They have enough problems already.
So I’m here. Parked in the driveway with my travel mug of coffee at 6:45 a.m. I told the crew to be here at seven. And, yeah, maybe that’s because I want to give Millie as much time as possible to get dressed in the morning. My guys don’t need to be anywhere near that.
The memory of her in that pajama crop top gives me no peace at all.
The smooth plane of ivory skin. The well of her navel, the sight of it both shocking and tempting. My lips want it. All of it.
It’s easy enough to imagine my hands gripping her hips and tugging her to my mouth. I know her hands are soft, so she must be incredibly soft there.
Tap tap tap.
My eyes fly open. Millie is standing at my driver’s side window, smirking. Jesucristo.
“Taking a nap?” she asks through the glass.
Fuck.
I heard nothing. Not the front door. Not her approach. See what I mean? No peace at all. And there’s no way I can step out of my truck just now, so I roll down the window.
“Not sleeping,” I grumble, but would it really be so bad if that’s what she thought I was doing? It’s better than the truth. I hold up my cup of coffee and take a scalding sip. “Waiting.”
Despite my concerns, she’s dressed, though not in scrubs. The yoga pants and sports hoodie give her full coverage, but they cling to her in a way I know I’ll be seeing again in my masochistic mind.
Disgust with myself leaves me scowling. I need to think of something else. I pull my eyes away from her to see a sleepy looking Emmett coming up behind her. He’s practically dragging a backpack behind him the thing is slung so low over his shoulder. “Off to school?” I ask him.
He just glares at me. The kid looks grumpier than I feel. My eyes flick to Millie. She lifts her brows as if to say, tell me about it.
“Case of the Mondays,” she says under her breath. Her tone is light, but the look in her eyes is anything but. She’s been here before. Too many times.
“Why do I have to go to school when you get to stay home?” Emmett drones.
She turns to him, and I watch her inhale through her nose, gathering herself, the line of her jaw tense. “Come on, Bud. You already know the answer to that.” She tilts her head toward their SUV parked in the open garage. “Let’s get in the car. We don’t want to be late.”
“Don’t care if I’m late,” Emmett mutters, but at least he moves. Sort of. His feet drag like they’re weighted.
Millie brings her gaze back to me, and I don’t miss the hint of embarrassment in it. “Harry and Mattie already caught the bus. No one’s inside except Clarence,” she says, nodding toward the house. “But I put him in my room in case your guys don’t like dogs.”
I shake my head. “Not a concern. They can deal. We work in your home, not the other way around,” I say, echoing a message my guys have heard me say a thousand times. House rules come first. You don’t like a homeowner’s dog, cat, music, mother-in-law, soap opera, you keep it to yourself and keep working.
The side of Millie’s mouth curves up. “Good to know. Anyway, I’m off today. Heading to the gym, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. The kitchen door is open,” she says, pointing to the garage.
I watch her go, reminding myself—a little late—of my Daily Three: Training, Communication, and Professionalism.
“Professionalism,” I say aloud as soon as her driver’s side door closes. “Work on that, Valencia.”
Donner pulls up as soon as Millie drives away, and Sam and the temp, a smiling guy named Joey, show up just before seven, but still on time. I’m glad Millie has left garage entrance open for us. The temp looks tame enough, but I don’t need him traipsing through Millie’s house, taking notice of the Delacroix’s stuff, all of which is top of the line. Potty Time is delivering a port-o-let this morning, so the guys should have no reason to leave the kitchen to venture further into their house.
I lead them inside and they take in the kitchen while I tape the permit to one of the panes of the big bay window.
“The upper cabinets come out first. Skip the one over the range hood,” I tell Donner. “That way we don’t have to shut off power or water until later. Strip everything down. Crown molding and all.”
Donner nods. “Got it, boss.”
“Now the waste bin’s not gonna get here until tomorrow, so put a tarp on the lawn and pile everything there for today. Keep it neat.”
