Page 17 of Sunshine
“Either way this is a work site so you shouldn’t be here…” He knocks on the work helmet on his head. “Without protective headwear. It’s dangerous.”
My brows rise. “Ishouldn’t be here?” I purse my lips. “Is that too tight?” I jab a finger toward the hard hat. “Perhaps it’s cutting off circulation.” Even I’m a bit shocked at my words, but once I start, I can’t stop.
“Uh, okay,” is all he says to my rudeness.
My instinct is to blurt he’s on my property so he’s the one that shouldn’t be here, but I know that’s not the case since my Gran severed and sold the lot. But he’s ruined my writing session, which he also kind of inspired, but he doesn’t need to know that. And Gran should never have sold this land in the first place. If she needed money, she should have come to me. My heart hurts a moment as I think it. Had she needed money? Had she been in financial trouble?
I shove the thought, and the guilt that came with it, away, vowing to investigate it later, after I’ve dealt with this menace.
“I’m here to talk to about this…” I wave my hand at the construction site, and then glance up. Now that I’m closer and not completely focused on the machinery, I see a foundation.
“House?” he questions with a quick glance over his shoulder.
I nod curtly, staring at a gingerbread-style playhouse which is completely built near the treeline. It’s sided in ocean-blue boards, with tidy white trim. It has a complete wraparound porch and as I glance to the house’s foundation I wonder if it might be a tiny replica. I limp to it, sticking my head inside, suddenly filled with wonder.
“What would you like to know about the house?”
I pull my head out and tear my eyes away from the house to look at him. No, I glare at him. Glower, even.
“You have questions?” he leads, but I’m suddenly at a loss for words.
Someone calls to him. He turns to raise a finger. When I look to the caller I see a motorcycle—one of those big ones with the wide handlebars and low seat.I know it’s a Harley because of the cover of Harley and Hearts. But there’s another one there too. Not a Harley but something that looks like an antique.
“Are you building a house for a gang of bikers?” I blurt, my eyes wide. I’m being a judgmental jerk, but I don’t care. His brows shoot up and I think I’ve offended him.
“Gang is the wrong word. It’s club. Motorcycle club. Gang sort of implies criminal behavior which only one percent of MCs are involved in.Most do charitable acts, ride the open road, travel. Just in general enjoy life.”
My fists find my hip, feeling full-on bitchy now because I know it’s club and not gang - I just read about it. “I don’t need a lesson on bikers,” I snap. “I couldn’t care less about the inner workings of bikerclubs.”I huff my impatience. “So, is that what you’re building, a bikerclubhouse?”
“No.” He chortles, looking over his shoulder at the house. His face, at least the side I can see, is lit with pride. “It’s a family home. No bikergangsorclubsallowed.” He turns back, winking and it damn well flusters me because my god, this man is handsome. “Do you need breakfast or something?”
“Breakfast? What?” I blurt, confused. My eyes flick to the little house again. I would have loved a house like that as a child. I smile thinking of my own child playing in it with books and dolls… but then I remember that’s not likely to happen for me since I’m… I’m…unloveableand likely incapable of not screwing up a child. The loud machine starts up and a cloud of dusty dirt catches on the breeze and blows straight at us, covering me and my scowling mouth with gritty red dust.
“You seem a little hangry. I thought maybe we could take this convo to the diner, my treat. You can ask me anything you’d like about the build.”
Choking indignantly, I try to brush the dirt off me and my clothing. “Hangry?” I reply with not-so-subtle outrage. “I have every right to be annoyed without you blaming it on hunger.” I throw my hands up. “I wastryingto work.” I let out a long-suffering sigh. “But who can work with all this racket? And it’s barely dawn.” I narrow my eyes at him when he presses his lips to prevent a smile. “And you know what I’d really like to know…” I pause, letting my words wash over him. “I’d like to know how you convinced my senile grandmother to sever her property.”
That stops his smile. He stands straighter.
“I didn’t convince her of anything. And she definitely wasn’t senile. And…” He looks down at his watch and blinks. “It’s a lot past dawn.”
“Normal people are just waking up now.” I grind the words through my teeth. “And what about my concentration, Mr. Not Biker? Do you have a solution for that?” I’m being a total diva and I know it. I might even be embarrassed if Gary and my lackof progress on the book I actually need to write hadn’t soured my mood so much. And maybe if I hadn’t been woken at it’s-still-night o’clock by a damn evil rooster.
“I guess I’m not normal since I’ve been up since five this morning.” He pauses, his eyes latching onto mine. “Right about the time your rooster crowed.”
My mouth opens and then snaps closed as I shut my eyes.
“He’s not my rooster,” I say and then clench my jaw.
“Jake is yours now. Unless your grandmother left him to someone else.”
“The will isn’t through probate yet,” I retort. I honestly haven’t even looked at the will, but my grandmother’s lawyer did tell me everything was mine. He said a bunch of other things too, but I really hadn’t been processing much. And I certainly wasn’t staking my claim on the noisy creature.
“Hmm, well okay, I won’t make a big deal about it now then. And I’ll even apologize for not introducing myself yesterday. But as you know, I’d interrupted your teatime, so I wanted to get out of your hair.” He’s smirking and it shoots a bolt of heat through me. I narrow my eyes at his teasing. His easygoing temperament, so different from my own, is surprisingly pleasant. And not something I’d expect by looking at him. His exterior is so rough, no, he’s rugged, not rough. He’s clean, well kept, but the tattoos, the muscles, the beard, and something in his eyes, all of it hardens him.
“Lily mentioned you. Often.” His smile widens as if he’s recalling a memory. “She also warned me you’re a spitfire.”
I swallow, looking at the ground momentarily silenced by grief. “You knew my Gran in more than just a transactional way?” The words come out sort of crusty-like from my throat.
