Page 4 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I really don’t have the money for this.
But screw it.
I use Siri to dial the number, since my phone is near death. The phone rings for a few moments—three rings, four, and then five, and I resign myself to going to leaving a voicemail message and dealing with a wet kitchen in the morning.
Then, a miracle happens.
“This is James.” His voice is deep, rough, curt, but not unfriendly.
“Hi, um, I saw an ad on Instagram… is this Dad Bod Contracting?”
“Yep. I’m James Bod, I own the company.”
“Is that your arm in the photo?” I hear myself asking. Why did I ask that?
A pause, and a hint of amusement in his voice when he answers. “Ah, no. That’s one of my employees.” Another pause. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Um. Yeah. I…broke my kitchen window and it’s going to rain. I definitely need it covered at the very least, and I was wondering how much it would cost to fix it.”
“What kind of window?” he asks, and I hear sliding and scraping in the background, and a hammer, and a saw whining and buzzing.
“The kind that slides up and down? It’s over my kitchen sink.”
“So not a floor-to-ceiling, or anything unique.”
“Nope, just your average window.”
“Okay, well I think I can have a guy out there in an hour or two. He’ll at least be able to board it off to keep the rain out.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and glance at the time: 6:49pm. “He’ll come over at eight or nine tonight?”
“He will if I tell him to, because I’m paying him. He’s also got no life, so it won’t be interrupting anything.”
“Hey jackass, I have a life,” I hear someone say in the background.
“Pounding pitchers at Billy Bar doesn’t count,” James replies. “Sorry. He’ll be there ASAP, okay? No worries.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” I hesitate again. “Um, how much will it cost for him to come out?” I hate having to ask, hate the embarrassment of having him know I’m literally counting pennies.
“Quotes are free.” Then I hear a crash on his end of the phone. “Watch it, asshole! Put a hole in the drywall and I’m not paying for your time to fix it. Jesus. Clumsy oaf.” To me, then. “I gotta go. He’ll be by in an hour or two, and don’t worry about the cost. Just recommend us to your friends; god knows we need the business. Just text me your address.”
He hangs up, I text my address to him, and then set the phone down.
Recommend them to my friends.
Ha. That’s a good one.
What friends? I have one friend, Audra, and she lives in a swanky condo where all repairs are part of the building maintenance. So…good luck with that.
Somehow, I’ve finished half the second glass of wine already. “Screw it,” I say out loud, and help myself to the rest of the bottle, and then toss the bottle into the trash so I don’t have to look at the evidence of my lush status. I bring the bag of popcorn with me back into the living room, curl back up on the couch, and turn on the Ali Wong special, because god knows I need to laugh.
The hour-long special has five minutes left when I hear tires in the gravel driveway. The engine shuts off, and a minute later a heavy tread pounds on the creaky porch steps.
The knock is four sharp pounds, as if the person on the other end is either impatient, or very strong, or both.
Still clutching my wineglass, I answer the door.
In my scrubs.
Sweaty from the heat.
More than a little tipsy.
Have I mentioned that it’s been more than a year since I’ve had sex?
Hopefully that explains the reaction that follows.
Chapter 2
If you take pure, raw, unfiltered, male sexuality and boil it down to its essence, and then infuse that with things like smoldering eyes, rugged good looks, and a piercing stare, you’d have a general approximation of the man who stood in my doorway.
HOLY SHIT.
I just blink up at him—and I mean up. Way up. Six feet and probably four inches up. And then I scan downward, slowly, blatantly, and probably hungrily—in the way that a starving lioness might stare at a distracted gazelle.
I couldn’t begin to guess at his weight, but it’s a lot, and it’s all solid muscle. Well, mostly solid muscle, at least. He’s within a few years of my age, either way. He’s wearing dirty, faded blue jeans—the perfect kind, not hipster tight or too baggy, just tight enough that I was antsy for him to come inside so I could get a good look at his butt. His boots are thick black steel-toe work boots, scuffed and stained and faded. He’s wearing a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt with the sleeves expertly cut off, showing thick, burly, powerful arms covered in full-sleeve tattoos—I see crossed revolvers and skulls and pinup girls and dragons wrapped around assault rifles and playing cards, the logos of several bands, and what seemed like lyrics in graffiti lettering…it was a jumbled collage of images that would probably tell me a lot about him, if I took the time to study them. Which I’d like to do.
