by Kim Law
“Would you if you were producing the show?”
Trenton shook her head, and Jill did the same. It may be all a game to her, but the man had a show to put on, and she knew it. No way would Patrick give up trying to get his two stars on camera together. Especially when there was an ongoing feud between them.
Cal came out of the other house then, and though Jill hadn’t once looked directly at him since he’d caught her with the sledgehammer, she couldn’t stop herself from watching now. He was a solid six two, no extra fat anywhere, and he moved in a kind of slow roll. His shoulders swaggered a little, which alone could draw any woman’s attention, but it was his thighs that had always reeled Jill in. They were thick and muscled, same as the rest of him, but they turned outward just the slightest amount. As if what lay nestled between needed that little bit of extra room.
Her throat went dry. She knew what lay nestled between.
Jill felt Heather’s gaze on her as she watched Cal, then Heather turned her head, same as Jill’s, and joined her in tuning in to the action next door. Trenton rolled to her side to participate, as well, and the three of them admired the view as Pete came out of the house next. Following him was the redhead who’d been working with Cal and his crew that week. The redhead wasn’t an overly large man—and there was a softness to his features that made him look closer to twelve than whatever age he might possibly be—yet he moved with a strength not unlike Cal’s.
They headed to Cal’s truck, each hefting a couple of bags of leveling concrete out of the bed, and as their legs ate up the space back to the house, the redhead glanced toward the tree. His gaze landed on Jill and his footsteps slowed.
“That boy needs to get laid,” Trenton muttered under her breath, and Jill promptly snorted, choking on a gulp of the juice she’d been drinking.
“I vote Heather do it,” she croaked out. “Heather’s the one who likes redheads.”
“Oh, but sweetie. It isn’t me that redhead has his eye on.”
Jill lowered her gaze with embarrassment, because Heather was right. The guy’s name was Doug Caldwell, and yes, he had his eye on her. He’d done some phenomenal tile work over at the Rusted Rooster when the owners had decided to class up the place the year before. Therefore, Jill was aware of who he was. But over the last two days, every single time the boy’s eyes had turned her way, she’d sworn she felt steam radiate off him. And that didn’t even include the heat filling his cheeks with every glance.
Poor little redhead.
“How old can he possibly be, anyway?” Jill looked up from her lap. “He can’t be more than twenty, right?”
The men returned to the truck.
“Eighteen, maybe?” Trenton guessed. “At least that would be legal.”
Jill once again snorted her juice.
Trenton snickered at Jill’s choking, and Jill threw the almost-empty bottle at her. But Trenton caught it and fired it right back. It bounced off the side of Jill’s head, splashing the final drops into her hair, and as she cackled with laughter, Little Red tripped over his own two feet.
Jill smiled at him then. Giving him a full-blown I’m-watching-you-watch-me grin.
Heather elbowed her in the ribs when Red smiled back. “You’re evil,” she whispered.
“I know.” The boy’s cheeks were darn-near red at that point.
But Jill was also aware that Cal had lingered at his truck while Little Red had been dawdling in the yard. And that Cal was looking at her, as well. That’s where her true evil lay.
She stood then, fearing that if she didn’t soon get out of there, she’d take another direct look.
“Break’s over,” she announced.
She swiped at her rear to dislodge whatever dirt might have accumulated while sitting on the ground, then helped to gather the mic packs and the remainder of their lunch—all while ignoring her ex-husband, Little Red, and Len—who was once again heading her way. And as they walked off to find Patrick, Jill conceded that though she might have managed not to take another look toward the Cadillac House, she was very much aware that Cal’s gaze had remained affixed on her.
Only thirty-five more days to go. She had this.
Chapter Six
“The facts may not always be what you want to hear. But learn to listen.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #61
Cal unlocked the door to his grandmother’s house Saturday evening and pushed it open to a dark kitchen. He was almost too tired to cross the threshold, and it was barely seven o’clock.
Blowing out an exhausted breath, he forced himself to move, flipping on lights as he went and dropping the box he’d picked up outside onto the kitchen table. He then went straight to the fridge and pulled out a Coke.
He eyed the empty case of beer sitting on the top shelf and slid a glance around the room. A couple of empty beer bottles sat on the countertop, as well as the ones he’d shoved in the garbage can the night before. Muttering a curse, he tossed the two empties before grabbing a can of cat food and dumping it into the ceramic bowl on the floor.
“Lily,” he called out. The cat usually met him at the end of the day.
He leaned his head into the hallway and looked up the stairs when she didn’t appear, but there was no sign of her. He knew she was around, though. And that she’d come out only when she felt like it. Because she, like everyone else in his life, did only as she pleased.
Grabbing a bag of chips, his soda, and the monthly guilt package off the table, he headed for the living room, turning on more lights as he went. He’d wanted to check out the other jobsites today instead of being stuck over on Pear Street, but they’d had one problem come up after another. To top it off, the plumber needed an extra day to replace all the lines, so Cal would be meeting him at the house first thing in the morning, just to keep from starting the week off behind schedule.
All of that meant he wouldn’t make it out to his place that weekend at all. As well as no Sunday visit to see his granny. He hated when that happened.
