by Jewel E. Ann
Parker tapped her finger on her bottom lip, surveying the entire shed filled with garden tools, dirty flower pots, stray tools, and an old bike. Neatly-wound extension cords hung from nails on the wall, and coffee cans and mason jars filled with odds and ends lined shelves—a little bit of everything and everything in its spot.
It was more organized than any place Gus had ever seen. That said a lot considering he married an overachieving perfectionist.
“Hmm … I think …” Parker walked to the far wall.
Gus couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a woman, who wasn’t his wife, a second glance. He married a stunning, petite, blonde, who fulfilled his every fantasy. No need for second glances. Like everything else in life—needs changed. He had no idea he needed to let his eyes have a second glance until they kept wandering in the direction of Parker’s long legs—tan, defined, and marred with a few scars that for some reason made them quite sexy.
He’d been out in the heat too long that day; it was possible the nearly one-hundred-degree temperatures fried his brain. That and his wife left two weeks earlier on a business trip.
“Here they are. I hope these still work.” She lifted onto her toes to grab the shearers off the top shelf.
Eyes that had a mind of their own homed in on those legs, especially her tight calves. Gus didn’t go to strip clubs with his friends or even Hooters for lunch. Aside from a few internet searches gone wrong—or right, depending on how one looked at it—he didn’t even watch porn. That’s how lucky he was in the sex department.
But living the saint’s life for five years of marriage earned him a pass, so he thought.
“You’re staring at my legs.”
His gaze flicked up to Parker’s frown as she turned, holding the shearers in her hand. Times had changed. Even before he got married, Gus couldn’t remember a woman ever calling him out on something like staring at her legs.
“I’m …”
She sighed, lips twisted to the side. “Pretty ugly, huh?”
He gulped down the saliva in his mouth instead of letting it drool down his chin. “Uh …”
“Volleyball. ACL surgery twice.” Bending down, she traced the scars with her finger.
Gus smiled. Of course those defined legs could only be those of an athlete. Had she been a few inches shorter, they would have seemed stocky, but Parker had to be just under six foot, and nothing about her looked stocky.
On a blink, he forced his gaze away from her body, focusing over her shoulder to the horseshoe nailed to the wall. “You should flip that around.” He nodded toward it. “Like a U. Otherwise, the luck runs out the open heel part.”
The wind sighed under the eaves like the god of infidelity whispering in his ear. Get your shit done and get out!
Parker narrowed her eyes then glanced over her shoulder. “Well, son of a bitch. That explains a lot.” She set the clippers on the workbench, retrieved a hammer from the drawer, removed the nail from the horseshoe, flipped it, and hammered it back to the wall. “I’m not usually one to buy into superstitions, but if you knew the luck I’ve had …” She pushed out a long breath while returning the hammer to the drawer.
Gus rubbed his scruffy chin while shaking his head. His face hurt from grinning so much. She’d answered her door, almost naked, so naturally his focus had been drawn to her body, but the girl next door had a peculiar personality that he found quite likable.
When she returned her attention to him, he moved his hand from his chin to his mouth, wiping the smile from it. “I sprained an ankle, pulled my groin, and strained my hamstring, but never anything that required surgery.” He hoped she didn’t notice his abrupt digression back to the original topic.
She plugged in the shearers. “What did you play?”
“Everything—football, basketball, track, and baseball.”
She whistled and patted her leg. “Come here, Rags.”
Rags backed into a corner.
“Get over here.” Gus grabbed his collar, but the stubborn mutt refused to move.
Parker whistled again and held out her hand. Rags shot off toward her.
She grinned, shooting Gus a quick look. “Turkey jerky.”
“You always have turkey jerky in your pocket?”
“Of course. Don’t you?” The clippers hummed to life. She wasted no time shearing the bur-tangled fur off Rags, feeding him small pieces of turkey jerky every thirty seconds or so to keep him still.
Genius.
