Page 5 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
His chest is as thick and bulky as the rest of him and he has an untamed mane of black hair pushed back from his face by a pair of mirrored Oakleys, the hair thick and coarse, tangled, wind-tossed, speckled with flecks of white paint, and he wears a beard to match, a bushy, combed thatch of thick black hair two or three inches long. His eyes, though. Holy moly. Puppy-dog brown, warm and kind and filled with humor. He has a tool belt slung low around his hips, filled with various kinds of tools—hammers and wrenches and screwdrivers and other things I don’t know the name of.
He clears his throat, “Evenin’, ma’am.” He winks at me. “Estimates are free, but staring ain’t.”
“Sorry—I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammer, trying to collect my dignity, get my jaw off the floor, and my libido back in hiding where it’s been for so long. “I—it’s been…a day.”
He laughs. “Wednesday, if you want to be technical about it.” He peers past me. “James mentioned you have a broken window?”
“I—yes. Yeah, my kitchen window is broken.”
He waits expectantly for several beats, and then clears his throat again. “Um, so—can I come in and take a look?”
I realize I’m still staring, standing in the doorway. Mooning may be a better description.
“Yes. Yeah. Please.” I stand aside and extend an arm in invitation.
He sweeps past me, smelling of wood and paint and sweat and man. I took my time shutting the screen door…
I just wanted to see his butt, okay? So sue me.
It’s every bit as nice as I’d expected, a denim-clad pair of cannonballs I would like to sink my teeth into.
Whoa, down girl. Rev back that libido of yours.
My front door opens directly into my living room, with the stairs leading to the upper level on the left as you enter, with a half bath under the stairs, and the doorway to the kitchen on the right and the back door beyond that. The man enters my living room, stops in the middle, and pivots in place, his eyes scrutinizing everything, taking it all in. He shifts his weight on the floor, testing the solidity of the floorboards. Peers up at the ceiling—noticing, probably, the lack of crown molding, or maybe the stain where the tub overflowed and leaked. Or maybe the cracks in the plaster. Or…well, any number of hideous flaws in this tumbledown house I never wanted, but am now stuck with.
He finally finishes his inspection and shoots me a glance. “Fixer-upper that got away from you, huh?”
I barely suppress a growl. “Something like that.” I move past him into the kitchen—and now it’s his turn to watch me, and I distinctly feel his gaze on my backside. Which may or may not have prompted me to sway a little extra, and put a little more spring in my step than normal. “Kitchen is through here.”
There’s a box fan in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and another by the back door, which is propped open with an old nursing textbook. He notices all this, too.
In the kitchen he stops and does another full perusal, taking in the aging refrigerator, the warped, cracked laminate floor, the chipped Formica counters, the cabinets—original to the house, but missing some hardware. And, finally, the tiny single stainless steel sink, and the splintered window frame, the broken glass…and the hammer and screwdriver on the counter.
“Wouldn’t open?” he surmises, grinning at me.
“No. And it’s hot, and I’ve had a shitty day, and I just wanted the window open. And then it…broke.”
He laughs, a good-humored sound. “It broke, huh? The hammer and screwdriver didn’t come into play at all?”
I’m not sure which I want more—to kiss the cocky, teasing smirk off his face, or slap it off. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Tim the Toolman Taylor?”
He does a passable impression of the Tim Allen character’s trademark goofy grunt. “I’d answer to that,” he says, peeling his sunglasses off to pass a hand through his hair before replacing the Oakleys on his head. “My name’s Jesse.”
I hold out my hand. “Imogen.”
“Imogen,” he says, drawing out the syllables: IHMMM-uh-jen. “Lovely name.” His hand is strong, warm, callused, and gentle as he shakes mine.
I blush. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t let go right away, and instead his thumb brushes imperceptibly against the web of my thumb. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and it’s becoming awkward. If only because I haven’t let go either. “Do you need your hand back? So you can look at the window?”
He shrugs. “Nah. I can look at it from here.”
I yank my hand away and cross my arms over my chest. “Ha, ha. Okay, mister. What can you do for my window?”
He glances at it, smirking again. Amused, perhaps. “Not much, really. I have a piece of plywood in my truck. I can slap that sucker up there and it’ll keep the rain out until we can replace the window.”