Dropping to the couch, he propped his feet on the coffee table and eyed the hand-printed label attached to the box he’d brought in. Neither his dad nor his dad’s flavor of the month would have been the one to address the package. Nor would they know what was in it. His phone beeped as he turned on the television, and he used that as an excuse to shove the box out of his lap. It was Marci wanting to know if she should come over or if he would be picking her up.
He frowned as he thumbed out a reply.
Can we reschedule? I’m seriously tired tonight. And grumpy.
And he simply wasn’t in the mood. He and Marci had been going out for a couple of months, and though she was fun, he was finding that most days she was a bit too much. She was so damned cheerful all the time.
Occasionally, he didn’t feel like being charming Cal. He just wanted to sit and stew.
Marci also always wanted to be going out or being seen. Or she wanted to talk things to death. Whereas he often preferred to relax, eat a good steak, and just “be” with the other person in the room. Silently. Or better yet, go out to the farm and work. By himself.
Which wasn’t fair, he knew. If he ever wanted a relationship to last, he’d have to give more than that. But at the same time, he had yet to find a relationship he wanted to give more to. They simply didn’t seem to be worth it.
I don’t mind, Marci replied. I could rub your tired muscles.
He dropped his head to the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. Marci was already frustrated with him because he’d cut their date short the night before, but she was still trying. That’s more than he could say for himself. But after a week of the stress of keeping the Cadillac project on schedule, along with cameras in his face every time he turned around, he was too tired to even fake it tonight. And too frustrated.
And too damned mad at his ex-wife.
That sledgehammer episode . . .
He groaned at the thought. What the hell had he been thinking by going over there? T
he majority of his stress that week had been due to having witnessed that.
He’d seen her through the windows when he’d come back to the house. He’d known what she was about to do the instant he’d caught sight of the tool in her hand. And he’d remembered—with clarity—how much anger she could hold.
He’d also recalled how she’d once been likely to express that anger.
He blew out a breath. She’d been fifteen the day she’d climbed that ladder behind him at Blu’s house. Furious over something that had happened at school. He’d looked over his shoulder to ask what she thought she was doing coming up behind him like that, and she’d had a look on her face similar to what he’d witnessed the other night. She’d ignored his demand to get off the ladder, reaching out a hand to him instead, and demanded he give her a hammer. So she could pound on something.
He’d given her a sledgehammer instead.
After she’d beaten a rotting tree trunk to a pulp, he’d suggested another way she could work off some steam. Because he was an ass.
And because he’d heard the rumors about her.
Yet despite him being an ass, she’d been all for his suggestion.
He dragged a hand down over his face as he futilely attempted to stop the memories. He hadn’t touched her for two years after that. Not one hand anywhere on her body. And though he shouldn’t have let his little head dictate his big head that day, he could still remember every detail from that afternoon. And he still loved those details.
Therefore, why in hell’s name had he taken one look through that kitchen window the other night, and let his feet walk him straight to her door?
Because he was an idiot. Obviously.
And because he apparently still got a kick out of pissing her off.
He sent Marci a reply.
Really sorry, but no. Going to bed early. Working tomorrow, too.
She would be ticked at the cancellation, but there was no way he could be around her right now. He shouldn’t have gone out with her the night before, either. Not when his ex-wife wouldn’t get the fuck out of his head.
Then maybe I’ll be busy next weekend . . .
He stared down at the reply. Yep. Ticked. He tossed his phone to the couch and turned on the TV, then he pulled a knife from his jeans pocket and cut through the tape on the box. Ever since his dad had moved out of town, he’d sent a monthly guilt package. Neil Reynolds knew Cal visited his grandmother on a regular basis—therefore, the shipment came to him.
Cal sorted through it now.
Lotions, a new toothbrush and toothpaste, a gown and robe set.
There was also a new bedside radio and a shoebox full of yarn and knitting needles.
She didn’t need any of this stuff, but he’d take it to her anyway. And she’d be thrilled to get it. To know that Neil was thinking of her. Not that her oldest son bothered to visit her enough to count. He put in twice-a-year trips—with whomever he happened to be shacked up with at the time—to the home where he’d stuck her, and he sent monthly packages of junk. No calls. No other concerns.
She’d been in the home for seventeen years now. She’d started going blind before Papaw had died, and only two years later—because of one stupid accident with the kitchen stove—Cal’s father had shoved her into a twelve-by-fourteen-foot room that was forty-five minutes from everything she’d ever known. After that, he’d basically written her off.
Cal pulled out a smaller box that had his name written on the top and tossed it into the kitchen, aiming for the trash can. The box clattered with the empty beer bottles, tumbling everything to the floor, and the cat, who’d finally made her way to her food bowl, shot back out of the room.
Cal sighed. “Sorry, Lily!”
The cat didn’t care.
The kitchen door opened, and his uncle appeared, and upon spotting Cal on the couch, a smile broke out on Rodney’s face.
“There he is.” Rodney headed to the living room. “Big celebrity.”
“Hey, Uncle Rodney.” Cal patted the couch cushion. “Have a seat. Missed you at the set yesterday.”
