Husband Under Construction (6 page)

“I think I should check for the empty love potion bottle. This zero-to-sixty business is a little unnerving.” When he shot her another mulish look—albeit of a much spunkier variety than the one he'd given her in the tile aisle—she said, “Charley, I know how down you've been since Mae's death, which wasn't all that long ago—”

“More than a year, Rox. And at my age, there are worse things than a rebound relationship.” He shrugged. “Should it even come to that.” Then his eyes found hers. “This isn't the same situation as yours, because I'm not looking for the same things. At this point, whatever happens from now on…” Another shrug. “Gravy.”

One arm across her ribs, Roxie ducked her head to stare at a mystery splotch on the disgusting floor. “Maybe you're not in the same place I was…back then. But still. Acting on an attraction when you're still in love with someone else—”

“It's a
date,
Rox. That's all. Now can we drop this?”

“No. The dating scene…it's changed since you dated Mae. A lot.”

“And you think I'd have a
problem
with having sex on the third date?” At her apparently appalled expression, Charley chuckled. “Your aunt and I got cozy on the second. Betcha didn't expect that, didja?”

“Geez, Charley—”

“It was the sixties. What can I say? Sex happened.”

“This is supposed to be reassuring?”

“Although,” he said on a sigh, “now that
I'm
in my sixties, sex probably isn't going to happen quite so much. Listen, you don't think I'm shocked, too? That one minute, I'm a lonely old man, the next, here's this pretty woman, asking if she can sit with me, and suddenly we're talking like we've known each other forever. Her dead husband, he also worked at Los Alamos. Although in a completely different department. And get this—”

“She was a teacher, too?”

“Yeah. How'd you know? Only she taught little kids, first grade. Not high school. So can I borrow your car tomorrow?”

Roxie had to admit, as the initial shock began to fade, Charley excited about going on a date with someone he barely knew was far preferable to Charley still mourning someone he'd known and loved his entire adult life. And of course he was perfectly capable of looking out for himself. No point putting her own issues on the poor man.

“Yes, Charley. You can borrow the car.” Her mouth
twitched. “But put gas in it. And if you're not home by midnight your car privileges are revoked.”

“No problem, we're going to the afternoon show, it's cheaper that way. So how'd you and Noah get on with the selections?”

And, apparently, that was the end to that conversation.

Her issues, no. The conversation, yes.

“Fine,” she said, which was the end of
that
conversation. After Charley bustled off—she assumed to confirm plans with his new “friend”—Roxie returned to the dining room to continue her unpacking, cataloguing, repacking, since everything had to be shoved back into the garage until after the reno. The better pieces she'd decided to sell on eBay, but she'd have to hold a yard sale or something for the rest of it. Although, between their being out in the boonies and winter breathing down their necks, how she was going to pull that off she had no idea.

That, however, was a worry for another day. Because today she had worries enough, between her uncle's finding love over a Whopper and fries and her insane attraction to Noah and her near heart attack when she'd seen Jeff's number on her cell phone earlier.

What on earth he wanted to say, she couldn't imagine. Certainly she had nothing to say to him. However, since he hadn't left a voice mail, she assumed it wasn't urgent. Or even important. And unless and until he did, she saw no reason to answer. Ever. Maybe he no longer had the power to hurt her—a power Roxie willingly admitted she'd given him—but allowing him renewed access to her head? So not happening.

A realization that only strengthened her resolve not to let Noah get to her, either, to not read his chivalrously moving her out of the wind, or his gracious reaction to Eden's erroneous assumption about them, as anything more than
the actions of a man whose mama had brought him up right. Because she'd made the mistake before, of looking at someone through cloudy lenses, convincing herself the blurred image was what she wanted it to be, rather than what it was. Maybe, in Charley's case, that didn't matter.

But in hers? Yeah. It mattered.

Big time.

 

Noah had to hand it to Roxie—the woman's work ethic made him feel like a lazy slug.

