Just Give In.... Kathleen O'Reilly
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toward the front gate, skirting one hill then another. A demonstration to the unbelieving that her boots were just fine.
Unattractive? Yes, but this was from a man who thought exterior appearances unimportant. Or at least she hoped so.
“Where are you going?” he yelled, just as she reached the gate.
“I can’t work under these conditions. You’re trying to micro-manage everything and I’m accustomed to more responsibility. I suggest you find some able-bodied teenager who needs detailed instruction and doesn’t mind a dress code.”
“It isn’t a dress code,” he yelled back. “More a dress suggestion.”
She turned, stared him down in silence until finally he shrugged.
“You win. I won’t say another word about your clothes.”
Still, there was disagreement in his face. Brooke stayed where she was. “I can help you with your inventory, but you have to let me do my job. Do you have a computer I can work on?”
“In the house.”
“Good. I can use the computer to look up whatever I don’t know, and you can work in peace. We’ll get along fine, and I’ll guarantee you’ll be happy with the results.”
At his nod of agreement, she picked a path from one pile to another, until she stood in front of him. Once again, his gaze drifted to her boots.
Brooke held up a hand in warning. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Judging by his four-letter response, it was a rule he needed to work on, but Brooke was down with that.
Like she’d said, if he’d let her do her job, they’d get along fine.
BY THE TIME THE SUN was baking overhead, Brooke had sorted and inventoried fourteen small heaps of contraptions that no man in his right mind would want, which only proved her suspicions that the Captain was a standard left-brainer. As even more evidence, not that she needed it, inside the house was a veritable smorgasbord of oddly designed gizmos and wuzzits. A push-button car radio hooked up to an iPod. Bookshelves made from stacked wooden pallets, a vintage Coke machine made into a bar and a small metal box with a blinking light that made her nervous.
That, and then there was Dog. The little, rounded ‘pet’ scooted around the floor at different speeds, and sometimes he sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” in a voice that sounded just like Marilyn Monroe. Some dog, indeed.
Everything seemed to belong in an art gallery, a museum or thrift store, possibly all three, but she had to give him high marks for creativity. Brooke would’ve never thought of an automated pot scrubber or a self-cleaning toilet. However, now that she’d seen them, she wondered why no one had ever thought of them before.
Judging from the never-ending materials she had left to inventory, he’d be making gizmos for the next two hundred years. A long trickle of sweat dripped in her eyes, and she dreamed of moving to the coolness of the house, but there were only three more piles to sort, and then she’d be done. Better to go forth and succeed, then celebrate an honest day’s work. Hopefully, air-conditioning would be involved.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Captain watching her from the other side of the yard. In order to demonstrate her non-wimpiness, she hefted a ten-inch fly-wheel motor (thank you, Google) and placed it in a neat line with the others, before noting the type on her list. It was only after she had deposited the oily thing that she knew why he was staring. In the middle of the sweater was a supersized grease stain that no amount of artistic cover-up could disguise. Sensing the beginnings of another lecture, she waved happily, but it was too late.
The Captain advanced.
“I owe you a new sweater. That one’s ruined.” There was a glint in his eye as if he’d been waiting for just this moment.
Nuh-uh-uh.
Pulling at the wool, Brooke shot him her sweetest smile. “It looks like a map of Canada. I think it’s just the touch it needed.”
His jaw twitched.
“At least put on a cooler shirt.”
Certainly there was a logic to that. He seemed to be genuinely concerned, and she considered the idea, but it was only Day One, Hour Six. He’d given her a nonsense job, and now he wanted to put her in his clothes like some vagrant. So what made her different from any other hard-luck case on the mean streets of life?
Absolutely nothing, and Brooke Hart wasn’t just some other hard-luck case. No, she was going to work this off with grit and sweat, and probably a lot more grease, and the Captain would just have to deal.
Of course, she’d already put in a lot of grit and sweat. Fourteen piles were now neatly inventoried and identified. Maybe a cooler shirt was a fair trade, an old-fashioned barter sort of arrangement. Yeah, that seemed reasonable, and she was just opening her mouth to accept his offer, when he lifted a can of some unknown substance and threw it on her sweater.
Brooke’s mouth snapped shut as the wool plastered to her stomach like a skin mask gone bad.
Aha.
The unknown substance was glue.
3
AS THE SUBSTANCE BEGAN to dry, Brooke glared at the Captain, trying to find some words. Although as a rule she wasn’t usually a believer in violence and/or retribution, she felt here there were extenuating circumstances. Her hands fisted into small glue-encrusted WMDs.
Before she could move (flexibility was difficult when epoxified), he set the can at her feet, pushing a hand through his dark hair.
“I don’t think I should touch you but…ah, hell, Brooke, I’m sorry, but we need to get you cleaned up.” Oh, sure, now he looked sorry.
She plucked the sweater loose from her stomach, wincing as if she were in pain, just so he’d feel worse. “What’s the plan now?” she asked. “Hose me down with turpentine?”
He paused, trying to decide if that was a joke. Comprehension dawned slowly, and his mouth twitched with humor. “I wouldn’t have used a hose. Go shower before you harden and turn into yard art.”
Not a big fan of his sense of humor, Brooke stalked inside. If there had been a carpet or a rug, she would’ve worried about dripping. Not that she had any business being worried, since this was all his doing, but still…a nice rug would have done wonders for the faded wood floors, and given the place a marvelous homey appearance.
She found the bathroom, painted in a surprisingly cheery buttercup-yellow. His quiet footfall sounded behind her—so stealthy for such a big guy.
“I imagine this will take some time. The towels are where?” she asked, happy to see his face still covered in guilt.
The Captain held up a pair of large scissors.
Brooke frowned. “That isn’t a towel.”
“Unless you want glue in your hair, you’ll need to cut the sweater, and, uh, anything else I screwed up.”
Cut? Cut? Was he out of his mind? Didn’t he know this was high-quality apparel? “I’m not cutting this.”
“It’s gone. Let it go. I’ll replace it.” His smile didn’t look so sad, and that was when she knew, when his win-at-all-costs behavior became apparent.
“You did this just so that I’d have to trash it.”
He nodded. “Reason and logic weren’t winning the war. Sometimes covert maneuvers work best.”
And still he didn’t see the problem. “Aren’t you the least bit sorry?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding sincere…mostly.
Her eyes narrowed. “But you’d do it again, wouldn’t you?”
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