“Actually, I don’t carry dried meat in my pockets. Usually just a pack of gum,” he said over the hum of the clippers.
“Willard Farm, fifteen miles south of here. Best jerky around. We get all of our meat and eggs from him. Or at least I will when I get a job again. I’m sort of between jobs. Four years of college and the best I’ve done so far has been a string of temp jobs. I’m totally winning at life these days.” She glanced up with the goofiest toothy grin spread across her face.
Most women failed at not taking themselves so seriously, brushing off a bit of bad luck and getting on with life—at least that’s what Gus thought about the succeed-or-die woman in his life. He should not have expected anything less than a laid-back attitude from the half-naked girl who answered the door and carried turkey jerky in her pocket for no other reason than just because.
Rags licked her free hand then she pulled it away to finish what would be a state fair-record shearing time. Desperate for more, he licked her legs near the frayed edge of her denim shorts. Gus needed his wife to return home immediately. Envying a dog licking another woman’s legs crossed a line that required more than a day pass for second glances.
“There.” Pride beamed along her face as she admired her grooming skills. “Sorry…” she ruffled his head “…no more treats for you.”
Gus wanted a treat. He, too, had been good. The second that thought entered his mind, he cleared his throat and stepped toward Rags. “Thank you for saving us from the wrath of his mom. I seem to spend a lot of time with him in the proverbial dog house.”
“I can see that about both of you.” She grinned and shot him a wink. She gave them freely.
He couldn’t remember the last time his wife smiled in a way that didn’t seem forced. And never had he been the recipient of a flirty wink from her.
“Here, let me help you clean that up.”
As he reveled in genuine smiles and winks, Parker made haste with the hand broom and dust pan. Gus felt like a gawking idiot for standing there so long.
“Just grab the trash bin over there for me.”
He scooted the metal bin right next to the pile of burs and fur on the floor. “I’ve never seen a shed this organized.”
Parker dumped the fur into the trash; then she looked around the shed lined with every imaginable tool neatly in its place on a hook or shelf. Not a cobweb in sight. “I dig organization. My grandfather used to do his woodworking in here, but it was a disaster. After he died, my dad and I cleaned everything up and organized his stuff so it makes sense. I get an odd high from it. Not like germaphobe OCD shit, just good old-fashioned organization. Ya know?”
Gus nodded slowly, mesmerized by the life that bled from every inch of her. And that smile … fucking perfect.
“You have kids?” She had a way of making the moment real again.
He needed that, so did his dick. “No. Just Rags.”
“Oh. Sorry, I can’t really guess your age with that hat covering…” she squinted at his head “…maybe some gray hair or a big bald spot on top?”
She kicked him in the nuts with her wit while keeping a smile plastered on her face and a twinkle in her dangerous blue eyes.
Gus removed his hat and leaned forward. “No gray yet and no bald spot. But thanks for making me feel old. Do I want to know your age?”
“You mean, do you want to know if you should feel like a dirty old man for checking out my legs earlier or just guilty because you’re married?”
He pressed his fist to his mouth t
o hide his grin. “Goddamn, you sure know how to bust a guy’s balls.”
“Just giving ya shit. Take your dog home, slip into your plaid Lands’ End slippers and cardigan, and enjoy your prune juice without worrying about such trivial things as inappropriately looking at the legs of a minor.”
Gus chuckled, the kind that started deep in his belly, the kind that felt so damn good. “You’re trouble.”
She wound the cord around the shearers and lifted onto her toes again to put them back on the top shelf. “Stop looking at my legs and ass, old man.”
“Tell the young girl thank you, Rags. I want to get home and settled into my easy chair before Masterpiece Theater starts.”
Still on her tippy toes, Parker glanced over her shoulder, cracking a grin. “Good night, Mr. Westman.”
He herded Rags to the door. “For the love of god, call me Gus. My father is Mr. Westman.”
“What is he, like … one hundred?”
Gus turned, relishing the feeling of a genuine smile on his face. It hadn’t been there in a long time.
