by Meg Maguire
Who on earth would ever give this man up?
It came too fast for her to hoist her defenses and bat it aside, too fast to avoid the sting of guilt.
You would. You made that clear from the start. You plan on walking away.
But she still felt that fire in her gut, disgust that a woman could have claimed to love this man enough to marry him, promised him forever, then turned her back when life got tough.
I may not be willing to make that promise to this man, Steph thought.
But at least that means I’ll never break it, either.
10
SHE WOKE to the faintest, sweetest sensation—a man’s lips trailing soft kisses along her arm. She smiled before her eyes even opened, and found his head with her hands, mussing his hair.
“Keep sleeping,” he murmured, sounding barely awake himself.
But she was conscious now, and with that consciousness came a surprising revelation—it was nice, waking up here. With Patrick. No panic, no regret. And memories. Memories of how good it felt, surrendering to this man’s secret bossy side. And she had the day off, with nowhere to be until—
She sat up straight. “Oh shit. What time is it?”
He reached across her to the bedside table and checked his phone. “Quarter of ten.”
“Crap. I’m supposed to be in Lynn at eleven for brunch. Do you have a train schedule?” At least Newburyport and Lynn were on the same line.
She was already kicking at the sheets, but Patrick looped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. “Don’t be stupid—I’ll drive you.”
She turned to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Of course.” He kissed her forehead, then tossed the down comforter aside and got out of bed. She sat up, hugging the sheets to her chest, and admired his naked body as he dressed. Enjoy it while it lasts.
She grabbed a quick shower and dried her hair, and they climbed into his pre-warmed truck with just enough time to get to Lynn on schedule.
She took in Patrick’s town as they wound through the narrow streets, past quaint summer businesses and restaurants.
“Is that where you go to strike out with the local ladies?” she asked him as they passed a bar.
“No, no. Mine’s way more of a dive than that. Down by the water. Want to go some night?” He glanced sidelong at her. “It’s only a few minutes’ walk from my place. We could get drunk and dance next to the pool tables.”
She smiled dryly. “I’m thirty now. I was kind of hoping my drunken-bar-dancing days were behind me.”
“No one’s ever too old for drunken dancing. How else would we survive weddings?”
She stared blankly out the window. Kristy’s wedding was drawing close, and it was just about official, barring a miracle at tonight’s mixer—Steph would have no one to dance with, drunk or otherwise. Not unless some ancient flame from high school asked her. And she knew exactly which pitying look her bitch of a cousin would shoot her, should that wind up the case.
Take what you can get, Penny. You might clean up okay for a tomboy, but I won’t be holding my breath, waiting for an invite to your big day.
“Did I say something wrong?” Patrick asked.
“Oh, no. Not at all. Just thinking about a family thing I have to go to next weekend. For this cousin I hate.”
He laughed. “Damn. Why do you hate your own cousin?”
“She made my life a living hell, when we were kids. We were in the same grade, at the same school. She was like a bloodthirsty Barbie, always teasing me for being a late bloomer and a redhead and for only liking ‘boy stuff.’ I haven’t seen her in ages, but I’m sure she’ll be delighted to make an ass of herself, asking how much I love rolling around with other women and pumping iron or whatever.”
“Most people get over that dumb kid shit by the time they hit their thirties.”
“Don’t count on it with her. She’s the reason I left Facebook.”
He grinned at her, mischievous.
“What?”
“I’ll go as your beard.”
Steph rolled her eyes, smiling. “I don’t need a beard. She’s seen me with plenty of guys over the years. That’s just the lowest-hanging fruit, my being into manly stuff or whatever. The implication doesn’t bother me, and she knows it. It’s just shorthand for her saying, ‘I’m still the prom queen, and you’re still the weirdo jock girl with no boobs.’”
“Maybe she got fat,” Patrick offered.
“Not according to her wedding announcement,” Steph said with a dramatic, faux-lamenting sigh.
