Messing with Mac. Jill Shalvis
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notice if she succeeded, but would most definitely notice if she failed. And she wouldn’t think about the fact that she only had to sell this place and walk away if she chose, because sheer stubborn pride refused to allow her to walk away from the first real challenge in her life.
She would do this. She would take this place and make something of it. And of herself. She’d started months ago, one room at a time, but had decided to sell several of her precious antiques—which had been worth more than she’d imagined—using the opportunity to renovate all of it in one fell swoop.
Starting tomorrow.
Hard as it would be to maintain her notorious cool, maintain it she would. With a nod of determination, she slipped the phone into her pocket and narrowed her eyes at the walls, which were still quivering from the rhythmic blows.
Oh, yes, she was quite certain she’d agreed with her new contractor that he could start tomorrow.
Not today.
And if there was one thing Taylor didn’t appreciate, it was someone messing with her carefully laid plans. She needed today, her last day alone, her last day to buck up, thrust out her chin, and get ready to show the world what she was made of.
Her building had been built circa 1902, and looked liked it. The Victorian style had nooks and crannies everywhere, windows galore and all the old charm and personality from the turn of the previous century, but with a hundred years of neglect added in. To say it was falling apart was the understatement of the new millennium. Bad trim, bad siding, bad paint, bad electrical and never mind the termites and last year’s flood damage from a busted pipe.
The bottom floor had two store-front units. The top floor had one loft apartment and an attic compartment. The middle floor had two apartments, one of which she’d claimed. Shutting the door of her apartment now, she headed downstairs, toward the hideous banging.
Outside, the streets of South Village were gearing up for what promised to be another profitable day.
Los Angeles, only five miles away, had been kind enough to share its smog and muggy heat, but Taylor didn’t mind the summer months like so many others did. She loved it here, felt perfectly at home among the young, hip, urban crowd which was drawn to Southern California’s premier pedestrian neighborhood. And why not, when any day of the week one could walk to a theater, an outdoor café run by someone famous or simply stroll through a mecca of interesting galleries or shops.
Taylor was counting on that crowd, as someday soon her two storefronts would be ready for lease.
Suzanne was taking one of them for her catering business, she’d already committed to that. A relief.
But there was still the other one. Leasing it out would keep her bank account happier than it was at the moment. But the truth was, she’d held out a little tiny seed of hope that someday she could use it for herself, opening her own shop. That is, if she had any antiques left after using them to finance the renovation.
A definite pipe dream at the moment.
The banging sounded louder now, and was definitely coming from one of the dusty, dirty storefront units. Outside, from beyond the front gate, she could hear people walking by, talking, laughing. Shopping. Once upon a time, that had been her favorite pastime, shopping, and a silly part of her suddenly yearned to be out there.
But that, too, was for another day.
As she reached the left unit, the banging increased in intensity. Opening the hallway door, which led into the back, she was greeted with a thick cloud of dust. The banging was so loud now she could hardly hear herself think, but as she stepped inside, the noise abruptly stopped.
Stunned by the silence, Taylor inhaled dirt in the already hot, muggy, spring California morning, and wondered how long before her carefully curled hair, flowing in a purposely artful and loose manner beneath her straw hat, sagged into her face.
“You’re in my way,” said a low, gruff voice from behind her.
Whirling, Taylor blinked into the cloud of dust as it slowly settled. Standing there among the dirt and grime was a man. He had one long arm propped on his hip, the other holding a huge sledgehammer, which rested against his shoulder.
Paul Bunyan, came the inane thought, if one substituted the sledgehammer for an ax. But why was Paul Bunyan standing in her building? Confused, a rare occurrence for Taylor, she found herself momentarily speechless.
Another rare occurrence.
The dust started to settle, and Paul materialized into her contractor Thomas Mackenzie, and though most of their contact had been handled by e-mail and telephone, she had seen him before. Clean and dressed up, that is. He wasn’t clean or dressed up now.
At least four inches taller than her own willowy five-foot-ten frame, she found it a bit of a surprise to have to tip her head back to see his face. The last time she’d seen him, they’d sat at her table, and for the life of her, she didn’t remember him being so…tall, so built, so imposing.
His mouth was scowling. His eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, two liquid, shining pools of heat and annoyance, and his hair, an exact match to his eyes, fell over a blue bandanna which had been tied around his forehead. Combined with his unsmiling, and rough and tumble expression, he looked more than just a little dangerous.
At the thought, a completely inappropriate shiver of thrill raced down her spine. Now was not the greatest time to remember that while she’d vowed to remain single for the rest of her life, she’d never vowed to remain celibate. She had a great appreciation for all things beautiful and finely made. And this man—tall and edgy and frowning as he was—was beautifully and firmly made, a magnificent male specimen, one who seemed to awaken every hormone and nerve ending in her entire body.
But she most definitely did not have a thing for a rebel-at-heart, and it didn’t escape her that this man was one-hundred-percent pure attitude.
In light of that, she repeated the same thing she told herself at estate sales, when she saw some spectacular piece of furniture she quivered to own but couldn’t afford… Walk away. Just walk away. Repeating that mantra, she took a careful step backward, taking one last glimpse to tide her over.
Hard, powerful looking legs were encased in soft, faded denim. His work boots were well worn, with a sole made for the long haul. She’d already noticed his very capable arms and his chest, which was wide, hard and covered in a T-shirt that clung like a second skin to his damp body. He was long and lean, rugged and virile, the way she preferred a man, when she chose to be with one.
But she wasn’t choosing now.
“You’re still in my way,” he said.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mackenzie.”
He blew out a breath. “Mac.”
“What?”
“You can call me Mac. That’s my name.”
“Really? It’s not Mr. Attitude?”
His lips twitched. “I respond better to Mac.”
“Okay, then. Mac.”
He stood there politely enough, and…waited for something. At his raised brow, she realized he was waiting for her to leave.
Too bad he didn’t know her better, or he’d already know she did only as she pleased, not as expected. “I didn’t approve for the demo to begin today,” she said.
“You signed the contract.”
Yes, she had. She’d sold her beloved Queen Anne headboard to give him the first payment of many, but she’d agreed upon tomorrow. Damn it, she needed today.
Apparently deciding they were done, Mac turned and walked away, moving with the easy, loose-limbed stride of a man who knew the value of patience. With that patience, he hoisted up the sledgehammer and brought it down on the south wall. And then again. His arms strained and stretched, his muscles working in perfect synch,