99 Percent Mine(41)

“Don’t.” I shrug him off.

There’s a familiar shape to Tom’s shoulders now as he paces off. His beast is showing.

I sip slowly from my coffee and hold eye contact with the old guy, Colin. He puts up a valiant effort, but after thirty seconds—I count them—he looks away.

Meet your new alpha, bitch.

“I want to talk to you three,” I say as they begin to shuffle after their master. Time for some abuse of power. “As the client, I’m the boss, right?”

“Tom’s the boss,” Alex blurts, scared and wanting his daddy, despite his scolding.

“I’m his boss.” They all look like they feel this is bad news. “Hey, I’m cool. But I’m not into being babied, or ignored, or stepped around. You’re all going to treat me like one of the team. Especially you,” I say to Colin, the sour old bastard. “I have no experience doing this, but I have two hands and a heartbeat. This is my grandmother’s house.”

This seems to be the missing piece of information. They all drop into more relaxed stances. Now the forceful on-site client makes sense.

“Are you going to explain all this to Tom?” Alex says, his eyes on Tom’s profile. “Because he’s in a bad mood. And he’s never in a bad mood.”

“He knows me well enough to know that this is how it’s going to be.” I toss my remaining coffee into the garden and put my mug on the railing. “Now let’s get our asses to work.”

We clomp past Tom as a team now, and I ignore his beady stare when I walk back down with a crate of electrical cords. My heart feels fine. I’ve set a reminder in my phone that says, MEDICATE YOURSELF, DIPSHIT, and my alcohol intake has been slashed.

Keep going, little heart, because I need you.

We continue to unpack. Tom hangs up from a call. He looks like he’s got a caution or a scold on the tip of his tongue, but his phone begins ringing again. With a frustrated huff he answers it. “Jamie, I can’t talk. We’re unpacking. Yes. She’s fine. I’ll call at lunch.”

“It would be killing him to not be here,” I say to Tom as I walk past with more gear. “If we’re not careful he’s going to get on the next flight.”

Tom winces so hard I bet he’s bruised himself internally. “That is my nightmare scenario. Can you please just—” He comes to take my load from me, but the phone rings again. “Tom Valeska,” he says on a sigh.

“… Is totally frazzled,” I finish his sentence to myself as I hoist gear onto the back porch. “Seriously, what is up with him?” Alex and I give each other yeesh looks.

More cars begin to slot along the curbs. I’m reading polo shirts: electrician, foundation, roofing, scaffolding, plumbing. There are cigarettes, takeout coffee cups, and male voices everywhere.

“He’s not enjoying this,” Ben comments in a hushed tone as we look at Tom, pacing around now, the phone at his ear. “Aldo was always the one on the phone. Tom’s used to being the muscle.”

“And what a set of muscles they are,” I say out loud in reflex.

Colin doesn’t look sympathetic. “He’s got a few things to learn. He wanted this, and he got it.” He has an air of I told you so. “He’s on his own now.”

The tinge of mutiny in his tone has my hackles up. “He’s not on his own. He’s got us. And anyone who isn’t on his side can go that way”—I point up the side of the house—“and keep walking.”

“Darcy,” Tom says behind me, sharp and frustrated. Fuck, I’m in trouble. “Everyone into the kitchen, please.”

I grab my mug and we file in. There are possibly the first glimmers of respect in Colin’s eyes when he looks at me. I privately breathe out. I’m lucky he didn’t take up my offer to walk. I’d be dead meat.

“Can you get me one of those polo shirts?” I ask Alex. I would love a Valeska shirt. The reverse imprint of those stitches on my skin would feel better than lingerie.

“Sure, I’ve got a spare.”

I look down at my own tank top. Nothing is remotely amiss, apart from lacy bra straps poking out.

We are all assembled in the kitchen. I pour myself a second mug of coffee, and at least eight sets of eyes watch me do it. The room is warm and spicy from so many men and their hideous deodorants, so I go to open the kitchen window. Of course, it’s stuck. The lift-and-jiggle technique doesn’t work. I struggle and yank, right at center stage. Everyone goes silent.

“Come on, you miserable fucker,” I whisper, and someone laughs.

“Morning,” Tom says, and there’s the boot-scraping sound of everyone straightening up and paying attention. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

He pulls up the window for me with two fingers. Lift, jiggle, the lovely flex of a bicep.

This house can be such a jerk to me.

“My usual crew is here—Colin, Ben, and Alex.” He points at the three that I threatened within ten minutes of their arrival. “Dan and Fitz are plumbing. Alan is roofing. Chris is our electrician, but he doesn’t get here until nine. Anyway, we’ve got a lot to do, and a pretty blank canvas.”

Tom’s bigger than any guy in here, from muscles to height, and they all look like stubbled, bloodshot messes next to him. I’m beginning to think he always has this flawless sunrise glow on his skin.