“Ah, a wedding... The evil bitch cousin’s wedding,” he said in a low, gravelly tone fit for a movie trailer.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t want to win. I just hate that she thinks it’s okay to treat me like that.”
“You don’t have to go to the wedding if you don’t want to, right?”
“No, I don’t. But I want to see all my other family. And I want to eat crab cakes and drink champagne on her dime.”
He laughed.
“And I need to find the perfect dress this week, so I’ll look as good as possible while I do it.”
As they drove, Steph’s thoughts wandered to the looming mixer. Yesterday she’d felt hopeful, but now...dread, more dread. Just as it had soured any feelings she’d kindled for Dr. Dylan, this latest taste of Patrick had spoiled her appetite for other men.
Suck it up, Healy. Stick to the plan.
The sex was clouding her reason. There was a voice in the back of her head, its whispers growing louder. You like him. More than you’ve ever liked anybody.
But I won’t have a child, not until the financial uncertainty’s passed. If Steph believed in anything, it was preparation. And how long would it take to get to a good place financially with a guy like Patrick? It could be years, and she was thirty. You could gamble on those things when you were twenty-five. You were immortal at twenty-five. But something changed at thirty. That nagging voice said, You’ve got ten years to realistically make this motherhood thing happen. Knock off two or three as a relationship was kindled to the point where it might prove to be the right one, another few for a second go-round, should the first effort not pan out. Add a couple more, should a man like Patrick prove himself the one, and they waited to get to a safe place with their finances.
Forty would be here in a blink.
She hated to even be thinking this way, but time was a real factor, in a way it never had been before. She didn’t want to go into her next serious relationship with her fingers crossed, breath held, blindly praying that once the initial lust cooled, the foundation she’d discover underneath would be solid enough to build a family on. That connection was key, to be sure, but it wasn’t enough. Not without stability.
Her head was spinning.
They reached Lynn, and only took a couple wrong turns before finding Rich’s street. “That one, I think,” Steph said, pointing to a pale green three-story halfway down the block.
“How will you get home?” Patrick asked.
“I can just hop on the train.”
“You sure? I could like, go grab myself a coffee, take you the rest of the way in an hour...?”
She waved the offer away. “No, no. You’re way too nice. This is Rich’s place—my gigantic Hispanic coworker? He’s dating Lindsey, from Spark, and she’s looking for a roommate. And I’m looking for an apartment.”
“Oh, gotcha.”
“So if I like the place, after brunch I’ll want to see how far the walk to the station is, see what the neighborhood’s like.”
“Sounds smart.”
“Oh f—” Steph bit her lip, spotting Rich out front, scattering salt on the stoop and sidewalk. He glanced up as Patrick’s truck slowed to a stop along the curb. Eyeing Steph through the windshield, he blinked coyly between her and her chauffeur.
“Crap crap crap.”
“What?”
She groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this—poachin
g a contractor from work.”
Patrick grinned. “Busted.”
Rich wandered over and Steph rolled down her window. “Good morning, Rich.”
“Morning, Healy. And Patrick, right?”
“Nice to see you again.” Patrick opened his door and hopped out to pull Steph’s bag from behind the seats. Rich used the opportunity to lean along the open window and mutter, “Electrician, huh? Bow-chicka-wow-wow. Did your pizza boy not arrive within thirty minutes?”
“Ah ha ha ha.”
“Does he make house calls?”
“May I please exit?”
Rich stepped back and opened Steph’s door as Patrick brought her bag around. “You into brunch, Patrick?” Rich asked.
Oh Lord.
“My mom’s making enough calentado to feed the neighborhood.”
“I dunno what that is, but I won’t say no to anybody’s mom’s cooking.”
“C’mon in, then.”
Patrick shot Steph a belated glance and she shrugged to say, Sure. What the hell?
Rich tossed the last of a scoop of salt down the sidewalk and led them up the steps.
“Who else is here?” Steph asked.
“Just my mom and sister and Linds.” He opened the first door as they entered the building and waved them inside.
