Too Good to Be True(31)

“No. I’m here to replace your windows. Nice pajamas, by the way.”

I glanced down. Crap. SpongeBob SquarePants, a Christmas present from Julian. We had a tradition of giving horrible gifts…I’d given him a Chia Head. Then his words hit home. “Excuse me? Did you say you’re replacing my windows?”

“Yup,” he said, poking his head in the doorway and glancing around the living room. “Your father hired me the other day. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No,” I answered. “When?”

“Thursday,” he said. “You were out. Nice place you’ve got here. Did Daddy buy it for you?”

My mouth opened. “Hey!”

“So. Are you going to move aside so I can come in?”

I clutched Angus a little tighter. “No. Listen, Mr. O’ Shea, I don’t really think—”

“What? You don’t want an ex-con working for you?”

My mouth snapped shut. “Well, actually…I…” It seemed so rude to say it out loud. “No, thank you.” I forced a smile, feeling about as sincere as a presidential candidate pledging finance reform. “I’d rather hire another guy …um, someone who worked for me in the past.”

“I’ve been hired. Your father already paid me half.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and my teeth gritted.

“Well, that’s inconvenient, but you’ll have to give it back.” Angus barked from my arms, backing me up. Good dog.

“No.”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, sorry, Mr. O’ Shea, but I don’t want you working here.” Seeing me in my pajamas. Stirring things up. Possibly stealing my stuff.

He cocked his head and stared at me. “How cutting, Ms. Emerson, to think that you don’t like me, and also how ironic, given that if anyone has reason not to like someone else, I’d say the votes go to me.”

“You get no votes, pal! I didn’t ask you to—”

“But since I have better manners than you, I’ll reserve judgment and say only that I don’t like your propensity for violence. However, I already took your father’s money, and if you want these windows before hell freezes over, I have to put in an order from a specialty place in Kansas. And to be honest, I need the work. Okay? So let’s drop the feminine outrage, ignore the fact that I’ve seen you in your unmentionables—” his eyes traveled up and down my frame “—and get to work. I have to measure the windows. Want me to start upstairs or down?”

At this moment, Natalie’s BMW pulled into the driveway, causing Angus new seizures of outrage. I clutched him to me, his little form trembling, as he tried to heave himself out of my arms, his barks bouncing off the inside of my skull.

“Can’t you control the wee beastie?” Callahan O’ Shea asked.

“Quiet,” I muttered. “Not you, Angus, honey. Hi, Natalie!”

“Hi,” she said, gliding up the front steps. She paused, giving my neighbor a questioning look. “Hello. I’m Natalie Emerson, Grace’s sister.”

My neighbor took her hand, an appreciative grin tugging his mouth up on one side, making me dislike him all the more. “Callahan O’ Shea,” he murmured. “I’m Grace’s carpenter.”

“He’s not,” I insisted. “What brings you here, Nat?”

“I thought we could have a cup of coffee,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ve been dying to hear about this guy you’re seeing. We haven’t had a chance to talk since Mom’s show.”

“A boyfriend?” Callahan said. “I take it he likes things rough.”

Natalie’s silken eyebrows popped up an inch and she grinned, her eyes studying his shiner. “Come on, Grace, how about some coffee? Callahan, is it? Would you like a cup?”

“I’d love one,” he answered, smiling at my beautiful and suddenly irritating sister.

Five minutes later, I was staring sullenly at the coffeepot as my sister and Callahan O’ Shea became best friends forever.

“So Grace actually hit you? With a field hockey stick? Oh, Grace!” She burst into laughter, that husky, seductive laugh that men loved.

“It was self-defense,” I said, grabbing a few cups from the cupboard.

“She was drunk,” Cal explained. “Well, the first time, she was drunk. The second time, with the rake, she was just flighty.”

“I was not flighty,” I objected, setting the coffeepot on the table and yanking open the fridge for the cream, which I set on the table with considerable force. “I have never been described as flighty.”

“I don’t know, Natalie,” Callahan said, tilting his head. “Don’t those pajamas say flighty to you?” His eyes traveled up and down my SpongeBobs once more.

“That’s it, Irish. You’re fired. Again. Still. Whatever.”

“Oh, come on, Grace,” Natalie said, laughing melodically. “He’s got a point. I hope Wyatt won’t see you in those.”

“Wyatt loves SpongeBob,” I retorted.

Nat poured Callahan a cup of coffee, missing the daggers shooting from my eyes. “Cal, have you met Grace’s new guy?” she asked.

“You know, I haven’t,” he answered, cocking his eyebrow at me. I tried to ignore him. Not easy. He looked so damn…wonderful…sitting there in my cheery kitchen, Angus chewing his bootlace, drinking coffee from my limited edition Fiestaware cornflower-blue mug. The sun shone on his tousled hair, revealing very appealing streaks of gold in that rich chestnut-brown. He just about glowed with masculinity, all broad shoulders and big muscles, about to fix stuff in my house…damn it. Who wouldn’t be turned on?