by Shirley Jump
“Neither,” Alex said. “Lie to me.”
Mack grinned. “This is a great house. You’ll be very happy here.” Then he turned on his heel and headed for his truck.
Trepidation quadrupled Alex’s heart rate and she ran after him. “Mack, don’t go. Don’t leave me here.”
He sighed. “Okay, truth. Bulldoze it, Alex. Torch it. Sell it. Whatever you do, don’t try to take this on yourself.”
“It’s not that bad.” She squinted at the building. “Is it?”
Mack opened the door to the pickup and swung his body inside. “You know the Titanic? I’d sooner try to fix that up for a pleasure boat than take on this house.”
Alex groaned. “Mack, you don’t understand. My grandmother is expecting me to renovate this house. She wants to live here.”
“Why? She already has a place to live.”
“Yes, but she wants to move here. And I need a place to live right now.”
Mack hopped back down and returned to Alex, his gaze connecting with hers. So aware of her every breath. The scent of her perfume, the way a single tendril of her hair curled around her jaw. “Live with me.” The idea was out before he could stop it. Insane, completely insane.
And yet, he found himself praying for her to say yes.
“That would be imposing. I can live here.”
He arched a brow at the dilapidated three-bedroom Cape Cod–style house Alex had called him to look at late that afternoon. He’d hated to tell her how horrible the place was, after hearing the excitement in her voice, but he couldn’t, in all good conscience, let her think this sorry excuse for a house was habitable.
Had her grandmother bought this place sight unseen on eBay? Mack couldn’t believe anyone would pay good money for a place this bad. “Alex, I wouldn’t let my dog live here, and I’m not saying that to be mean. The roof is leaking, the front door is about as secure as Scotch tape, and there’s no air-conditioning. It’s at least ninety-eight degrees today. You’ll melt.”
She smiled. “I’ll survive. You know, when I was a kid, we didn’t even have air-conditioning at my grandparents’ house. You didn’t have any, either. Both of us grew up just fine.”
“You can’t take this on, Alex,” he insisted. His carpenter’s eye assessed the house again. They’d already done a walk-through, which had revealed such a long list of problems, Mack had stopped keeping a mental tally when he reached one hundred. “It needs everything. New plumbing. New electrical. New roof. New windows. And when you do that, you have to put in new walls, new flooring. Basically, get out the full catalog from Lowe’s and circle one of everything.”
Her face fell. “Really?”
He shifted his weight, wishing he could soften the blow. Maybe if Alex saw the reality of the situation, she’d give up this crazy idea of fixing the unfixable. He knew her—she could be as stubborn as an angry hornet. “What kind of budget do you have?”
“Budget?”
“Let me guess. Small. Very small.”
“My grandmother said it just needed a little TLC. She didn’t talk budget.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “You know me. I’m good at TLC.”
Mack roared with laughter. “You, sweetheart, are totally bad at TLC, and you know it as well as I do.”
She thrust her fists onto her hips, anger flashing in her green eyes. “Who took care of you last year when you had the flu?”
“You call dumping a can of Campbell’s into a pan, then letting it burn because you got so distracted beating my ass at poker, taking care of me when I had the flu?”
“At least I was there for you.”
She had been there. In his house, keeping him company. Making him forget he was sick. But she’d been absolutely no use as a nursemaid. “Alex, you’d kill people with your kindness.”
“I would—” She paused. “Okay, maybe I would. But still, I have to finish this house.”
“Why? What has gotten into you? You’re even more stubborn than usual lately.”
“I am not.”
“Are, too.”
She took a step forward, chin upturned in a tease, closing the gap between them. “Am not.”
He came closer, his grin widening. “Are, too.”
His voice had lowered, his gaze dropping to her lips. At that moment, something inside Alex suddenly went hot and liquid. This had been a game, a joke, but the joke died on her lips, as she became very aware of Mack. Of the muscles beneath his T-shirt. Of the way his skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Of how blue his eyes were. Of how his lips curved into just the right kind of grin, the kind that made her want to—
Kiss him.
Do way more than kiss him. Take him to bed. Hell, take him on the floor of this house right now.
Where the hell had that come from?
She’d known Mack forever. He’d always been her friend, never a man to date. She’d kissed him once, back in high school, in a terrible fumbling, awful, let’s-get-this-over-and-see-what-it’s-like way, and it turned out to be terrible.
She’d never before seen him as a man who made every part of her tingle with anticipation when his smile tipped up just a little bit more on one side than the other. Never before had she had to remind her heart to beat when he shifted his weight, and seemed to inch closer.
“I…I…” But nothing else came out. She stuttered the vowels and that was it.
His grin quirked higher. “Giving up so soon, Alex? I’ve never seen you quit an argument in the middle. What happened? Cat got your tongue?”
He tipped her chin with his finger and for a second she forgot to breathe. She was tempted—so very, very tempted—to dip down and take that finger into her mouth and taste Mack’s skin. She watched his lips, watched his every movement, every breath.
What the hell was she thinking? This was Mack, she reminded herself again.
