Male Call. Heather MacallisterЧитать онлайн книгу.
is mine. Once upon a time, my lady, here, was just as pretty as your house. But she wasn’t treated right and now I’m going to give her a little nip and tuck, get her a new dress and make her a pretty necklace.” Zach reached into the front seat of his truck and grabbed the piece of wood that he planned to use as a pattern to cut gingerbread trim. “Now look at that. It’s a custom design and I’m going to cut it out by hand. Are you going to tell me that’s not art?”
Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach glanced around to see if his crew noticed.
“So you will understand if I confess that the call of my muse is so faint that your muse is drowning her out.”
“Hang on.” Zach bent down and rummaged in the open toolbox propped on the front steps. Inside was a package of earplugs. He shook out a couple and handed them to Frank. “Occasionally, my muse gets loud even for me.”
Franco stared at the two pieces of bright yellow foam. “Do you have these in blue?”
“No.”
He sighed, then pasted a brave smile on his face. “I shall persevere.”
Zach hadn’t seen him since. Fortunately.
He liked working in this area of San Francisco. There was a lot of contrast with the edge of the Mission District and the trendy part of Valencia Street. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. Of course, he wouldn’t mind living in any of the Victorians he’d restored. That was the secret to his inspiration—he got emotionally involved in them. It wasn’t practical, but he left the practical part of running Renfro Construction to his father and his brother, who had enough practicality to spare. Enough for Zach to be Renfro Restoration. So what if he did get a few pangs at the end of a project? Another one always came along.
Zach took a deep breath of the cool evening air and turned on the saw. The drone of the blade as it cut through the wood served as a soothing backdrop for his thoughts.
In spite of all evidence to the contrary, there was a practical side to Zach and that practical side, a residual of years working in the office side of the business, pointed out that there were thousands of very good commercial patterns and manufacturers of Victorian gingerbread trims. And even if he wanted to continue to provide custom designs, he could recycle his more successful ones to increase the profit margin. It would still be a Renfro Restoration original, but he could outsource the fabrication and carry the designs in stock. Construction time and standby labor time would be less, thus increasing the profit margin.
Lord knew it wouldn’t take much to increase the profit margin. But knowing each house was unique appealed to Zach’s pride and an artistic sense he hadn’t known he had.
He owed his father and brother big-time for letting him run this part of the company. They never said a word when Zach’s penchant for perfectionism ate into the already slim profits.
And he was just so much happier doing this than anything else. They knew that, too.
So, he’d work on this new trim design tonight so he wouldn’t have to pay standby time to the crew tomorrow.
Zach concentrated on working the jigsaw and holding the wood steady. One slip would ruin the design. Yeah, there were nails and wood glue, but that was a last resort.
He became aware of a blob of bright colors in his peripheral vision. The blob could have been there any number of minutes since his vision was partially blocked by the side of the safely glasses. He’d seen that blob before—walking by every day and a little while ago it had nearly been beaned with a piece of wood.
Without turning his head, Zach swiveled his eyes. Gotta be a homeless person wandering the streets—the giant ski parka, jeans, well-worn boots, the bag, the wool hat pulled over his…her? ears, but especially the way he/she stood there and talked to him or herself.
The guy was probably going to sleep in the house once Zach left. At this stage in the construction, Zach didn’t particularly mind, but in a couple of days, he was going to have to secure the place to protect the remodeling and tools from vandals.
But right now, he needed to concentrate on working with a lethally sharp saw.
MARNIE SHOVED her hands into her pockets as she watched the man work. His corded muscles were nicely defined by the T-shirt. His jeans did some nice defining, too. Very nice.
Surprisingly nice. Marnie wasn’t in the habit of noticing nice things like that. Hmm. This was a habit she should cultivate. What kind of trance had she been in the past few years? Oh, Barry had been nice looking in his own way but there was something about this guy…something elemental and real—talk about projecting, but who cared?—that appealed to Marnie.
What type of girlfriend would a man like that want?
Emboldened by the concealing whine of the saw, Marnie decided to ask him. “Hey, you. Yeah, you—big, strong, musclely construction guy. So what’s a girl gotta do to be your girlfriend?”
The pitch of the whine lowered as the saw bit into the wood. Marnie admired the shape of the man’s arms. A girl generally didn’t see arms like that in the computer field.
“You’re probably the short, tight skirt, big hair and makeup sort, aren’t cha, Big Guy?”
Big Guy responded by turning so Marnie had a better view of his chest. “Whoo-hoo! You know, for you, it might be worth it. A girl could get lost in those arms. And I’ll bet you’d never ask your girlfriend to paint or pound nails and then buy her a lousy sandwich. You’re probably a simple man with simple needs.”
Marnie suddenly had some of those same needs. What a coincidence. She and the construction guy had something in common. She could work with common needs.
“And I bet you don’t have a whole lot of brains to get in the way of those needs, do you? Nope. Not you. But you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking brains are overrated. Men with brains just think about the same things anyway, so what do they need brains for?”
Marnie shifted her bag to her other shoulder and shoved her hands back into her pockets. She should get going, but it felt good to shout out her frustrations with the male population to an actual man. The fact that he wasn’t Barry and couldn’t hear didn’t matter at all.
“Yeah, you’re just the kind of guy I could go for, if only…if only you’d turn around so I could see whether or not you’ve got a cute butt.”
There was silence. An all-encompassing silence. A silence that had begun midway through her last sentence. A silence into which the words “you’ve got a cute butt” rang out clearly. Irrevocably.
Humiliatingly.
She should run. Fast. Now.
She should, but she didn’t.
The construction foreman, aka Big Guy, pulled off the clear safety goggles as he straightened and ran his fingers through sunstreaked hair. He gave her a cocky grin. “Thanks.”
Marnie’s face was so hot, she was surprised little clouds of steam weren’t rising from her cheeks. “I was just—I didn’t say—there was more to the sentence!”
“How much more?”
“What I said was, I wished you’d turn around so I…could tell…” Not helping. Not helping.
He inclined his head and obligingly turned around.
Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, he actually turned around. Second, he really did have a cute butt.
Now what was she supposed to do? Because eventually, Marnie knew he would turn back—the way he was this very second—and she would be expected to say something. Under the circumstances, she supposed witty and profound was out.
“Well?” he prompted. He had just the sort of voice she expected a manly man—and what was construction work if not