It’s Saturday. He was probably visiting his girlfriend.
The thought catches me off guard, and I bristle. The bristling catches me off guard too.
“Damn.” I give my head a quick shake. “It’s okay if he has a girlfriend. You’re not interested anyway.”
Maybe saying the words aloud will make the idea sink in.
“You are not interested.”
Except Luc is interesting. Watching him work is supremely interesting. And not just because of his P.P.
And, no, I do not call man parts pee-pees. P.P. is my mental shorthand for Phenomenal Physique. And Luc definitely has one. Whoa. Does he ever. Every day this week when I’ve come home to find him working—measuring, hammering, sawing, so much ing-ing—I’ve scolded myself:
Millie, stop staring at his P.P.
You don’t need P.P.s.
LOOK AWAY FROM THE P.P.!
Even without the P.P., Luc is interesting. He knows what he’s doing and he means what he says. I mean, that’s refreshing, right? Like Alpine-spring-water kind of refreshing. And I’ve been to Switzerland. You can swim in and drink from Lake Lucerne. That’s pretty damn refreshing.
And speaking of water, my kitchen is currently filling up with it, and he’s just dropped everything to come to our rescue. That’s some service right there. And, sure, he—or one of his guys—capped the pipe, so it shouldn’t be leaking, and maybe it’s their fault it’s leaking, but he didn’t just tell me how to fix it and hang up. Hell, some people wouldn’t even take the call on a Saturday.
He has integrity.
I saw that the first time he came over. When he wouldn’t just take our deposit and run. And I’ve seen it every day since. The way he treats his workers. The way he treats Harry, Mattie, and Emmett.
The way he treats me.
He’s interesting, all right. I just can’t afford to be interested.
I pull up at the house fifteen minutes later to find the twins, both drenched, talking to Luc in the front yard. Clarence is making figure eights around the twins and Luc, wagging from all the excitement.
Emmett, I notice, is nowhere to be found.
Clarence is there to greet me when I open the driver’s side door. He’s wet too. To prove this fact, he gives a canine full body shake, sharing some of the fun with me.
“Great. Thanks, buddy.” I pat his head and walk toward the three of them in the yard, comparing their expressions. Mattie, no surprise, looks nervous. Harry eyes me warily.
Luc is trying not to smile.
“What?” I demand.
The twins glance at each other. Oh jeez. What now?
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on? And where’s Emmett?”
Harry and Mattie shift their weight on their feet in identical movements, and as one, they look at Luc.
I sigh and bring my gaze to him. “What?” I repeat.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white, cylindrical piece of plastic and puts it in my hand.
“What’s this?” I ask, noticing that Mattie is biting the corner of her lip and Harry is clenching and unclenching his right fist.
“That’s a quick-connect end cap,” Luc says, extending a finger to turn the object over in my palm so I can see the open underside and a black rubbery-looking stopper within. “You use it to cover a pipe you want to eventually reconnect again. It saves you from soldering or having to cut pipe later.”
I blink and look back at him. “So did it just pop off?”
Les Dimples appear in his cheeks, but Luc firms his lips and they hide again. “No,” he says, that voice of his going soft. “These are easy to install and easy to remove. Somebody popped it off.”
My stomach drops. “Emmett.”
His eyes wince, but he nods. “I don’t think he meant to flood the house,” Luc says, taking the cap from me again. “Apparently, when he disconnected this, the water pressure sent it flying, and it shot into the living room and under the fridge.
Up close, I can see the muscles in his face struggling for composure. It’s costing him everything not to laugh.
I don’t think he meant to flood the house.
I brace myself. “How bad is it?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I’m going to get a shop vac from the warehouse. The good news is your floors in the kitchen and living room are cypress.”
“Oh shit,” I gasp. “There’s water in the living room?”
He presses his lips together. Beside me the twins give each other that look again.
“I’m gonna—” Harry starts.
“We’re gonna get some towels,” Mattie finishes, and before I can respond, they sprint toward the house.
“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands, needing the world to go away for a few minutes.
A big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes it. “It’ll be okay.”
His touch is solid and strong, and I can feel its warmth through my scrubs. I’d like to lean into that warmth.
Instead, I step back, letting his hand fall from me. I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling strands from my ponytail. I look up to see Luc frowning.
“It really will be okay,” he says again, this time so gently.
“But why would he do that?”
Luc looks at the house and then back at me. He shrugs. “Because he’s a kid.”
I sag on an exhale. “That I can’t fix.”
A grin brings back the dimples. “Yeah, but we can fix the mess. You should probably go talk to Emmett though,” he says, grimacing. “I think I heard wailing. But I’ll be right back with the shop vac.”
I sigh, nod, and turn to go, but then stop. “Thank you, by the way,” I say, feeling extremely grateful, and also irredeemably pathetic. “That water would still be flooding the house if you hadn’t come.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, and his lips part as if he’s about to speak. But then he closes his mouth and firms his jaw. “Glad I could help.”
This wasn’t what he was about to say. Somehow I know this. I don’t know what he would have said. I don’t know why he didn’t. But he wanted to tell me something else, and I can’t help the sudden wish to know just what it was.