Every morning for the past week, she'd already been at it for hours before he and the crew arrived at eight, stripping wallpaper or prepping walls or knocking out tiles. There was also always coffee brewing—she'd borrowed the giant pot from church—and some sort of baked goodies, usually courtesy of Silas's fiancée, Jewel, or his mother, since Roxie admitted cooking was not one of her talents. A comment which provoked a deep blush on her part, and a big grin on Noah's, right before she skittered away to her next project like one of Cinderella's little helpers.

Today, however, while the window dudes were putting in the new double panes, it was time to take a sledgehammer to the gouged, grungy kitchen floor tiles—she'd been sorely disappointed to discover they'd simply remove the cabinets, not pulverize them—a task Noah'd forbidden her to tackle when he wasn't there. He'd thought it a simple request; she, alas, saw it as his not trusting her to have at least
some
common sense, which in turn got his back up about her stubbornness, fueling a heated “discussion” that had left them both hot and panting, and, at least in Noah's case, turned on.

Yeah, the crew found that
very
entertaining.

Now, considering the gusto with which she pummeled the poor tiles, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out
she was using it as therapy. Or imagining that the cheap ceramic she was crushing into smithereens was him. Just a guess.

“Hey, take it easy, or you're gonna be real sore tomorrow.”

“Not an issue,” came through the dust mask. And who knew safety goggles could be so sexy?
Wham!
“I lift weights.”
Wham!
“And play tennis.”

That explained a lot. “You lift weights?”

“Not barbells or anything, but when I was in middle school?”
Wham!
“We were doing gymnastics and my upper body strength was so lame I couldn't support myself on the parallel bars, so I decided to do something about it.”
Wham!

Giving him a whole new reason to be afraid of the woman, Noah thought as he raked the broken tile pieces into a pile. Gal could take him
down.
“You're not one for letting things simply happen, are you?”

Breathing heavily—God, he wished she'd stop that—she turned, swiping the back of her hand across her glistening forehead. Despite the frigid temperature, she'd removed her sweatshirt, revealing a baby blue T-shirt hugging a flat stomach, and breasts that, what they lacked in size, they made up for in charm. Especially with the heavy breathing thing.

She pushed down the mask. “What are you talking about?”

“I think it's safe to say you were a lot more motivated than your average twelve-year-old.”

He thought he caught a glimpse of a smile. And her butt, when she turned back around. Covered in dusty denim, but whatever. Replacing the mask, she said, “I've never been your average anything.”

Yeah, he was beginning to see that. And it wasn't making this attraction thing any easier.

“So where's Charley?”

At that, she grunted. “With his new lady love, I presume.”

“That gal we met the other day?”

“The very one.”

“I take it you're not exactly cool with this development?”

Her gaze flicked to his before—the sledgehammer propped against the broom closet—she navigated the loose tile floes to get to the coffeemaker and refill a mug the size of the Indian Ocean. In went an untold number of fake sugar packets and a healthy dose of half-and-half; then, stirring, she turned to lean against the counter.

“They've seen each other every day this week. And I know I should be happy for him, that he's found someone to take his mind off Mae, but…” She took a sip of coffee, then shook her head. “I can't help feeling it's too much, too fast.”

Noah decided to refill his own Thermos bottle, thinking that he'd seen Charley and Roxie together enough to surmise theirs wasn't the easiest relationship, probably because they were both stubborn as mules. But if her wretched expression was any indication, she was genuinely concerned for the guy. And it got to him in ways he couldn't even define, that she cared that much. Even so…

“He is an adult, Rox,” he said, his back to her as he poured.

“An adult who still hears his dead wife talk to him.”

Noah turned. “So maybe Mae told him this was okay.”

A frown preceded, “That doesn't bother you? That he hears dead people?”

He chose his words carefully. “Not for me to say. Long
as she's not telling him to break the law, can't see the harm in it.”

A brief smile touched Roxie's mouth before she sighed again. “In any case, Mae's not here. I am. And something…just doesn't feel right. I mean, not once has Charley brought Eden here. Or suggested we all have lunch or dinner together or something—” She shook her head, one hand lifting. “Sorry, didn't mean to drag you into family business. And I've only got an hour before I have to go to the clinic, so we better get back to work, right?”

