Hammered

by Jasinda Wilder

  What friends? I have one friend, Audra, and she lives in a swanky condo where all repairs are part of the building maintenance. So…good luck with that.

  Somehow, I’ve finished half the second glass of wine already. “Screw it,” I say out loud, and help myself to the rest of the bottle, and then toss the bottle into the trash so I don’t have to look at the evidence of my lush status. I bring the bag of popcorn with me back into the living room, curl back up on the couch, and turn on the Ali Wong special, because god knows I need to laugh.

  The hour-long special has five minutes left when I hear tires in the gravel driveway. The engine shuts off, and a minute later a heavy tread pounds on the creaky porch steps.

  The knock is four sharp pounds, as if the person on the other end is either impatient, or very strong, or both.

  Still clutching my wineglass, I answer the door.

  In my scrubs.

  Sweaty from the heat.

  More than a little tipsy.

  Have I mentioned that it’s been more than a year since I’ve had sex?

  Hopefully that explains the reaction that follows.

  Chapter 2

  If you take pure, raw, unfiltered, male sexuality and boil it down to its essence, and then infuse that with things like smoldering eyes, rugged good looks, and a piercing stare, you’d have a general approximation of the man who stood in my doorway.

  HOLY SHIT.

  I just blink up at him—and I mean up. Way up. Six feet and probably four inches up. And then I scan downward, slowly, blatantly, and probably hungrily—in the way that a starving lioness might stare at a distracted gazelle.

  I couldn’t begin to guess at his weight, but it’s a lot, and it’s all solid muscle. Well, mostly solid muscle, at least. He’s within a few years of my age, either way. He’s wearing dirty, faded blue jeans—the perfect kind, not hipster tight or too baggy, just tight enough that I was antsy for him to come inside so I could get a good look at his butt. His boots are thick black steel-toe work boots, scuffed and stained and faded. He’s wearing a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt with the sleeves expertly cut off, showing thick, burly, powerful arms covered in full-sleeve tattoos—I see crossed revolvers and skulls and pinup girls and dragons wrapped around assault rifles and playing cards, the logos of several bands, and what seemed like lyrics in graffiti lettering…it was a jumbled collage of images that would probably tell me a lot about him, if I took the time to study them. Which I’d like to do.

  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.”

  I gulp. “Will you have to replace the whole thing?”

  He nods, crossing over to the window. He fingers the frame where it’s cracked from top to bottom, and splintered at the point of impact. “You fucked this thing up pretty good.” He winces. “Screwed it up, I mean. Not supposed to curse on the job. Sorry. Anyway, this is an old window and is beyond repair.”

  I swallow my own curses. “How—how much do you think a new window will cost?”

  He does some mental math, staring at my ceiling for a moment. “I could probably get it done for a couple hundred bucks, say three to five hundred, depending on a few factors.”


  I fight the urge to cry—I really, really don’t have that much to spend on this. “Damn it.” I turn away, staring at the stupid window. “It was stuck, and I was hot, and I’ve had a shitty day.”

  “I get it. This has been a scorcher of a summer. Today especially.” He lifts a tape measure from his tool belt, leans over the sink, and takes a few quick measurements; he pulls a cell phone from his back pocket and taps the measurements into a notepad app. Then, with a wince, he glances at me. “So, a little bad news. This house is old, right?”

  I nod. “Around a hundred years old.”

  “So, back then, window sizes weren’t really standard. Getting a window to fit this space is gonna be tricky. You could end up paying more for it, just because of the unusual size. Usually, you pay more for bigger windows, obviously, right? Well, in this case, you’re gonna pay more for less. The other option is to get a standard window and widen the opening, but you’re gonna pay me the difference in labor. Plus a special order window takes a while to arrive, so you’ll be living with a boarded up window longer than you want.”

  “None of that sounds great,” I say, still swallowing hard past my emotions.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” He peers at the window from one side and then the other. Another glance at me. “It was nailed shut, by the way. That’s why it wouldn’t open.”

  “But I looked for nails!” I protest, with a shake in my voice.

  He reaches up and fingers a spot on the frame, where there’s a slight bump in the paint. “They used pretty small nails and then painted over them. Barely noticeable unless you know what to look for.”

  “Why—why would they do that? Why would anyone nail a window shut and then paint it?” I ask, unable to make sense of it.

  He shakes his head. “Who knows? Folks back then did a whole lot of weird shit—stuff, I mean. I’ve been working on houses most of my life, and I’ve seen all sorts of goofy things. Bricked-in doors, bricked-in fireplaces, including the original mantle, wacky additions with no adherence to code or even common sense.” He glances at the ceiling, at the light fixture that hangs loose from the ceiling, showing a dark gap. “You ever have your electrical looked at? The wiring in some of these old houses can be wonky.”

  “We did have an inspection done, and the guy said it all looked okay.”

  He nods. “Well, that’s good.” He jerked a thumb toward the front door. “I’ll grab some stuff and get this boarded up before the rain comes.”

  “Thank you.” I am desperately trying to infuse myself with a sense of calm and collectedness, and only partially succeed.

  “Haven’t done anything yet except talk.” He gestures at my empty wineglass on the counter. “Sit down, have another glass of wine, and relax. This is taken care of.”

  Well, put it like that…

  I crack open the other bottle, promising myself I’ll only have one more LITTLE glass.

  A few minutes later, I hear him in the landscaping bed outside the window. Then I see him—he’s got on a pair of thick leather work gloves, and he reaches up and pries loose the remaining shards of glass from the window, tossing them in an old, paint-crusted bucket. He then lifts up a ragged section of blue tarp, using an industrial staple gun to fasten it to the outside of the window.

  “This won’t be pretty, but it’ll keep the rain out,” he says.

  “It’s only temporary, anyway, right?” I say, sipping my wine.

  He grins at me through the opening. “Exactly! Always look on the bright side of life.”

  “You’re not going to sing Monty Python, are you?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Well now I am!” And he breaks into the chorus of the song, in a surprisingly good voice, and in a British accent to boot.

  He surprises me by continuing to sing the song as he works, stapling the tarp up over the window. And then, singing a Journey song—the Journey song, “Don’t Stop Believin’”—he nails a piece of plywood up over the tarp. It takes him all of ten minutes, and then he’s back inside, stuffing his gloves behind the buckle of his tool belt.

  “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.

  Ugh.

  Why am I even thinking about him? Why waste my time on this? I’m not in the market for anything with anyone. The ink on my divorce is barely dry.

  But Jesse is just…so hot and impossible to ignore.

  I was never a bad boy sort of girl—not that having long hair, a beard, and tattoos necessarily mean he’s bad or a bad boy, mind you. It’s just that I usually went for the clean-cut guys. The kind who wore A+F and J. Crew and played soccer or tennis and drove newer used cars they’d bought themselves by being responsible and working on the weekends.

  Which had led me to date Nicholas in the first place. We met when I was twenty-eight, and he was thirty-two. He was a guidance counselor, drove a gray Ford Focus he’d bought used, wore polos and button downs even on Saturdays, owned precisely four pairs of shoes—all plain black or brown or tan oxfords, which he shined regularly—and watched CNN and Fox News religiously. He watched both, he said, to get an evenly balanced view of the news. His idea of exercise was walking from the parking lot to the door, and I doubt he knew a socket wrench from a screwdriver anymore than I did. Which made it all the more confusing that he wanted a fixer-upper, but he was insistent and I just went along with it, even though I thought it was a stupid idea.