“Will do,” Sam says. Joey just smiles.
I keep my eyes on him until the smile shrinks. “Yes, sir,” he says.
Good.
And then Clarence decides to make his presence known. Three pairs of eyes snap to the ceiling. Even from upstairs, the unholy racket threatens to shake the house down.
“Good God,” Joey mutters.
“That’s Clarence,” I say, a new appreciation forming for Millie’s beast of a dog. “He’ll eat your face if provoked, so don’t provoke him.”
This comment is directed at the temp, whose eyes go wide. Donner and Sam exchange uncertain glances.
“I’m gonna check on our other crews, but I’ll be back before lunch.” I don’t need to spell it out that I expect them to still be here when I return. Even though I’ve said nothing about Hector’s termination, everyone seems to know the what and why.
Millie’s garage is still empty when I get back at ten-thirty. I’m both relieved and disappointed. I push the feelings aside and take note of the debris pile on the tarp in the Delacroix’s front yard. Not a ton, but not a bad start either. Walking into the kitchen, I find Sam and Donner, both standing on countertops, working drill-drivers. Only two upper cabinets remain, one over the range hood, and both of these have had their doors removed. By the looks of it, Joey has been assigned hauling duty.
“It’s going okay?” I ask. Donner looks back at me and drags an arm across his forehead.
“No drywall,” he says, and I know what this means. The house is old, the walls all center-matched, which means everything drilled into the walls is going through solid wood.
“Your drills holding up?”
In answer to my question, Sam pulls the trigger on his, and the bit spins with a vroom. But I notice the way his biceps are shaking. Keeping the drill lifted for a couple of hours is taking its toll on his arms. Sam may be nineteen, but he’s not much bigger than Alex.
“Hop down and hand it over,” I tell him, gesturing toward the drill. He doesn’t argue when I climb up and take his place. “Flip the light switch on the hood so we can cut the power, eh, Sam?”
“Sure thing.” Sam turns on the light over the stove. “Where’s the breaker box?”
I’ve lined up the bit with one of the remaining screws and toss my head toward the back of the house. “In the laundry room.”
I barely have time to pull the trigger before I hear him.
“Whoa!”
I lower the drill. All of us turn in his direction. “What’s the matter?” I call.
“Uh…” Is Sam’s squeaked reply.
I swing my gaze to Joey. “Go see if he needs help,” I tell him, but with what I have no idea. Joey takes off.
“Ooh! Come to Papa!”
Wrong. Something is wrong. I leap to the ground and head to the laundry room, Donner at my heels. I reach the doorway to find Sam slack-jawed, Joey grinning like a rabid hyena, and a drying rack dripping with lingerie.
Millie’s lingerie.
At our approach, Joey reaches out a hand and comes within an inch of a ruby red bra cup trimmed in black lace.
“Do. Not. Touch. That.” The words are bitten off. The temp drops his hand, and it’s only when he faces me and his eyes widen that I realize my teeth are bared.
“Out.”
The laundry room empties without a word—a good thing since I’m ready to commit murder. And I’m still holding a drill, which I’m pretty sure could be used as a deadly weapon.
I set the drill on top of the washing machine and close my eyes, wi
lling rage, lust, and anything else testosterone carries to settle in my blood. But behind my lids, all I see are jewel-toned panties and bras, sexy and suggestive.
The breaker box is in the wall. Directly behind the drying rack.
I drag a palm down my face, eyes still closed. Professionalism, I remind myself. I open my eyes and stare fixedly at the wall as I walk forward. I grab the rack by its hinges and set it aside, ignoring the swaying and fluttering of its contents in my field of vision.
The gray door of the box is cool under my fingers and pulls open with a squeak. Luckily, someone—Millie’s father or mother, perhaps—has left a strip of masking tape beside each switch with a location label. Upstr Bath. Mstr BR. Frt Porch.
I flip the one that says Kit Lts.
“Overhead, boss. Hood’s still on.” Donner calls.
