Page 7 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Normally this is where I say it’s good as new, but we’re not quite there yet.” He tugs at his beard. “So. What do you think? Order a window to fit, or find one and make it work?”
“How long will it take to order one, and how much will it cost?”
“Could take weeks, and with labor, probably over a grand.”
Ouch. I really don’t have that. “And if you just make it work?”
He shrugs. “Same as before. Three to five hundred. I’ve got some building supply contacts, so I may be able to get you a deal on something. Maybe not perfect, but it’ll look nice when I’m done. And it will open.”
“You have a really nice voice,” I blurt, and then promptly regret it.
“Thanks. I have garage band with some buddies. We play at dive bars in the area, but we’ve never had anything pan out beyond that, so…here I am fixing windows.” He grins. “I don’t mind, though. I don’t think I’m cut out for the rock star life.”
I laugh. “No? Why’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m getting too old to act like a twenty-year-old. Besides, this business keeps me pretty busy.”
“Well, I guess it’s good for me that your musical career never panned out, huh?”
His eyes bore into mine, full of humor and heat. “Yeah, I’m thinking it’s working out for both of us.”
And then we stare at each other for an awkwardly long time, neither of us saying anything, until he blinks as if coming back to earth from a daydream.
“Um. So. I’ll find a window for you and be back to put it in by Friday at the latest.”
“Sounds good.” Am I whispering? Why am I whispering? I try again, louder, more firmly. “Um. Sounds good. Thanks, Jesse.”
“My pleasure, Imogen.” He huffs a laugh. “I really like that name. Never met anyone named Imogen before.”
“It was my grandmother’s name, and her grandmother’s.”
“Well it’s a pretty name.” He scuffs a toe. “So, you gonna name your granddaughter that?”
Oh god. Ouch. He can’t know the hurt accompanying that question, but still…ouch. “Um. Well, I don’t have any kids, so…probably not.”
He senses something in my voice, in the way I answered. “Wrong question, huh?”
I frown at his perceptiveness. “I…it’s a long story. Don’t worry about it.”
He tugs at his beard. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
“It was an innocent enough question, and you had no way of knowing—” I cut off abruptly, sighing. “Well, like I said, it’s a long story, and I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”
He waves a hand, and then hooks his thumb behind his tool belt buckle. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you rest. I’ll have a window for you ASAP. I’ll call you when I have something figured out.” He turns to leave, waving at me as he lets himself out the front door. “Have a good night, Imogen.”
“You too, Jesse. And thank you for fixing my window.”
“Ain’t fixed it yet, just patched. But you’re welcome. Talk to you later.” He grins at me. “And Imogen?”
I hesitate at the humor in his voice. “Yes?”
“It’s probably best to keep hammers away from windows.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll leave the hammering to the professionals in the future.”
He quirks an eyebrow and smirks, making my innocent remark a double entendre without saying a word. My face heats, and my thighs involuntarily clench together.
Oh boy.
This guy shows up and suddenly trouble is spelled J-E-S-S-E.
Chapter 3
In typical fashion, work the next day is slow. We’re booked solid for appointments, but we have very few walk-ins, and there was another scheduling mishap, so we have an extra nurse on duty, which means I spend a lot of time sitting at the nurse’s station, playing with a stapler and daydreaming.
One guess as to what—or whom—I’m daydreaming about.
Hint: six-four, big muscles, a sharp, quick sense of humor, and kind eyes.
And a big hammer.
Yeah, Jesse. The man fills my thoughts as I remember our conversation last night. He seems pretty much perfect. And…that ass. I mean, the man’s butt is museum quality.
I almost hope for an even hotter day on Friday when he comes to install my window, just so he’ll take off his shirt and give me a better look at his body. He’s around my age—around forty—so not a young man anymore, but he is clearly in decent shape. Strong, well-built, and fit. There may have been the vaguest hint of a belly—meaning he didn’t fit the romance book description of “not an ounce of fat anywhere on him,” but men like that don’t really exist. Or, if they did, they probably wouldn’t want anything to do with a woman approaching middle age, whose body is showing all the effects of gravity and time.
Jesse is sexy as hell and there has to be a line a mile long to get into his bed, and he probably never sees the same girl twice. And they’d all be younger than me, with tighter bodies than me.