“Oh, hey?”
He grabbed the door right before it shut. “Yeah?”
“I need a few outlets moved. Do you do small jobs?”
“Not so much, but I’ll do it for you.”
She brushed dog fur off her shirt and shorts. “I’d appreciate it. No hurry. Whenever it fits into your schedule.”
“I’ll come by in the morning.”
Parker waved him off. “No. Not on the weekend. That’s probably your time off. Seriously, no hurry. I’m good with extension cords for now.”
“I’ll be by around nine,” he said while walking away so she wouldn’t have a chance to argue anymore.
*
“Wait a minute, buddy.” Gus grabbed the wrist of his sidekick for the day a second before his pudgy little finger pushed the yellowed doorbell button.
“Why?”
Gus ruffled the mop of blond hair hanging in the boy’s innocent brown eyes, looking a bit like Rags. “We’re early. Let’s just hang out here on the porch for a few minutes.”
They sat on the top porch step, watching the birds and squirrels flitter and skitter about as Parker belted out the second verse to Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off.”
“I like this song.”
Gus chuckled. “Yeah? Sounds like she does too.”
Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger” followed Taylor. Parker also knew every word to that song. Glancing at the clock on his phone, Gus’s mouth twisted into a grin with a slight head shake while the nine-year-old boy bobbed his floppy-haired noggin, his foot tapping to the beat. At 8:55 the concert ended. They waited the final five minutes to make sure there would not be an encore performance.
When they felt satisfied the curtain was down and the stage lights were off for good, the boy rang the doorbell as Gus stood a few feet back inspecting the empty flower boxes beneath the windows and hanging planters at each corner waiting to be filled.
“Just a minute!”
Before Gus could stop him, the eager finger pushed the yellowed button one more time.
“I said just a minute, not just a second.” Parker swung open the door, breathless, sweaty, and instantly grinning at the impatient culprit. “Oh, wow! I thought you said you didn’t have kids.”
Gus tried and failed at not homing in on her short gray dress that looked like something one might wear playing tennis. “No. This is my nephew, Brady. Brady, this is Parker.” He wanted kids, a gaggle of them running amuck and suiting up for little league, but his wife adopted a job instead.
“Hi, Brady.” Parker bent down to his eye level and smiled until her nose wrinkled. “I do believe you are the most handsome little boy I have ever met.”
He grinned and shook his head as if to see her better through his long, disheveled bangs. “Hi.”
“You’re out of breath.” Gus attempted to control his lingering amusement by rubbing his lips together.
Parker slicked back a few stray hairs then tightened her ponytail. “Yeah, I was tramping.”
Gus covered Brady’s ears. “Excuse me?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, rebounding … jumping … mini trampoline.”
“Ah, I see.”
Brady shoved Gus’s hands away from his head.
“Come in.” She held open the door as Brady stepped in first followed by Gus.
“Here, buddy, carry this.” Handing Brady his tool belt, Gus brought in a fancy-looking tool bag.
Her living room consisted of bare blue walls, a blue futon, a red bean bag, and a mini trampoline amid newly refinished dark wood floors. No knickknacks, pictures, scented candles, or anything else that gave a house the feel of home—except the smell of coffee.
“Male bonding, huh? I hope you two have more planned today than moving my outlets.”
“Little league game,” Gus said.
“Is that what they call geriatric baseball? Must be a Parks and Rec thing you’re doing. Huh, Gus?”
The gift of her contagious smile was worth the sacrifice of being the object of her amusement.
Scratching his chin, Gus pursed his lips. “Fun little jabs in front of my nephew. That’s not really fair, is it?”
“How so?” Mischief danced in the blue depths of her eyes.
“I have to be a role model, which prevents me from saying anything back to you.”
“What could you possibly say back to me?” She tapped her chin with her finger as her eyes rolled to the ceiling.
“Nothing, I suppose. Except maybe a bit about your karaoke performance.”