I move the switch back and kill the next one. Kit misc.
“That’s it!” This time, Sam answers.
I close the breaker box door and stand there for a second, my hand palming the cool metal. Averting my eyes, I turn and grip the rack again. I’ve just got it back in place when I hear the whisper of silk and the rasp of lace against leather.
I look down. A thong—the sexiest fucking thong ever made—rests on the toe of my left boot.
Sweat breaks out across my brow.
Made entirely of smoke blue and pale blue lace flowers, there is so little to the garment that it might as well be stitched together with air. I stare at it. How can something that barely exists threaten my sanity?
I shake off the thought, bend down, and snatch it up. Without warning, the memory of Millie’s bare midriff assails me, and I smother a groan. Was she wearing these that night? Just behind the drawstring knot of her pajama bottoms?
The urge to fist the scrap of fabric and stuff it into my pocket is staggering.
Do not put that in your pocket, my voice of reason orders.
To which a darker, sinister voice replies, what about my mouth?
“Madre de Dios.”
And it’s as if invoking the Virgin Mother’s name reminds me where the hell I am and what I’m doing. With a flick of my wrist, I sling the thong back onto the rack with its fellows, stalk out of the laundry room, and shut the door behind me, only just managing not to slam it.
“Take down that hood.” Without another word, I’m headed outside to my truck. The November air hits my face with a welcome chill. I should be back inside, taking part in the demo. Ripping out cabinets and smashing subway tiles would be the best thing for me right now.
But the last thing I want is company.
I lean back against the door of my truck and put my head in my hands.
“Get a grip, Valencia.”
And this is how Millie Delacroix finds me when she pulls into her driveway. I straighten up and rake my fingers through my hair as she parks in the garage, but it’s too late. She steps out of her Infinity wide eyed and looking worried.
“Luc? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
I snort. Luckily, she’s too far away to hear it. The sight of her has me gritting my teeth. She’s going to walk into that kitchen, and all three of those guys will be picturing her wearing nothing but peek-a-boo lace.
I know this because that’s all I’m picturing, and I’m trying like hell not to. I feel the hot tightening in my throat I felt Thursday night when she answered the door. Doesn’t she know better not to come to the door at night dressed like that? I could have been anyone.
Donner, Sam, and that fuckwad Joey could be anyone. Hell, even though Donner and Sam have worked for me for months, I don’t know what they’re capable of. And they know where she lives. They’re about to know what she looks like.
Millie stops in front of me, frowning. She’s changed since this morning, her hair is blown out, her fresh lipstick the color of fall leaves, a dark, russet red. And I wrestle the urge to shake her.
“What is it?”
My teeth are still clenched, and I force myself to relax my jaw. Professionalism.
“The drying rack,” I say flatly. “You might want to move it for the time being.”
She blinks, eyelashes, I now notice, the color of nutmeg. And then her eyes fly open wide. “Oh God.” Her hand slaps over her mouth with a smack. “And you?... Oh God!”
Crap.
The heat of my temper plummets. I wanted to warn her, not humiliate her. She’s covering her face with both hands now and the parts I can still see are bright red. On impulse, I step toward her and then step back.
“It’s okay—” But it’s not. “It’s not like—” But it is. “I just want you to be careful.”
Slowly, her hands drop, and she stares at me in confusion. “Be careful?”
I nod. The less said the better.
“What do you mean? Be careful?”
Chapter Ten
MILLIE
He lifts one shoulder and drops it, eyeing me with caution now. “Stereotypes exist for a reason.”
My gaze narrows. I don’t know any stereotypes about sexy panties. “What stereotypes?”
That scar in his brow twitches. “About construction workers.”
Is there a stereotype about construction workers and underwear? I shake my head. “I don’t get it.”
Luc rolls his eyes, clearly frustrated. “In every movie ever made, what happens when a beautiful woman walks by a construction site?”
“She gets cat-called,” I say.
