’m half listening, half counting down the minutes until he has to head back to the city.
Every so often a breeze cuts through the open window, carrying something sharper than just the smell of ocean water a few miles away—laundry soap, the faint floral scent of detergent I know without knowing why.
Ronnie’s halfway up the ladder, muttering about the warped wood, when the slam of a car door snaps my attention toward the street.
Not that I’m looking for her.
But there she is, Lyla Hart, coming down her front steps with a tote bag over her shoulder and a travel mug in her hand. Herhair’s loose this time, wind tossing it around her face as she fumbles for her keys. She’s wearing jeans and a fitted jacket that shouldn’t be doing anything for me, but it is.
Ronnie whistles low. “Well, hello again, neighbor.”
I don’t bother looking at him. “Leave it alone.”
“What? I’m just saying. You didn’t tell me you had scenery like that across the street.”
“She’s not scenery.” The words come out too sharp, and his head swivels toward me like he’s just found something worth poking at.
Lyla catches sight of us and hesitates halfway to her house. Her gaze lands on Ronnie first, curious, then shifts to me. I hold it, because I’ve never been the one to look away first.
She starts toward the edge of her yard, voice carrying just enough to reach us. “Looks like you found someone willing to work with you.”
Ronnie grins down from the ladder. “He’s not so bad once you get past the scowl.”
Her mouth curves, but it’s aimed at me. “I’ll take your word for it.”
I adjust the level in my hand, checking the bubble like I’m too busy to be part of this conversation. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
She tips her head, mock-thoughtful. “Yeah, actually. I’m recording in about an hour. But I wanted to make sure you weren’t planning to maketoomuch noise. Microphones pick up everything.”
I let my gaze drag deliberately from her head to her boots. “Guess you’ll just have to work around it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, and Ronnie jumps in before I can answer. “I’ll make sure he behaves, sweetheart.”