I watch him. He watches me. And it’s not awkward. It’s… charged.
His eyes are such a dark brown. Like solid earth. As though anyone could look into those eyes and feel sure-footed.
“I’ll be right back.”
It’s the third time he’s said that. He turns and heads for his truck, moving with purpose. I watch him start the engine and reverse out of the drive.
When he’s gone, I turn toward the house and come face-to-face with two thoughts.
Number One: Knowing he’s coming back is the only thing that makes walking inside bearable.
Number Two: Number One scares the hell out of me.
Chapter Thirteen
LUC
I’m back from the warehouse within twenty minutes. I might have broken the speed limit on University Avenue. Just a little.
The scene in Millie’s kitchen is much how I left it. Plus saturated towels and a teary-eyed Emmett.
And the air in the room isn’t just damp. It’s heavy with tension. I set the shop vac down and push it ahead of me, the noise of it announcing my presence and making all the Delacroixes look up from their individual clean-up stations. Millie and Emmett are on their knees with towels, and the twins each have a mop and bucket.
“I brought an industrial fan too,” I say, hoping a little good news will lift the mood. But Emmett just sniffles from his corner of the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Millie says stiffly.
I don’t know what I missed, but judging from the way Mattie and Harry keep their gazes to the floor, it couldn’t have been a lot of fun. No surprise. There’s standing water in here. Some of it ran past the threshold into the living room, and it looks like most of that has been sopped up, but the mess is going to take a while to set right.
Still, it’s like I�
�ve won the World Cup.
When I got Millie’s call an hour ago, my heart thumped so hard I thought she could hear it. It felt like I’d been caught. As though she were calling to give me hell for waking up this morning sweat-soaked and moaning her name. As though she’d seen a live feed of my dreams.
It didn’t matter that I was ashamed. It still made my day to see her name on my phone.
Yeah, I’m in trouble. I have to stop thinking about her—stop dreaming about her—but right now, she needs my help, so for today, that’s what matters. The fact that I’d rather be here than anywhere else is beside the point.
I plug in the shop vac. “You guys can stop with all that,” I say and point to the wet-dry vacuum. “This is going to take care of almost all the water.”
Millie stands, the set of her jaw tight. “We’re all responsible for this mess, so we all need to help clean up.”
My brows draw together. How is she responsible for this? But she’s not looking at me. She’s glaring at her little brother.
“Emmett, is there something you want to say to Luc?”
The eight-year-old hesitates, ducking his head but then he looks up. He can only hold my gaze for a moment before he glances away. “I’m sorry I played with the pipe plug.” His eyes meet mine again for just an instant. “I didn’t know this would happen.”
“How could you not know?” Harry snaps beside his mop bucket. “It’s a plug and a pipe. Duh.”
“Harry—” Mattie starts.
“And where were you?” Millie asks, turning her tight expression to the older Delacroix brother. “You were supposed to be watching him.”
“Not just me,” he fires back, scowling.
“No, not just you. Both of you were in charge, so both of you bear some responsibility.”
“What do you expect?” Mattie asks, closing ranks. “We can’t literally stare at him for five hours while you’re at work. You don’t stare at him the whole time you’re home. This could have just as easily have happened on your watch.”
On your watch. It sounds like they’re at war.
But by the look on Millie’s face, I can tell she feels like it did happen on her watch. And Emmett’s head hangs so low, his chin is practically on his chest. I shouldn’t be witnessing this, but I can’t keep quiet.
“Let’s all remember this was an accident,” I say, and the way each Delacroix head whips toward me, I think they all forgot I was here. “This was an accident, and we’ll fix it. No harm done.”
Millie blinks and her face softens, some of the tension and guilt leaching out of it. Her chest rises and falls with a swell of breath. “Tell us what to do.”
That I can handle.
“You can pick up the towels and put them in the wash,” I say to Millie and then turn to the twins. “You guys can dump the buckets outside and wring out the mops while I show Emmett how to use the shop vac.”
The twins look relieved, and Emmett’s eyes bug with the excitement that only a child could have for operating a shop vac. But it’s Millie’s expression that turns my blood to liquid fire.
She looks at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever walked on two legs. Dios mío, I could get used to a look like that.
It’s hard, really hard, to turn away, but I do, motioning to Emmett. He hurries over. “This is a special vacuum for water. You know you can’t use a regular vacuum on water, right?” He nods, still wide-eyed. “Good. You want to hold the nozzle while I steer? You can slurp up all this water.”
“Yeah. Cool,” he says. I’ve kept my eyes on him, aware that the twins have gone outside. Yet Millie is still watching us.
Watching me?
I don’t turn to check, but the thought tickles the back of my neck, sending goose bumps all down my arms. The urge to move closer to her makes me squeeze the handle of the shop vac until my knuckles go white.
I let go and hand Emmett the nozzle. “Okay. Let’s start in the corners. A house this old is never perfectly level.” I flip the on switch and the roar of the shop vac gives me refuge. Not from Millie. From myself. From this tension that just might pull me in two.