They walked into a large kitchen, bustling with good smells and laughing women. Steph and Patrick were introduced to Rich’s mother, Lorena, a stout, slow-moving woman with a kind smile and a heavy Colombian accent, and his younger sister, Diana, dressed in scrubs, round face framed in black curls. Steph and Patrick had both met Lindsey already of course, but they shook all the same. Lindsey waited until Patrick was being plied with coffee by their hostess, then sidled up to Steph.
“I didn’t miss something, did I? Jenna didn’t sign Patrick up for Spark when my back was turned, did she?”
“No. This is all very...unsanctioned.”
Lindsey nodded slyly, like they’d just entered into a conspiracy together. “Good work. I had a chance to chat with him when he was doing the lights in the office. He seems really sweet.”
“He is.”
“And really cute.”
“Yes, that, too. But it’s just casual. Rich caught us pulling up together and invited him.”
“Do you wish he hadn’t?”
“No, not really. I wasn’t looking to get busted and give your boyfriend any more reasons to rib me at work, but since I have...”
“May as well feed the man, right?”
Steph smiled at that. Of course Patrick deserved a bit of the girlfriend treatment, seeing how he’d driven her all the way to Lynn when he could’ve stayed in his nice warm bed.
She nodded. “May as well.”
* * *
PATRICK HAD NEVER had Colombian brunch before, but damn—Denny’s had nothing on Lorena Estrada. He finished helping load the dishwasher then clutched his belly dramatically, smiling at his hostess. “I think I gained about ten pounds, Lorena. Thanks. That was the best meal I’ve had in ages.”
Though she waved the compliment away, it clearly had her glowing.
Lindsey had taken Steph upstairs to check out the apartment and its spare bedroom, and Rich’s sister had left for work. Rich was tidying the table and stowing condiments and spices, and when Patrick was dismissed from any further chores, he headed for the door.
“I’ll just head up and see if Steph needs a lift home,” he said.
“Before you go.” Rich followed Patrick into the empty landing.
“Yeah?” Oh hell, was he about to get grilled by Steph’s massive cage-fighter coworker about his intentions toward her? Their brunch-time conversation had told Patrick that he and Rich weren’t destined to become bosom friends anytime soon. The guy had a cocky, protective thing going on, and a stare that went cold when he turned his attention to another male.
“You said you used to be a carpenter?” Rich asked.
Patrick’s heart resumed beating. “Still am. Restoration stuff.”
“Tough market these days, I bet.”
“There’s an understatement.”
Rich’s dark eyes shifted. “Lemme quit acting like I got any tact—Steph said you’re hurting, work-wise.”
“Did she?”
“She didn’t say what guy she was talking about at the time, but yeah. She did.”
Patrick nodded. “She’s not wrong.” Steph had talked about him to her friend? What else had she said, he had to wonder.
“I grew up in this house,” Rich said, gazing around them. “Same as my little sister. My dad died here.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Rich waved the apology aside. “It’s got my family’s entire history in this country, all in these walls, good and bad. I just closed on the building last week.”
“Ah. Congrats.”
“My mom’s lived in this town for over thirty years, and after all that time, she finally doesn’t have to answer to a landlord.”
Patrick smiled politely to cover his impatience, unsure exactly where this patriarchal lecture was leading, issued by a man likely five years his junior. If it was toward work, he’d let the arrogant shtick slide.
“I could’ve bought a nicer place,” Rich said, “but this was what I wanted. I know the siding needs replacing and the front steps are on borrowed time...”
Patrick cheered, pleased this was heading in a direction that might involve a payday.
“Would you say you’re better at carpentry than electrical work?”
Patrick laughed. “Night and day.”
Rich gave him a shrewd look.
“You need something done?”
“I know it’s nothing special, as architecture goes,” Rich continued.
