Nailed It

by Cindi Madsen

  I bent over and dug through the pile of clothes for my phone, biting back a laugh when Jackson let out a harsh curse. “Sorry,” I said, flashing him a smile as I straightened.

  “Yeah, I can tell.”

  He was right. I wasn’t sorry, but I did get a bit distracted staring at his arousal, rather obvious with him only in his boxers. Before he scrambled my brain again, I turned away and answered the phone.

  “Hey,” Savannah said, her voice on the chipper, she’d-had-way-too-many-cups-of-coffee side. “I’m finally caught up with work, so I’m on my way to help. And I’m bringing leftover pie.”

  “Oh, you’re on your way over right now,” I repeated for Jackson’s benefit. Guess it was a good thing that he and I had stopped our game before it’d turned into a super awkward session where his sister burst in on us. “Awesome. I’ll see you in a few.”

  By the time I ended the call, Jackson had already pulled on his pants and was working on buttoning his shirt. Shame, really, although it was for the best.

  “I’ll let you two do your thing.” He handed me my wadded clothes, and his woodsy, musky cologne flooded my system, revving me up all over again. “See you bright and early tomorrow morning?”

  “I was going to head over to the home improvement store and get a feel for flooring and cabinets and all the kitchen stuff. Work up a budget for that part so I can figure out what I can afford versus what I’d like to do.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll pick you up and we can go together.”

  “Sure.” Maybe by then, I could find a way to erase the sight of him in nothing but his boxers and the warmth of his palm on the inside of my thigh.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was going to kill Jackson Gamble.

  The only problem was that there were way too many witnesses in the home improvement store.

  “Do you even do the interiors usually?” I asked, throwing my hands up. “I thought you did mostly foundations and framing and all that other more structural stuff.”

  Jackson shifted his weight forward, his voice low and tight. “I mostly do structural jobs, but I’ve done plenty of interiors, and I also happen to have eyes. You asked what I thought and I told you.”

  I blew out my breath and leaned forward, too, determined not to let him think he had the upper hand. “Well, that’s because I thought you would agree with me—clearly I was delusional.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “That sounds like a you issue.”

  Angry heat wound through me, and I jabbed a finger at his chest. “I…argh! You drive me crazy!”

  “Right back at you, babe.”

  For some reason, the babe stopped me and fired me up at the same time, and there was attraction in the mix as well, and why did he have to make me feel so many emotions at once? I was supposed to be emotionally closed off! How the hell did he always manage to break through my usually impenetrable walls?

  “Can I help you?” a guy asked from behind me. He slid his thumbs along the edge of the maroon vest that signaled he worked here. “If I were you, I’d go with the sandstone tile. Hearty, hides dirt well. Very popular.”

  Of course he’d come over and agree with Jackson. Two dudes in the home improvement store who figured the little lady just needed told what was good for her. “No thanks on the help,” I said through gritted teeth. “We’re doing fine.”

  His eyes widened, and he slowly backed away—good choice on his part, regardless of his crappy taste in tile.

  I turned to Jackson, the main target of my ire. On the bright side, I was no longer picturing him naked or thinking about the corresponding zip that’d shot up my core as he ran his hand up my thigh last night. Nope, my thoughts were all more on the strangle and maim side. “I need a minute to cool off.” I pushed my fingers against my forehead, rubbing against the oncoming headache. “I’m going to go pick out a sink, then we can circle back around to the kitchen area and disagree on everything there.”

  Jackson crossed his arms, and I wished I didn’t notice that stupid sexy line in his forearms. Or the way my pulse sped up because of it. “If you want me to just nod and agree, let me know, and I’ll do that.”

  “Good! That’d be great!”

  The smart-ass saluted me.

  I stormed off, not sure how I’d gotten so fired up so quickly. It started when he’d wrinkled his nose at the apple green paint swatch I’d grabbed for the downstairs bathroom. Evidently he was like those annoying people on House Hunters who pointed out one minor, easily changeable thing and threw up their hands and said not this house.