She nodded slowly, eyes flitting between Gus and Brady. “You were here early.”
“A bit.” Gus simpered.
“Define ‘a bit.’”
“Taylor Swift early.”
Her narrowed eyes grew wide with surprise. “And you … what? Stood at the door listening to me?”
“We sat on the top step.” Brady inspected the room, oblivious to any wrongdoing. “Uncle Gus said we were early.”
Parker pulled her hair out of its ponytail, slipped the band on her wrist, and combed through her dark, tangled strands still damp with sweat. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”
Gus met her expectant gaze with a shrug. “We didn’t have our ears pressed to the door. I’m sure anyone driving by with their windows down heard you.”
“And?” She set her gaze on Brady. “How did I sound?”
Brady’s grin reached his eyes. “Really good. I like that song.”
“Smart boy.” Parker held out her fist, and Brady bumped it with his.
“Where’s your breaker box? I need to get this done before Brady decides he likes you better than me.” Gus ruffled Brady’s hair.
“Downstairs.” Parker nodded toward the door to her right.
“I’ll be back, buddy.” He followed Parker down the rickety stairs. A musty smell enveloped them in the chilly, damp dungeon with mildew cracks snaking across the concrete floor. “Definitely has the odor of an old farmhouse.”
“Yeah, I don’t plan to come down here unless there’s a tornado.” She wrinkled her nose, giving him a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Parker.” He laughed. “These aren’t breakers; they’re fuses.” He brushed away a few cobwebs.
“Same thing. Right?”
Gus removed his hat then put it on backward, leaning closer to the old panel. “Yes and no.”
“You don’t know what to do with it, do you? I can call my dad or—”
Slowly, he turned his head, giving her a playful scowl. “Or what? An electrician?” Something about her made it impossible to distinguish the snarky woman with an evil grin from the innocent girl who forwent the opportunity to think before speaking.
Still, Gus enjoyed the way she squirmed, twisting her lips and looking at her nails. “Something like that.”
“Humor me and pretend for today that I’m a real electrician.”
“If you insist.” With her chin tucked
to her chest, she glanced up at him with a playful batting of her eyelashes, a grin dominating her face.
Gus knew some guy would fall hard for Parker. Marry her—feeling like he owned the world for having found her. After all, she was gorgeous, sexy, playful, and fun—so much fun. Then she’d one-eighty on him. Flirting? Gone. Sexy? Nope, not for the husband. At least, that had been his experience with fun, beautiful women. Bait-and-switch.
He returned his attention to the fuse box. “I’m a little surprised with the work you and your dad did in this place that you didn’t have the wiring redone. It’s old and dangerous. This fuse panel increases your risk of fire by at least three times.”
“Don’t tell my mom. She has enough to worry about.”
“I’m serious.”
She sighed. “Fine. As soon as I get a job again, hopefully soon, I’ll start saving for new wiring. You have anyone you recommend?”
“I know a guy.” Gus grinned, but not like an electrician grinned at their customer; it felt more like the smile of a little kid hitting his first home run. In twenty-four hours, the girl next door had managed to remind him how miserable he was in his marriage, how much fun it was to flirt, and how much trouble she could cause in his life.
“So you’re not going to move my outlets today?”
“It would be smart to wait until everything gets rewired.”
“How much are we talking?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“A few grand.”
Her eyes nearly sprang from their sockets. “Really? Well, that’s not happening for a while. For now, why don’t I pay you to move the outlets. What do you charge an hour?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Alrighty then.” She returned a sharp nod. “You know … I think the extension cords are working just fine.”
“Relax, I didn’t say I was going to charge you anything. I’ll move them until I can find time to rewire your house at a neighborly rate.”
“What’s the neighborly rate?”
“Depends on the neighbor.”
She pointed a finger at him. “You know … I did shear Rags for you. Maybe we can make an even trade?”
He barked out a laugh. “An ‘even’ trade? Since when does it cost several grand to buzz down a dog?”
