Staying at Joe's. Kathy Altman
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Reveled in the challenge, expertly wooed his clients, basked in his many successes. But how much had he really cared? How much could he have cared, if he’d been able to walk away from it all?
Well, then. She’d have to make him care.
“Kincaid?” One eyebrow went up. “Problem with your room?”
“No. No problem. Just the opposite. The room is lovely.”
That one eyebrow remained suspended while wariness leaked in to replace the mockery. The fact that he didn’t believe her ticked her off, but she wasn’t going to beg the man to take a compliment. Besides. She’d cured herself of begging him a year ago.
He pushed open the door and stood back to let her in. She stopped on the threshold and stared.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He’d traded an elegant capital-city condo with a killer location and a doorman for this? For God’s sake. One glimpse and she needed a drink.
The paneling on the walls bore so many scrapes and gashes, there wasn’t a lot of brown left to see. The ceiling sagged. The carpet was stained beyond color recognition—except for the duct tape holding it together. And even with the window wide open, the room smelled like well-used gym shoes.
She could only imagine the condition of the bathroom.
“You turned this—” she tipped her head in the direction of her own room “—into that?”
“First step is pulling up the carpet. I’ll let you handle that while I fix the sink next door. After that we’ll be yanking out paneling.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to burn the place down and start over?”
“Maybe in the beginning. Yell if you need anything.”
She backed out the doorway. “No way I’m working in there. Not without a tetanus shot and a hazmat suit.”
“What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll break a nail?”
Yes, as a matter of fact. “More like step on one.”
“That’s what boots are for.” He motioned at the room with his chin. “You don’t go in there, deal’s off.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah. I would.”
Tackett wouldn’t, though. The unspoken words danced like dust motes in the air between them.
“Fine,” she grumbled at last, rolling her eyes and drawing out the word so it came out fiiii-nuh.
With the faintest trace of a smirk, Joe pointed to a five-gallon bucket just inside the door. A mask and a pair of leather gloves lay on the carpet beside it, and from the bucket’s rim hung a well-used hammer.
“Use the claw side to pry the carpeting free of the tack strips along the walls. Then start rolling.”
He made it sound so easy. But she’d almost rather accept Sammy’s sickening proposition than crawl around in the filth at her feet. She shuddered. She’d have to go out and buy herself a loofah. Or twenty.
Joe swept out an arm, as if offering paradise. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you so much.” Her hands tangled as she stared at the ruined carpet. “What if there’s something under there?”
“There is. It’s called a floor.”
An hour later, Allison had called Joe Gallahan every dirty name she could think of. She’d hoped to have the entire carpet up before he came back, just to show she could, but pulling the thing up had proved to be a lot harder than she’d imagined. It was heavy and thick with dirt, and kept sticking to the floor. Finally she’d resolved herself to cutting it free, inch by disgusting inch.
A mixture of sweat and dust coated her face and the back of her neck. It trickled down her spine and soaked into the waistband of her panties. Her skin crawled and she wondered if Joe had another pair of coveralls because she couldn’t help fantasizing about burning the pair she was wearing. Hell, she might as well burn her entire outfit.
How did he do this all day? Her knees and lower back were killing her.
With a groan she sat back on her heels and surveyed the section of floor she’d uncovered. She’d never thought of herself as a complainer. But here, in a run-down motel, amidst cigarette butts and mouse droppings, she wanted nothing more than to indulge in a good cry. When her throat thickened in automatic response she pushed her mask up off her face and grabbed her water bottle. A few deep swigs and the tightness eased.
A mouse scurried across the floor, inches from her knees. Allison shrieked and jolted to her feet. The water bottle went flying and slammed against the wall with a sloshing thud. She was almost at the door when Joe appeared, a wrench in his hand and concern on his face. Sweat formed a dark V on the front of his T-shirt and slicked his muscled arms. All that moisture her body had been producing nonstop over the past hour? Apparently she’d used it all up, because her throat chose that particular moment to go bottom-of-the-well dry.
CHAPTER THREE
JOE’S GAZE WHISKED over her, as if checking for blood, then scanned the room. “What happened?”
“I um, saw a, um...mouse.”
His shoulders relaxed and he leaned against the doorjamb. She could see he was trying not to smile.
“It’s not funny. They’re...unhygienic.”
“Is that even a word?” She glared and he shrugged. “I’ve had an exterminator out here but the suckers are persistent.” He released the smile. “My guess is they’re all female.”
That smile took indecent liberties with her insides. When his mouth took on that playful curve, it reminded her of less-hostile times. Of blissful, sultry, between-the-sheets times.
Easy, Allie.
Her cell rang and she tugged off her gloves. Got a good look at what was left of her manicure and bit back a whimper. She plucked her phone from her pocket and peered at the incoming number.
“I should take this.”
Something flickered across his face and he jerked a nod. “I have to go, anyway. A friend of mine needs help. Why don’t you knock off for the day? Try the diner in town if you’re hungry, and I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” He glanced at the lopsided roll of carpet on the floor behind her, then at the phone in her hand. “Good job, Kincaid.”
She continued to stare at the doorway long after he’d left. He was as distant as he could be. Calling her by her last name, keeping himself busy with other projects so they wouldn’t have to work together. Exactly what she needed him to do, if they were going to make it through the next few weeks without any messy conversations, let alone power tool mishaps.
So why did she feel slighted?
It was almost as if the effort involved in yanking carpet and refitting pipes had chipped away at the bitterness they shared. Well, it had to stop. She needed her bitterness. She and her bitterness were BFFs.
When her cell started a second series of rings she closed her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“You talked to Sammy.”
Fine, Mom, thanks. And how are you?
Allison exhaled. “You and I agreed you wouldn’t see him, and he and I agreed he wouldn’t loan you more money. But you did, and he did, and I got a threatening phone call. I had to do something.”
“He cut me off.” As usual, Beryl Kincaid’s words were muffled—she did most of her talking around a mouthful of butterscotch candies.
“Mom. We’ve been over this. What happens if you can’t pay your rent and Carlotta