Mack, her friend. Not Mack the Sex God. Mack, the guy she had known all her life and never found the least bit interesting. She had to be hormonal. That explained it all. It was time for her period, past time, actually, and she was a raging ball of PMS.
“What, uh, what were we arguing about?” she asked.
Damn, his cologne smelled good. A subtle mix of juniper, sandalwood and other scents she couldn’t name. Why had she never noticed it before? She inhaled again, drawing the scent in deeper, holding it in her lungs.
“You. Living with me. Because you can’t live here.”
He tiptoed his touch across her jaw. Alex’s lips parted. Her throat went dry.
“And I believe you were saying that you were afraid that if you moved in, you’d be unable to resist my manly charms.”
She burst out laughing—an explosion of nerves at how close Mack had just come to reading her mind. “What manly charms? Last I checked you were about as charming as an armchair.”
“Hey.” He stepped back, his hand dropping away.
Thank goodness. She shuffled back a little, too.
“I take offense to that.”
His face fell, and for a moment, she thought she might have hurt him, then the look disappeared.
“So, are you going to try to tough it out here, or take me up on my offer?”
How easy it would be to rely on him. Again. To reach out, let Mack’s broad shoulders take the load. For one minute, Alex wanted to do just that. To dump the entire problem of her messy life into his lap.
Just like always.
But what good would that do? Her life had become a mess because she had yet to straighten it out herself. To take control. She had a chance here to do something constructive, to quite literally build a different life. What had Grandma Kenner said?
Putting down roots could straighten out the tree.
Well, if past history was any indication, Alex could use a little straightening. And what better way to do that than with a hammer, some nails and a lot of hard work?
Hard work she did on her own, without relying on Mack, who had always been her tree. It was best to be here on
her own, especially since this particular male oak was looking more and more attractive by the second.
She looked up at Mack and smiled. “Nope, I don’t need any help. I’m going to do this one on my own.”
“You’re insane, Alex.”
“I can do this.” She spun around and looked at the house, feeling recharged. Renewed. Again, that feeling of déjà vu tingled up her spine, but the memory danced just out of reach.
She shrugged it off, and went back to assessing the workload ahead of her. It didn’t look too bad. And they did have books at the library for this kind of thing. She had some savings, a Home Depot credit card. Grandma said she’d contribute to the costs, too. That should be enough. Right?
Either way, it was part of the new start. One she was determined to make, come hell—or high construction costs. “I’m doing it. I’m pulling a Jensine.”
“A…what?” Mack asked.
“A Jensine. From the character in The Season of Light, Willow Clark’s book. In fact,” Alex leaned closer even though there was no one around to overhear her, “that book has inspired me not just to make a change in my life, but a change in jobs. I’m going to do what no reporter has done before and land an interview with Willow Clark.” Alex let out a sigh. “That is, once I find her. And get her to talk.”
“The Season of Light? Sounds like a girly book.”
She smacked his shoulder. “The Season of Light is my favorite book in the universe. It’s the coming-of-age novel for every teenage girl in the world.”
Mack snorted, teasing her. “Well, in that case, I’ll put it right at the top of my to-be-read pile.”
She laughed. “You should. You might learn a thing or two about girls.”
“I already know a thing or two.” He closed the gap between them. “Or ten. About girls. And women.”
The breeze ruffled Mack’s hair. Alex ached to do the same. Insane. Mack had always made it clear he had no intention of ever getting serious, of settling down, ever again. Doing anything that even smacked of getting involved with him would be emotional suicide. She’d already danced on that precipice enough with men like Edward.
“Do you want me to help you?” Mack asked.
“Uh, with what?”
“Getting an interview with Willow Clark. I know a lot of people in Boston. You know how it is, that ‘six degrees of separation’ thing. Someone’s bound to know someone else. In fact, I think I built a house for a librarian. I bet she has a connection or two that could get you a lead.”
With little effort, Alex could have access to the author she’d admired all her life—and a one-way ticket to the front page. Mack would snap his fingers and solve Alex’s problem, just as he had when he’d talked to the principal in junior year and covered for her when she’d skipped school to go to a concert. Just as he had signed on the dotted line as a cosigner for her first car. Just as he had a dozen other times.
And where would that leave this tree? With weak roots that still hadn’t learned to stand on their own.
“No,” Alex said. “I don’t need you to call in a favor. I won’t be much of a reporter if I couldn’t handle my first feature assignment alone. I’ll do this one myself.”
“Why? I don’t mind helping you. Really.”
“No,” she replied, firmer now. “I can do this on my own. I have to, because up until now my life has pretty much been an out-of-control mess. I’m taking charge, with that story, and with this.” She strode toward the house and stepped up onto the porch, intending on making a statement, à la the climactic movie scene just before the hero leaves to slay the dragon. She grabbed hold of one of the balustrades, swung against it, and felt like a kid again. Felt so much like a kid that she had the weirdest sense of having swung on that wood post before. “And now, I can finally do something concre—”
The balustrade gave way, sending Alex tumbling to the ground. So much for slaying the dragon. Mack rushed forward to right her. “See? Do you need a clearer sign than that? This place is a piece of crap, Alex. Please let me level it and start from scratch.”
