Naughty Or Nice. Sherri Browning Erwin
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“I’m sorry. For my sister. She’s—she’s used to getting her way.”
His eyes relaxed and he laughed. “I know the type.”
Laughter was a good sign, but my work was far from done. I sized him up.
Baby cries left him unmoved. He probably had a big family, lots of children, maybe a few grandkids, enough to have learned to tune out kid sounds. I pegged him as a younger child from a big family. I could picture plenty of bossy older sisters in his background, and maybe one or two younger ones if I was lucky. And perhaps a crabby wife. He hated it when she nagged, but more than anything, he could not stand to see her cry. Aha. Immune to baby cries perhaps, but a woman? Now, that was something.
I felt the tears start to burn at the back of my eyes. Not until I could feel the drops clinging to them would I lift my lashes, at just the right second. Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. “She’s—she’s only trying to help. My husband recently passed away. I haven’t been able to keep up with my bills.”
With every word, the tears came harder. My voice started to shake. I turned away from the window and fanned my face, as if I was trying so hard to stop.
“I’m sorry, lady.” His voice held an edge of impatience along with the barest trace of sympathy.
“My first Christmas without him. The kids still ask—” My voice broke. Perfect. I paused and sucked in a breath. “They still ask when Daddy’s coming home.”
The emotion wasn’t all that hard to fake. My nerves were frayed. My feelings had been close to the surface for months. Tears were never more than a minute away. Patrick would have understood. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Besides sob uncontrollably for dramatic effect before I pulled it together in the nick of time to ask for a tissue, apologize for taking up his time, and turn to leave.
“Just a sec,” he called with a sigh before I got to the door. “I’ll meet you outside.”
“How on earth did you get him to budge?” Kate asked once the Lexus was running in park outside the impound gates and Louie was headed back inside.
“I gave him a blow job,” I said, with a completely straight face.
“You did not!”
“Of course I did. Didn’t you see that smile on his face?”
“You played the widow card.” She nodded knowingly.
“Yes, I informed him of my sad personal situation. I guess it struck a chord.”
“Incredible.” But, for once, Kate chose not to criticize. Instead, she grinned and patted me on the back. “Good job! Now what? I’ve got to meet with clients, but it’s informal. I can take Ellie with me, unless you’re headed home?”
“No.” She wasn’t the only one on her way to work. “I’ve a busy day ahead.”
“Getting your nails done?” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her voice, as if she had merely come to understand this as the way I lived my life.
Well, not anymore. I turned on my heel, started for the driver’s seat, then looked back and waved my perfectly French-tipped fingers. Manicure was last week, ha. “I have some appointments to keep.”
It was all I intended to say. And it wasn’t a lie. I’d been due to return to the Habitat for Humanity office for months to finish up on some volunteer fund-raising activities. If anyone could help me get a job, it was Leslie, the Habitat office manager, a twenty-something firecracker who knew everyone and everything in and around Boston.
When I arrived at the office, I was informed that Leslie was out working on a build site in Newton, close to home. I’d come all the way into the city for nothing. For a second, I considered giving up on the job search and putting my trip into Boston to good use: shopping. Instead, I asked for directions to the house under construction and headed right over. Progress!
The house was on Mill Street, near Boston College’s Newton campus, close enough to take advantage of the college’s library but far enough to be a comfortable family neighborhood. Like most of the Habitat sites I’d worked on, the house was a bright new breath of air on a stale, old street. It screamed hope and possibility, all the things I liked best about working with Habitat for Humanity. The whole “up with people” vibe always got me. Of course, I hadn’t done much more than help write a few fliers and tap some resources for funding. The one time I tried to help at a build site was an unmitigated disaster. At least, according to Josh Brandon, the site manager.
So I wasn’t the best builder. Yes, my nails never went in straight, and power tools weren’t exactly my thing. But the man needed to relax. What did he expect from untrained volunteers, anyway? If he’d let me paint, as I’d suggested, everything would have been just fine. I could accomplish amazing things with a brush or roller.
As I got out of the car, I caught sight of Josh across the site. Even though he had covered his shock of prematurely silver-gray hair with a hard hat, I could tell it was Josh by the way the flannel hugged his broad, construction worker shoulders. He was five feet ten inches of dense muscle, built as solid as any house he worked on. Though he annoyed me personally, he was an undisputed master of his profession. Even from a distance, he looked a lot calmer today than he had the last time I’d seen him.
Until he looked up and spotted me. Though his facial expression was hidden behind protective eyewear, his body flinched as if I’d sucker punched him in the abs.
“Hide the power tools,” he called across the site.
His Boston accent was as thick as his soccer player thighs, so it sounded more like powah tools. He was a good ol’ Boston boy, the type that worked hahd and enjoyed a few beeahs aftah work. Just a few. His work ethic matched his build, rock solid.
Heads looked up, then down again when they saw nothing but a harmless little lady in a power suit. Donna Karan, navy pin-striped, fluted skirt, worn with some serious heels. Pilates had given me great calves. If it helped sway any executive decisions in my favor, so be it.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Brandon,” I said to show his little teasing had not unnerved me as I closed the distance, effortlessly stepping over wood beams and cords in my stilettos. I am woman, see me walk. Skill with power tools had nothing on the skill required to walk in heels.
From the corner of my eye, I spied Leslie waving at me from the top of a scaffold on the side of the house. I flashed a smirk at Josh and headed in Leslie’s direction.
“Hey, looking to sign up for our phone bank this weekend?” she said, obviously assuming I had come for volunteer purposes. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”
“Actually, it’s a social call. But I am looking for some advice.”
“Great. What can I do you for?” She climbed down and brushed dust from her hands.
“I need a job.” I forced confidence into my tone, as if I got great jobs all the time. Jedi mind trick, as Spencer would say. “Something light, easy, not very important, but it has to pay well.”
“If I knew where to find that job, I guarantee you it would be filled. By me! Hello.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. Leslie’s conversational quirks were one of the reasons I never sought Leslie on a social basis, even though I enjoyed her company at volunteer sites.
“Not that it isn’t a perfect description of what I do now at H for H.”
“Your job’s important,” I said, by way of defense. “What would all the families who need houses do without you?”
“Actually, you have great timing. I need to scale down my hours.”
“No way.”
“Way.” Leslie nodded. “My Web design company is taking off and I need to give it more attention. Besides, it pays more