Patrick nodded. It was just another anonymous, mirror-image pair of multi-family homes, slapped together to fill a need and turn a profit. Then he remembered those unique, charming triple-deckers he’d gotten to look inside in Worcester. Basically housing for immigrant workers in the mid-twentieth century, but with so much pride put into the details. He pictured Rich’s sagging porches, imagining stained cedar in place of the sad, whitewashed plastic-blend the last carpenter had used. He pictured Lorena’s kitchen, and how cheerful it would look with the old re-re-re-painted cabinets ripped out, sunlight gleaming off walnut and glass.
“You’ve got plenty of potential, if the foundation’s solid.”
Rich nodded. “Half a quarry’s worth of granite.”
He crossed his arms. “Are you offering me work?”
Rich glanced into the kitchen, then beckoned Patrick to follow. His mother had finished tidying, leaving the room empty. He gestured for Patrick to sit at the table. “Probably not work in the way you’d prefer.” Rich fetched a pair of beers from the fridge.
Patrick politely waved the bottle away. “What way, then?”
“I’m not rolling in liquid assets,” Rich said, opening his own beer. “It’d have to be piecemeal, a project at a time, as my fight pay allows. Maybe ten hours a week or so, to start.”
“Ten hours is better than nothing.”
“Or, I could buy your labor for the cost of rent and utilities—I’ve got an empty unit on the other side.”
Patrick had to laugh. “I believe my great-great-great-grandparents would call that indentured servitude.”
Rich grinned and tapped his bottle to Patrick’s unopened one. “I won’t pretend that as the son of dirt-poor immigrants, I don’t find that fact a little bit satisfying. Oh, hey—you know anything about plumbing?”
“I’m nearly as good a plumber as I am an electrician,” Patrick promised.
“That’s terrifying. But every slumlord needs a crooked super, right? What do you think? Too raw a deal?”
Patrick did a little math. The rent on a two-bedroom unit around here was probably fifteen hundred or thereabouts—only as much money as he’d make doing part-time work. Though if he turned his own place into a rental...
It didn’t fee
l right. He shook his head. “Too raw. But I’ll take any jobs you’ve got to offer, as they come. If the price is fair.” That was a bit of a bluff—he was so desperate to be doing carpentry again, he’d be tempted by anything over minimum wage, provided it didn’t interfere with any other work he might hustle.
Rich nodded, thinking.
“How much creative freedom you offering?” Patrick asked. That would certainly sweeten the deal.
“My mom’ll want her say,” Rich said. “But as far as I’m concerned, just do a classy job and improve the value of the place, and I’m happy.”
Patrick looked around the kitchen. “At ten hours a week, it’ll take years to get six units and their decks looking like something special.”
“There’ll be months when I could buy you out for sixty hours a week,” Rich said. “But not consistently. It all depends on my fights, and whether I’ve got tenants in all the apartments.”
Sixty hours a week of pure custom carpentry sounded like heaven to Patrick. Still... “I um, I better ask Steph how she’d feel about it. If she winds up living here, it might be weird to have me hanging around all the time. I’ve already come on stronger than she’s happy about.”
Rich smirked. “You putting your chances with a woman over steady work?”
The question threw Patrick, because it nailed exactly what had him hesitating. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”
Rich took a deep drink, then stood, giving Patrick a clap on the arm. “Don’t feel bad. I’m supposed to be off in California right now, living and breathing my next match. Instead I’m freezing my ass off back home, playing coach and landlord. A woman rewrote my plans, too.”
Patrick stood. He offered his hand, met by Rich’s firm shake. He wasn’t so bad, Patrick decided. Probably just out of practice at viewing other men as anything other than opponents. “I’ll think about it. And I’ll talk to Steph.” He pulled a card out of his wallet. “Send me an email with a list of the priority projects you’d like done, and I’ll put an estimate together.”
“Will do.”
They shook again and Patrick showed himself to the landing. He jogged up the steps and found Steph and Lindsey chatting in the third floor apartment. Nice place—sunny and roomy. Prematurely, his carpenter’s brain began assembling a list of improvements. He waited until Steph spotted him loitering in the doorway.
