Page 10 of One Touch

By 7:00 a.m. on the dot, Beckett rolled up in his truck. Others pulled in behind him, and I watched from the front porch as he instructed his crew. Some were sent around to the side of the house to clear brush and the tangle of weeds that had started to overtake the wraparound porch. Tootie followed to be sure that she could point out what plants she hoped were salvageable.

Beckett touched his fingers to the bill of his hat. “Ms. Tootie.” My traitorous aunt only blushed as he strode away toward the side of the house.

Other workers marched toward us and headed for the house itself. Each politely passed me with a nod and a small smile. Not a woman to be seen on Beckett Miller’s crew.

Figures.

Didn’t matter. I tightened the tool belt around my waist and waited for him to come to me. From the porch, I watched him. Beckett stepped back to survey the farmhouse, grumbling under his breath. He took in the surrounding landscape and made a few notes on a large metal clipboard. He exuded confidence and respect as he discussed something with a few crew members, pointing to the side of the house and out into the yard. It was clear he was in charge, directing his team with a series of gruff orders.

How did he manage to be both handsome and infuriating at the same time?

I stifled a smile as Bartleby Beakface stalked behind him. Bartleby was an Old English Game rooster that Tootie had rescued. He was huge, with a pale blond head, rust-colored wings, a black body, and gorgeous tail feathers that shone hunter green in the sun.

He was also a major asshole.

Bartleby darted out from the bushes and aggressively pecked at his boots. “Hey.” Beckett lifted a foot and moved his leg to try to shoo him away, but Bartleby wasn’t deterred.

Beckett tried to ignore the rooster and continued to bark orders at his crew, but the rooster persisted.

Big mistake.

There was one thing Bartleby Beakface couldn’t stand, and that was to be ignored.

With a flap of his wings, the rooster jumped onto Beckett’s back, flapping his wings and crowing loudly. The hens in the yard scattered. The man next to Beckett yelled, “Oh shit!” and jumped a few feet back.

Beckett spun, trying to shake off the rooster, but it was no use. The bird was a master of chaos. Bartleby squawked and flapped as a string of curses flew out of Beckett’s mouth.

“Get this fucking thing off me!” Beckett’s arms flailed.

A laugh burst from my chest. The rest of the crew was trying to stifle their own laughter as they watched their boss wage war with poultry.

Satisfied that he’d proven his point, Bartleby released Beckett and went flying into the bushes.

Beckett turned to glare at me. “Is something funny?”

The crew’s laughter died as they got back to work, and Beckett stomped toward me. A ripple of heat moved through me at the intensity of his scowl.

His stormy gray eyes flicked from the empty tool belt to my smug smile. “What the hell is that?”

I planted my hands on my hips. “Never seen a woman in construction before, Miller?”

Declan had once pointed out that Beckett hated when anyone called him by their last name, so I made sure to slip it in, just to goad him.

“Seen plenty. Though I’m not sure an empty tool belt is going to help rip out old carpeting.” He dusted himself off before pointing at my legs. “Probably going to tear up those legs, too, if you don’t put something on other than whatever the hell you call that scrap of denim.”

I tugged at the hem of my short shorts. It was already warm in the summer sun, and the day was forecasted to be nearly ninety. Jeans would be insufferable, and if cutoff shorts meant I could annoy Beckett, I was keeping them.

I snorted. “Worry about yourself.”

He moved past me on the stairs. “I intend to.”

When I walked inside, Beckett was already instructing his crew to clear the living room furniture. Whatever we were keeping would be stored in the unused barn at Highfield House until the room was complete and could be reassembled.

When I stepped up next to Beckett, he released a sigh. “We’re starting here. New carpeting, fresh paint. New windows. I want to tackle it before gutting the kitchen. Just leave me to it and—”

I ignored his words and strode straight into the living room to pick up an end table and haul it outside.

Oh no. There would be nojust leaving him to it. I was going to be a thorn in his side whether he liked it or not.

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