“Thirsty?”
Her voice startled him, and he almost reintroduced his thumb to the hammer. Damn it! He never lost awareness of his surroundings. He’d trained himself to listen for every incoming footstep, every whisper of movement. That kind of OCD diligence had saved his life on more than one occasion.
In an act of self-preservation, he threw the hammer in the toolbox. As he climbed down the ladder and faced her, this new bane of his existence, she held a glass of ice water out for him.
The thoughtful gesture unnerved him. “Thank you,” he muttered and drained the contents. The chill of the liquid soothed the dry heat in his throat.
“You’re welcome.” She took the empty glass from him and stepped away. “So...three women have already come to the door looking for Beck.”
“So few?” And what do you think of Beck, Miss Dillon? He looked her over, noticing the streak of dirt on her cheek, the smudges of grease on her shirt. So adorable. “How old are you?” he asked then flinched at the accusation in his tone.
Most women would have glared at him. She didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-five. What about you?”
“Twenty-eight.” Considering he had the life experience of a gutter rat, he felt decades older.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
There was only one reason the answer would matter to her, and it caused him to shoot harder than those steel pipes he was going to ask her to buy.
“No,” he rasped. “No wife.” He’d had a few girlfriends before Daphne, but nobody nearly as serious.
Daphne had seemed to accept him just as he was...until his sentence was handed down, and she realized she’d have to live without him for almost a decade—more than that, he wouldn’t be the same when he got out. He’d be different. An ex-con. Harder. Probably mean as hell. Teenagers never fared well behind bars.
He’d begged her to stick around, to trust him, promising to be whatever she needed the day they were reunited. Part of him had still been a little boy, desperate to hold on to some kind of family.
She’d sobbed while she’d walked away, but she’d still walked. He’d cursed her, apologized, begged some more. She hadn’t turned around, hadn’t even slowed. It had hurt then, and yeah, it still hurt now, but he saw it for what it was. Self-preservation. He couldn’t blame her for that.
Had life treated her well? Hell, maybe she was married with a dozen kids. Maybe not.
What would he say to her, if he saw her again? You were the best thing to happen to me. I miss you.
Was that still true? And would the man he had become even appeal to her? If she found out some of the things he’d endured throughout the years...would she react as fearfully as he suspected Brook Lynn would?
“Jase?”
Brook Lynn’s voice, gentle now, summoned him out of the dark mire of his head. He blinked and found her standing directly in front of him, her cool, dainty palm resting on his knotted shoulder. His hands were fisted, he realized, his nails cutting into his skin. Razors seemed to have grown in his nose and lungs, turning every breath into an act of torture.
Steady. When his gaze met hers, she dropped her arm and backed away.
“So...uh...yeah. I’ve finished the living room and kitchen.” She ran her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly nervous. “What would you like me to do next?”
Put your hand on me again. Never let go. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Go home.” Before I do something stupid.
“But I’ve only worked three hours.”
Only, she’d said. “Your check isn’t contingent on the number of hours you’re here, honey. Simply on doing what I say.”
She shook her head, saying, “Why don’t I clean the bathrooms?”
He did not like the thought of this girl scrubbing toilets. “No bathrooms.”
“Bathrooms,” she insisted. “Then I’ll wash up and cook dinner. Unless you have plans?”
He bristled. “No bathrooms. No dinner.”