  But I’d stupidly held out hope that once he saw the flooring I wanted to go with, he’d get it. So I showed him the tiles that looked like wood, the paint swatch up against it, thinking he’d be like “I see it now. Your vision for the house is amazing.” (Okay, so the second sentence was highly unlikely and a tad optimistic on my part.)

  Instead he’d said that tile should look like tile and wood should look like wood and then made sure to point out the vast price difference in a way that made me sound ridiculously frivolous. Then he’d suggested the “much cheaper, hearty sandstone,” also mentioning the hiding-dirt factor. Never mind it wouldn’t go as well with the paint I’d picked out and would look like every generic bathroom out there. And how much dirt did most people drag into a bathroom? If that was what they were so freaking concerned about, I should go with yellow, because it’d hide pee.

  Ew. I backtracked when I realized I’d missed the aisle with the bathroom vanities. Do we want a tiny vanity or just a pedestal sink?

  I scanned the vanities, stopping to check one out, but none of the words I read about it sank in. I really love the look of that faux-wood tile. With the humidity factor, it’d be better for the bathroom than real wood.

  When I’d brought up that point, Jackson said, “Yeah, that’s why I suggested the other tile and not actual wood.”

  I didn’t know why I cared so much what he thought. I was the one calling the shots, and I maintained that most people who bought old Victorian houses bought them because they were different, not the same cookie-cutter houses that plagued new developments. But I also didn’t want to make a decision that would hinder a quick, high-profit sale simply because I was stubborn. There was no accounting for poor taste, so I was sure that some people would agree with Jackson’s assessment that tile should look like title and wood should look like wood, and generic sandstone might be the way to go for salability.

  But Dixie’s house deserved better.

  Black Widow deserved better.

  Not that she nor I would be staying to test out the tile, but if I couldn’t imagine myself living there, it felt like I wouldn’t be doing the house and everything it meant to me justice. Maybe it didn’t make complete logical sense, but there it was anyway.

  I stared at all the sink options, and damn it, I felt the need to consult someone, because I wasn’t sure which way to go. The crumbling porcelain one barely standing in the downstairs bathroom was the pedestal type, with no room for makeup or hair dryers or any of the dozen or so items most females needed to get ready in the morning.

  I’d used its brother upstairs way back when, and my makeup and hair brushes were forever falling on the floor. There definitely needed to be a vanity up there, but the downstairs bathroom was mostly for guests.

  Putting in a vanity might also be a tight fit. Jackson had the measurements, but even texting him and asking him for them seemed like admitting defeat.

  So I went for maturity, snapped a couple of pictures, and texted Savannah.

  Savannah: I like the espresso-colored one, but what color will the walls be?

  I pulled the green color swatch out of my pocket, took a picture, and hit send.

  Savannah: For sure the espresso, then. That’s going to look amazing!

  “Hah!”

  The elderly couple next to me appeared to be concerned about my mental state, but I felt justified, so I didn’t care.

  Jackson wandered a
round the corner—apparently, he couldn’t wait fifteen minutes to argue more with me. Seriously, the guy could start an argument in an empty house. He lifted the mini-notebook that was forever tucked into his back pocket. “Thought you might need the measurements.”

  Damn. He came for a nice reason, which made me the jerk. I told myself to force out the words I knew I should say—words that didn’t come easy, yet I’d used them quite often on him lately. “Thank you.” I extended my hand. “Tape measure, please.”

  He placed it in my hand, his fingers brushing my palm, and then I was back to thinking about them on my thigh.

  I bent to measure the vanity.

  “That one?” he asked, all incredulous-like.

  I fired a few eye daggers over my shoulder, and Jackson clamped his mouth shut. For two seconds.

  “I mean, looks like a great vanity. The measurements are usually on the box. And by usually I mean always.”

  I tucked the edge of the yellow tape on one corner and ran it across the length of the top. “I prefer the hands-on method.”