She’s a client, I remind myself as I watch Emmett try to wield the giant hose. He jabs the nozzle into a puddle and looks up at me in silent wonder when it disappears.
“Whoa!” he shouts over the shop vac.
I nod. “It’s powerful,” I yell back.
Millie moves then and my eyes track her. She’s smiling as she leaves the kitchen, headed for the laundry room.
She pulled away when you touched her in the yard. Don’t even think about it.
But I am thinking about it. Sometimes, it’s all I think about.
I force myself to focus on the eight-year-old, who is now attacking puddles like they are enemy Pokémon.
A couple of hours later, the floors aren’t exactly dry, but drying, and with the blast from the industrial fan, they should be totally dry in an hour or so. Emmett found the chore entertaining for about ten minutes. The twins each took a turn and then, with ninja-like skill, disappeared, so at the end, it’s just Millie and me.
“The wood isn’t going to warp?” she asks as we shut off the vac for the last time.
I shake my head. “Nah. Cypress resists warping. Think about UL’s Cypress Lake,” I say gesturing in the direction of the university where the student union overlooks the oversized pond. “Those trees live in water. You really couldn’t have had a better wood under the circumstances.”
“You went to UL?”
The way she’s smiling at me, I can’t believe I ever thought she was some fresa Ice Princess. But that’s what I’m used to. All of Valencia & Sons customers are at least middle class. Some of them are crazy rich. And many, rich or not, let me know in unspoken ways they out-class me and my crew.
The way they talk without making eye contact—or avoid face-to-face meetings altogether—seems to reinforce who is doing the serving and who is being served. Upstairs/downstairs shit. It doesn’t matter what I’m charging them and what that must suggest about how much I make or what my net worth might be.
It’s nothing jaw-dropping, but I do okay.
If I felt like it, I could say it’s because I’m Chicano. But it’s not just that. If someone is going to look down their nose at me, they’ll do the same to the white guys on my crew or the subcontractors I hire now and then. Maybe it’s because we work with our hands. Maybe these customers think we’re uneducated. Or stupid.
We’re not.
Not even the guys on my crews who’ve never finished high school. You can’t be stupid and wire a kitchen hood. You can’t be stupid and float sheetrock. You can’t be stupid and plane a door. All of these things take care, attention, and knowledge. And if you do them wrong, a house could fall down around your ears or burst into flames when you aren’t looking.
But whatever they think, when clients won’t get off the phone while talking to you, won’t look up, won’t use your name to address you, I don’t care what century it is, you feel like a servant.
Millie looks me in the eye. Not only does she use my name, but she knows Sam and Donner’s names, and she uses them. I’ve never seen her in this house with a phone in her hand. Not around me. Not around the kids.
That’s got to be a conscious decision, right?
All these thoughts pass through my mind as I answer her question.
“I went to UL freshman year to save money, and then I transferred to LSU where I graduated,” I say. And then because I want to know, “Where did you go to school?”
“I spent two years at Tulane on the pre-health pathway, and then I got accepted to LSU’s vet school.” Her smile grows as she tips up her chin. “We both finished at LSU.”
“Go, Tigers.” Stupid, but what else could I say? That she has a D.V.M. while I just have a B.S.?
Millie tilts her head to the side, wearing an amused look. “You have to admit, as a mascot, tigers are way better than a swell of swamp water or an irate French descendant.�
��
I frown. What the hell is she talking about?
At my expression, she laughs, her hips swaying just a little. “Think about it. Tulane’s mascot is the Green Wave. After some dumb song from 1920? Why?” she asks, her voice choppy with laughter. It makes me smile hard. I’ve only seen her laugh a couple of times. It’s not something she lets herself do too often. But when she does, her body loosens. That line that seems to live between her brows disappears, and she just… shines. “And what is a Ragin’ Cajun, anyway? I don’t think anyone knows because at UL games, they trot out a bulldog named Ragin.”
Before I know it, I’m laughing, and she’s not even finished.
“Seriously, as an ethnic group, are Cajuns really known for their raging? I don’t think so. All our stereotypes center around music, food, beer, and Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes.”
Dios mío, she’s funny when she’s not carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I laugh until a thought brings me up short.
I’d like to shoulder some of that weight.
The image grips me and won’t let go. Me wrapping an arm around her, wedging a shoulder under that burden she carries around, and giving her some breathing room.
Some laughing room.
And even though I want to, I can’t laugh anymore. I grasp for the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you Cajun?”
She arches a deep red brow. “Do I look Cajun?”
You look angelic.
I hope I hide this thought behind a look of skepticism. “Are we still talking stereotypes? Because if I had to pick, I’d say Irish.”
Her smile gleams. “My mother’s maiden name was Bailey.”
I want to ask if her mother was a redhead like she is, but she looks so happy right now. I don’t want to mess that up.
“Do I look Cajun?”
This sets her off, and she’s laughing again. “I don’t think either of us makes the cut.”
I chuckle. “I’m too brown, and you’re not brown enough.”
This seems to sober her, and she straightens up, covering her mouth. “I don’t think—I didn’t mean—”
Kind of Cursed Page 13