“Nope.” She got to her feet and brushed the flakes of paint and clumps of dirt off her shorts. “I’m taking control of my crumbling life by starting with this crumbling house.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a metaphor, Mack.” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I look around this place, and I feel like I have to do this. Not just for my grandmother but for me, too.”
Mack shook his head, muttered something under his breath that sounded like “insane asylum,” then headed off to his truck. Alex thought he’d just climb inside and leave, but he returned with a large metal box. “Here. If you insist on doing this, then at least take some tools.” He flipped open the lid, revealing a stash of carpentry tools. Alex had no idea what most of them were, though she did recognize the screwdriver and hammer.
Oh, shit, she was in over her head. Way over her head. But at this point in her brave new speech, it would take a presidential order to get her to admit that to Mack.
“Promise me you’ll at least wear some safety glasses. I’d rather you didn’t end up a one-eyed invalid at the end of this. You’d still be beautiful with an eye patch, maybe even a little sexier.” He grinned, then handed her some plastic goggles before he headed off to his truck again, still shaking his head.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Alex said, waving the glasses at him. “It’s good to know I can count on a friend’s support.”
“If I were your friend,” Mack said as he climbed into the red Ford, “I wouldn’t let you do this. I wouldn’t let you do half of what you’ve done lately.”
Then he left, leaving Alex to wonder what the hell he’d meant by that.
Chapter Four
Mack stood outside the small ranch-style house on Pinewood Street and said a little prayer that this time would be the time. The one that turned everything around, and set this corner of the world to rights.
Yeah. And miracles popped out from under rocks all the time, too.
Nevertheless, Mack wasn’t going to give up easily, because he wasn’t the kind of man who did. So he strode up the solid concrete stairs, noting they were in need of a coat of paint, rang the bell and steeled himself for the worst.
“I’m not here.” The words were a grumble, but Mack could still hear them, even from the other side of the glass circle in the middle of the front door.
“Then why are you talking to me?” Mack shouted back from his place on the porch. A summer breeze whispered past him, giving a slight sway to the wind chimes hanging on the end of the porch, leaving with a tinkle of music.
“Because I’m hoping you’ll get the hint and leave me alone,” the voice replied, closer now to the glass.
“I need help, Dad. Can’t figure this one out on my own.” Mack held up a sketchbook in his hand, a set of designs he’d brought along. A ruse, really.
“I didn’t raise an idiot.”
Roy had a point. Mack did know just about everything there was to know about carpentry, thanks to his father. Over the years, Roy had shared all his knowledge with his son, which had provided Mack with virtually all the mental tools he needed to run one of the most successful custom home construction and renovation businesses in the greater Boston area. He’d grown up at his father’s knee, going to work with his dad on Saturdays—falling in love with the smell of freshly cut wood and with the idea that he could construct something with his own two hands. For a long time, construction had been the way he’d conversed with his dad.
Until last year. When Roy had pretty much stopped talking to anyone.
Mack didn’t really need help, and his father probably knew that. He was here only to get Roy out of the house. Get him away from the TV, the dark room he’d kept to ever since Mack’s mother, Emma, Roy’s wife of thirty years, had taken off in a convertible with their lawyer. She’d left their marriage a dozen times, but this time it had been for good.
&n
bsp; Roy had come home from the grocery store, read the note she’d left on the kitchen table, shut the front door and kept it shut ever since.
Finally, the door opened, swung open, really, with no clear invitation for Mack to enter. But enter he did, stepping into the cavernous darkness of the house where he’d grown up. The first house Roy had ever built.
It was small by today’s standards, a three-bedroom ranch, with nothing too fancy, “just what a man needs,” as Roy always said. It had seemed to be the perfect fit for the practical Roy and for Emma, the only woman who had ever managed to coax a smile out of the gruff, no-nonsense carpenter. Until she’d left. Now it seemed too big. Too empty. And too damn dark.
“Well, don’t just stand there letting the heat in,” Roy said. “Shut the damn door.”
Mack did. The darkness only multiplied. He turned on the lamp on the end table, meriting a warning from his father about the cost of electricity, which he ignored. “You can’t go on playing the happy hermit forever, you know.”
“Do I look happy to you?”
“Exactly my point.”
His father scowled, then headed into the kitchen. Mack kept the book of sketches with him and followed behind. He helped himself to a soda out of the fridge, then sank into one of the chrome and vinyl chairs that ringed the Formica table. Nothing had changed in this kitchen for half a century, and Mack suspected, without an intervention from Martha Stewart herself, nothing ever would. “What’s on your agenda today, Dad?”
“Why do I have to have an agenda? I’m retired.”
Mack gave up on that line of questioning. It hadn’t gotten him anywhere in a year. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere today. “I’ve got this house out on Cherry Street I’m building. The client wants these cabinets built in the basement media room. Trouble is, the space is a little too small. On top of that, I have to work around the heating ducts and a waste pipe coming down from the first-floor bath. I remembered you had a similar situation with that Somerville house back in, what, ’92—’91?” Mack paused, hoping his father would correct him, knowing full well which house it had been and what year it had been.