  “Oh, I know.” He swiped his hand across the stripe of skin between my shirt and the back of my pants, and I fought to act unaffected. With him it was all heat, the angry I’m-gonna-lose-my-temper kind one second, and then the I’m-so-turned-on-I’m-going-to-jump-you-in-public kind the next.

  “It’s just that…” He settled his hand on the small of my back. “I’m sure that’s going to be too big. Even if it technically fits, it’ll look cramped in that tiny downstairs bathroom. If I were allowed to give my opinion, I’d say you should stick with a pedestal sink.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re allowed to give your opinions.”

  “Am I?”

  I straightened and spun to face him, the whir of the tape measure retracting ending with a loud pop. “It would make it easier if they were the same as mine, but I realize that’s beyond unrealistic when it comes to you and me.”

  He hadn’t moved his hand away when I’d turned around, and now it was on my hip, radiating heat. “And tell me…?” The swipe of his thumb just under the hem of my shirt sent my hormones into overdrive. “How bored do you get with all the guys who agree with you?”

  I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it. “Depends.” Great come back, Ivy.

  Bored was one thing I’d never been with Jackson around. I just wasn’t sure semi-irritated-and-constantly-turned-on was the gold standard.

  “How about we do the espresso vanity upstairs?” he asked, his voice placating. “The green will look better with that big window, and if you want expensive-ass tile that looks like wood and takes a bite out of your profit margin, I’ll put in tile that looks like wood.”

  “Okay,” I said, ignoring the extra jab about the higher price. “I appreciate that.” Since the touching method scrambled my thoughts, I stepped out of his reach, using the pretense of buying the vanity to cover. I tapped the top of the box that held a disassembled one. “Do I lift it up and put it on a cart or something? Or do I drag it through the store and lay it at the feet of the clerks at the checkout stands like the spoils of my latest kill?”

  “One, I need to be more vigilant about disarming you before I take you out in public, or I have a feeling my head will be the next thing you throw at someone’s feet…”

  I pursed my lips, trying to hold a dirty look so he wouldn’t go thinking he was hilarious while he gave me his most charming, false-innocence grin.

  “And two, while I fully believe you could lift it, we’re not going to buy the big stuff here.”

  “What? Then why did we come here?” And more, why did we have a huge argument over stuff we weren’t buying?

  “You said you wanted to look around and get a feel for what you wanted. I was trying to be agreeable.” His grin widened, stretching the limits of his sexy mouth. “Some of the odds and ends, like paint, you can get here, but I’ll order the cabinets and flooring from my vendors. It’ll be a lot cheaper, trust me.” He arched an eyebrow. “You at least trust me, right?”

  Trust was a tricky thing for me.

  Way #6: Never trust your heart with anyone. People lie, they change their minds, and feelings fade. No one will ever take as good care of your heart as you hope they will. The only way to keep it safe is to never give it away.

  He wasn’t asking for my heart, though. Just to save me money. And I realized that I did trust him—not with my heart, but with most everything else. “Yeah. I trust you.”

  “Good. We’ll work on the agreeing thing.” A wicked slant curved his lips. “Or maybe we’ll just find a better way to work out our frustrations when we don’t agree.”

  I reached up and twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “Like with strip poker?”

  “Wow. You really want to get me out of my clothes again.”

  Set myself right up for that one. I couldn’t even deny it. I was back to picturing him shirtless and seated across from me last night, his hand on my thigh. Too bad that couldn’t happen again—I was glad Savannah’s call had interrupted us before we went and made things super complicated.

  Well, I was trying to be glad, and that should count for something.

  He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started toward the mock kitchens. “Let’s go see what trouble we can get into picking out counters and cabinets, then I’ll happily oblige your request.”

  I let him lead me over. But I was also calculating a way to regain my control before it slipped completely out of my reach.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What have you been up to?” my mom asked as we settled into a table at South City Kitchen for brunch Thursday morning.