She may as well have slapped him. Noah stood there like a grade-A idiot, wanting to say…something. Anything. To plead his case…for what? The words jammed at the back of his throat, a jumbled mess he couldn't sort out to save his life.

“Yeah, whatever you say,” he mumbled, thunking his mug onto the counter and grabbing a shovel.

A few minutes later, he carted the first load of tile out to the Dumpster at the bottom of the steep driveway, taking more pleasure than usual in the deafening crash when he hurled them inside. Wasn't as if he actually
enjoyed
listening to women bitch and moan, although he'd gotten better about faking it over the years, figuring it just came with the territory. So why was her dismissal ticking him off so much now?

When he returned, she was staring at her phone, her expression exactly like it'd been that Saturday outside Lowe's. Spotting Noah, she shoved it back in her pocket, clearly distressed. Clearly not sharing.

Flat-out annoyed at this point—whether that made sense or not—Noah jerked the wheelbarrow into place and began to noisily shovel in more broken tiles, even as he said, “Everything okay?”

Using a dustpan to help, Roxie added to the pile in the
wheelbarrow. “Nothing I can't handle,” she said, not looking at him, and Noah felt as if his gut had caught fire.

Wasn't until the third trip down the driveway that it finally hit him that he felt exactly like he had when his father wrote him off—mad that Roxie didn't feel she could trust him, either. And again, it was nuts that he should care. Was it just the challenge of “getting” something he couldn't have? Some misguided macho sense of entitlement?

Was he really as bad as all that?

He looked back up at the house, the fear swamping him all over again, that this gal was making him feel things no other woman had ever made him feel—although at the moment, mostly like a scumbag. And suddenly nothing else mattered except gaining her trust. Even though…

Even though there was no reason on earth he deserved it.

 

It had already been dark for an hour when Naomi Johnson stuck her neatly dreadlocked head out of her office door and scanned the empty waiting room.

“We're done?”

“We are
done,
” Roxie said, plopping the plastic cover over the printer and turning off the computer. Although, truth be told, the constant stream of patients—most of whom were under ten years old—had provided a welcome distraction from all the junk piling up in her brain. Even if seeing all those mamas with their little ones only threatened to add to the clutter, she thought, as she stood for the first time in an hour and her lower back let out a silent scream.

“You okay?” the doctor said, flicking off the office lights, leaving the waiting room bathed in a ghostly glow from the reception desk light.

“Nothing a hot bath won't cure.” A wince popped out
when Roxie bent to retrieve her purse from the desk's bottom drawer. “And a dude named Sven who gets his jollies from pummeling ladies' backs. Word to the wise—sledgehammers are heavy suckers—”

“Not talking about your back, baby.” Naomi paused, then said softly, “How's the job search going?”

“Oh, trust me, you'll be the first to know if anything happens on that front. Why?” Roxie said, smiling. “You anxious to get rid of me?”

“Not hardly. In fact—being purely selfish, here—I dread the day when you tell me you're leaving. Even though I know you will someday, because you've got way bigger fish to fry than temping behind a reception desk. But…” The doctor's eyes narrowed. “That's not it, either, is it?”

When Roxie looked over, the words “I'm fine” ready to jump out of her mouth, Naomi raised one graying eyebrow over her rimless glasses. Roxie sighed. At least Noah—and the confused, almost hurt look in his eyes—would be gone by the time she got back to the house. One less thing to fret about. But if her uncle
wasn't
there, she'd worry. Then again, if he was, she'd have to listen to “Eden said this” and “Eden said that” the rest of the evening. Gack.

And then there was Jeff.

“Just lots of stuff going on,” she finally mumbled, yanking her jacket out of the closet and giving her back something else to screech about. At Naomi's pointed silence, she figured she might pick through the many bones and toss her one. “My ex keeps calling me,” she said, because she didn't have the energy to discuss the Charley stuff, and she didn't understand the Noah stuff enough to talk about it with anybody.