Wait a minute. Am I the beautiful woman in this scenario? Did Luc just imply that I’m beautiful?
I ignore the thought when he throws his hands up in exasperation. “Exactly.”
I frown. “You want me to be careful,” I repeat his earlier comment, “because you think I’m going to be cat-called for leaving my underwear to dry in my laundry room.”
He shrugs. “Basically.”
My spine straightens and my shoulders square. “So it’s up to me to make sure I don’t get sexually harassed in my own home, is that it?”
Luc’s posture stiffens. “I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, but you did.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“You said I might want to move my drying rack,” I say, ticking off his points on my fingers. “You wanted me to be careful because stereotypes existed for a reason, implying that the location of my drying underwear might invite sexual harassment. You’re saying now that’s not what you meant to communicate?”
During this little speech, Luc Valencia has gone rather red in the face. “I’m saying—”
“Because if any one of your workers sexually harasses me—”
Did I say red? The look that overtakes Luc’s face is black as pitch. I’ve seen hurricanes less scary. “If any one of my workers sexually harasses you, he will be out on his ass, Miss Delacroix. I’ll see to that.”
A smile breaks across my face. “Then I think you should be having this conversation with your staff, not me.” I bat my eyelashes at him because I can’t help myself. “And we’ve already established that it’s Millie.”
If we were cartoon characters, this would be about the time when my over-the-moon gorgeous contractor would have steam coming out of his ears. His nostrils flare.
“Millie,” he growls my name through clenched teeth. “Do you lock your doors at night?”
I know exactly where this is going. I sigh in resignation. “Of course I do, Luc.”
A wicked smile quirks his mouth. He thinks he’s got this argument in the bag. I hope he can handle disappointment well. Whenever he lost an argument with me, Carter would pout for the rest of the day. It was so annoying.
Wait. Why am I thinking about Carter? Luc’s not—
“So you take measures to protect yourself against victimization.”
“I do,” I say, nodding emphatically. “The difference here being that I don’t have a contractual relationship with burglars, and I do with your company. Therefore, I expect professionalism.”
Luc’s mouth falls open and his eyes bulge. “Professionalism?” He’s staring at me like I’ve just slapped him across the face. Then his mouth and eyes close at the same time. I watch him press his lips together and frown. He raises a hand to his brow, and to my surprise, he laughs.
I have no idea what’s going on. He laughs with his eyes closed, his head hanging, and it’s the most disarming sight in the world.
“Professionalism,” he says again, almost to himself. Then he straightens up, drops his hand, and grins at me. “I’ve been an ass again. Please accept my apology.”
I grin back. “Apology accepted.”
Carter never used to apologize. He’d just sulk for a few hours and then pretend like nothing happened.
STOP COMPARING HIM TO CARTER! HE’S NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND!
It’s all I can do not to palm my forehead, but that would look really dumb right now. Instead, I turn and point to the pile of dismantled cabinets on the lawn.
“It looks like you guys have been busy.”
The Dimple Twins emerge. And now it’s all I can do not to titter and wave, squealing Hey, guys!
“A little.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
Luc gestures for me to proceed ahead of him. I do, stepping into the garage and moving past the car. Even from here, I can smell a change, as though wood particles, dust, and memories fill the air. I mount the steps and walk into the kitchen, catching my breath at the open air where cabinets used to hang.
A guy with a stringy ponytail and a Slim Jim moustache is carrying the oven hood toward me. He sees me and winks.
“Scoot that loose caboose to the side, sugar,” he says, leering. “Unless you want me coming at you hard and fast.”
My jaw drops.
“Excuse me?” The question isn’t mine but Luc’s. I turn back to see him filling the doorway, glowering like an avenging angel. Aside from Slim Jim, two other guys stand in the kitchen, and they are both watching the scene unfold, bug-eyed.
“Give me that.” Scowling, Luc gestures toward the metallic hood in Slim Jim’s arms.
Kind of Cursed Page 9