  Crap. Did I look guilty? A heavy dose of it pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe. To some degree, I’d closed myself off emotionally to Cora, but I could never get all the way there. I mean, she was my mom. So even though she’d always chosen men over me, and even though I would inevitably get hurt by something she would say or do in the future, I couldn’t help but try to keep our relationship as strong as it could possibly be.

  Savannah claimed it was because I was a good person, but most of the time it felt more like a weakness than a strength. There’d been a lot of enabling through the years—growing up, I hadn’t recognized that was what was going on, but now that I did, I still enabled her more than I should. I was still the adult while she made reckless, impulsive decisions.

  “Ivy? Hello?” Mom raised her perfectly penciled-in eyebrows as much as she could, what with the constant trips to the spa for Botox. “I asked what you’ve been up to. You’re even harder to get a hold of than usual.”

  Guilt flickered, but I smothered it before it could spread further. She rarely initiated contact, and when she did there were strings attached, as thick and sticky as the webs that’d been in the attic before Jackson took care of them.

  “Just work,” I said, repressing a shudder over the thought of spiders, immediately followed by a shiver of want as I thought about Jackson. “Lots of work.”

  “You work too much.”

  And you don’t work enough. She’d always relied on men for everything. Where she lived, how much money she had to shop with, her self-esteem… It all came from outside sources, which was why it’d never be enough.

  After a few disastrous turns of living with me, I told her never again. Not just for my sake, but for hers. I wanted her to be independent. Thanks to enough alimony checks to keep her afloat, she’d rented her own apartment (I’d had to move her in, naturally) and now had a job where she worked a whole fifteen to twenty hours a week. She would run out of funds eventually if she didn’t work more, but she was looking for a guy instead.

  “Since you’re obviously not going to ask me what I’ve been up to, which is only polite, I guess I’ll just have to take it upon myself to tell you.” She shook out her napkin and draped it across her lap. “I’m dating someone.”

  My skin prickled, my appetite for the cheddar biscuits and gravy I was looking
forward to fading. And there it is. Mom was in her early fifties but could pass for much younger. She spent a lot of time on hair, make up, and keeping in shape. Because how else were you supposed to land a new man?

  “Don’t give me that look,” she said. “I know you want me to live alone forever, like some kind of nun.”

  I snort-laughed. I couldn’t help it. The idea of her being nun-like was laughable. Then the guilt I’d stabled broke free, and I worried that if I didn’t act excited enough, she might decide she needed to go to desperate, dangerous lengths to get my attention, and last time that had happened it nearly broke me.

  If it hadn’t been for Jackson…

  Which was why I’d relied on him too much in the past and couldn’t make the same mistake. A suffocating sensation gripped my throat and lungs, and I tried to push past it. “Will you at least consider keeping your job?”

  “I’m going to keep my job.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “I might have to cut down my hours, though. He lives OTP, so if I end up moving in with him, the drive will take longer than it’s worth.”

  Commuting from outside the perimeter of 285 was a pain, but people managed it every day. “How long have you been dating him?”

  She straightened silverware that didn’t need straightening, delaying the inevitable, ridiculous answer. “One month. I wanted to wait until it was getting serious to tell you.”

  “If one month is the standard, I need to tell you about the cereal I recently discovered, because I’ve been seeing it longer than you’ve been seeing your boyfriend.”

  Mom let out an exhale, disappointment clear in her features—well, her forehead and eyes didn’t crinkle, but the downturned mouth and years of experience meant I could read through her cosmetic procedures. “I guess I shouldn’t tell you these things. Just keep it all bottled up.” She added a chin wobble for emphasis.

  I wanted to tell her that if she would just forgive Dixie for daring to date a guy she’d let go of, she could have her best friend back. Being the parent, her best friend, and her daughter was too much pressure, especially when she wasn’t much of a friend or mother back. This brunch date wasn’t to “just check in.” It was the gateway conversation to how she’d need my help moving her belongings to a new house soon.