“Yeah. Uh . . . Something came up.” Rodney grimaced with the words. “I’ll get out there, though. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Sure.” Cal focused on the TV instead of his uncle. A game show was on.
Rodney had been scheduled to be filmed helping with the demo, but he’d been a no-show. Cal hadn’t seen anything of him at all the day before, and likely wouldn’t have known where he’d ended the evening if not for the 2:00 a.m. text from a bartender buddy over at Joe’s. Joe’s was a little dive on the outskirts of town that catered to loose women who liked cheap beer, and Cal’s buddy tried to help out when he could. He’d text if things looked like they might get out of hand, and Cal would climb out of bed to go and retrieve his uncle.
He and Rodney never talked about it the next day, nor did Cal ever know how his uncle got his truck back after he sobered up. These things just had a way of working themselves out.
“How about you stay in tonight?” Cal suggested. He flipped to the local news. “Just me and you. I’ve got a couple of steaks I could thaw. I’ll toss them on the grill.”
His uncle looked toward the fridge. “I’ll think about it.”
There was no beer in the fridge. They both knew Rodney would be going out.
“You don’t have a date with Marci?”
Cal shook his head. “Too tired.”
“Too tired for a woman?” Rodney grunted. “Some days I’m not sure you’re deserving of the Reynolds name.”
Cal shrugged. It wasn’t a concept his uncle was familiar with, but Cal had grown tired of chasing skirts some time ago. He’d put his years in and he’d done a fine job of it. And if the women around town were to be asked today, they’d likely say that he was still chasing. But that was only because every relationship he tried ended before it really took off. The women were the ones to dump him, though, so at least they couldn’t claim he was a player. It was their choice to end things. They just blamed him for them having to make that choice.
The local news came on, and Rodney muttered something about forgetting to pick up something while he’d been out. He headed for the kitchen. “I won’t be long,” he called before the door slammed behind him.
Cal went back to watching the news. They both knew Rodney wouldn’t be back soon.
After the top news story finished airing, Cal’s and Jill’s pictures splashed on the screen. He put his feet on the floor and sat up.
“Local companies We Nail It Contractors and Bluebonnet Construction are making Red Oak Falls proud this week, with exes Cal Reynolds and Jill Sadler leading the charge.”
The picture cut to the houses as the story continued, showing Jill, Heather, and Trenton standing on the other side of a camera while one of the producers fed them questions. Cal had managed to eavesdrop on that interview when he’d been doing a preliminary walk of the yard with his landscaper, but he hadn’t noticed the news van there at the same time.
The camera panned to him, hovering at the corner of the house. He’d been standing with his lawn guy, but neither of them had been talking. They’d both been watching the women.
The reporter commented on that fact, chuckling at what she called a tongue-hanging-out moment for “the boys,” and he scowled at the TV. His tongue had been securely inside his mouth the whole time.
The clip cut to the interior of the Bono House then, and as the reporter spoke to Heather, Cal tuned her out. He watched for glimpses of Jill instead. The three of them were good at what they did. He remembered their budding skills when they’d first started working with him out at Blu’s, but he’d also seen some of the retreats they’d built. They knew what they were doing, and he’d best not forget it or he might find the Bluebonnets giving him and Pete a virtual ass-kicking on national television.
Jill stepped into the house behind Heather, and the instant she saw the camera, she put on her “face.” That’s what he’d been watching for.
&
nbsp; They brought her into the conversation, and Cal had to acknowledge that she had full control in front of the camera. She was personable in a way that he knew was both her true self and also not. It was acting, he admitted. She had the ability to highlight the traits that would win her the most favor, and she even seemed to have a knack for comedic timing with the one-liners. She was damned mesmerizing to watch, actually, and he found himself wondering how much of that was natural and how much had been learned during her stint in Hollywood.
How much had he missed when he’d been dating her?
He eyed his phone where it lay on the couch. He still had her number. It was the same one she’d had as a kid. Maybe he should call and apologize for the crack he’d made about her acting skills Wednesday night. He’d just been trying to get under her skin.
And maybe he could cut off his balls and hand them over while he was at it?
Because that’s how she’d take it. Him conceding her win. Giving in.
Him begging her to quit ignoring him on set and to once again speak to him.
He shoved his ex-wife from his head for the umpteenth time that week and reached for his phone. He’d call his granny instead. That would be a conversation worth having.
They talked for twenty minutes, him telling her about the first week of filming, and her sharing details of her week. He also let her know that he wouldn’t be able to make it the following day. He’d try to see her during the week, though. He routinely made a trip or two during the weekdays.
She asked about Rodney, as well, and as was standard, Cal lied. Cal told her that her youngest son was doing great. Because he couldn’t tell her the truth. He wasn’t about to be the one to inform his grandmother that though she’d already lost one son to drinking and driving when he’d been only sixteen . . . her youngest had been heading down that very same path for a number of years.
At least her oldest wasn’t an addict. She had that going for her.
But then, Neil Reynolds also had nothing to do with her.
They said their good-byes soon after, and Cal decided to use the evening to do something useful. Like figuring out a way to rile up his ex enough to get her to acknowledge his existence.
