Gimme Some Sugar Page 4

  “You know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to meet a nice girl,” his mother said, looking up from the table.

  “I know lots of nice girls.” He grabbed another paper plate, shoving it beneath the one in his hand to keep it from collapsing over his work boots.

  Why was he suddenly so irritated about the whole thing? If pressuring him to meet a nice girl and settle down was the Super Bowl, his mother had achieved MVP status ages ago. He prided himself on the fact that, while it was sometimes aggravating to dodge her good intentions, his mother’s scrutiny never rattled his composure.

  Until now.

  Catherine lifted her delicate brows in Jackson’s direction. “Really.” The word wasn’t an accusation, but it definitely wasn’t a question, either. “I don’t seem to recall you seeing anybody for quite a while.”

  A strange heat crept up the back of his neck, and the image of the bathrobed woman flickered across his mind for a split second before he spoke without thinking. “As a matter of fact, I’m seeing somebody now.”

  Whoa! Where had that whopper come from? And why, of all people, had he thought of the stranger from this morning before he’d spouted it? Jackson didn’t make it a habit to lie, and definitely not to his mother, but the strange and unexpected frustration of being put on the spot must have forced the words right out. Oh well. It wasn’t like the indiscretion was going to kill him.

  Catherine beamed. “You are? How wonderful! You’ll have to bring her to the party then.”

  Okay, so he stood corrected on the it-might-not-kill-me thing. Shit.

  “Oh, uh, I only just started seeing . . . this girl, Ma. She might be, you know. Busy or something.” Way to go, slick. Open wide for that size twelve. You big dumbass!

  His mother’s expression flirted with disappointment. “Well, it’s not going to be anything fancy, just a barbecue here at the house. After all, we’d really like to meet your girlfriend.”

  Oh, Jesus, now he had a girlfriend. Jackson opened his mouth to tell his mother it had been a misunderstanding, that there was no girlfriend; hell, there was no girl, period. But then he caught the look on her face, so full of rare happiness and hope, and the next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “Sure thing, Ma. What time should I bring her by?”

  Chapter Three

  Carly covered her yawn with a haphazard hand as she filled the coffeepot with extra grounds. She sighed into the sleeve of her bathrobe while she waited for it to burble to life, catching a familiar flicker out of the corner of her eye. The answering machine blinked steadily, desperate for attention. Carly had been too exhausted to check it when she got home last night, and she braced herself as she pushed the button, the memory of her nasty conversation with Travis still all too fresh in her mind.

  “Carlotta, it’s your mama.” In spite of the fact that Carly was thirty-one years old, her mother’s brisk tone halted her midstep across the kitchen floor. Damn it, guilt before coffee was so not how Carly wanted to start her day.

  “Dominic tells me you’re busy at work¸ but you had the time to call him and say so. I worry about you out there in the middle of nothing. You should be here in the city, working things out.”

  Carly winced. Her brother had probably meant well when he’d told their mother Carly was busy at work. She pressed the FORWARD button, making a mental note to call her mother back when she had more stamina.

  “Hey, cucciola. It’s Dom.”

  Carly chuckled as she pulled a mug from the cupboard. The guilt must be catching.

  “Mrs. Spagnolo went to dinner at Gracie’s the other night and saw Travis.” Her brother paused to mutter a couple of choice Italian curse words into her machine before proceeding. “Anyway, you know how the gossip goes. Mama’s a little riled up over it, so look out. And give me a call, yeah? She’s been acting weird lately. It’s probably nothing, but . . . well, give me a call. Love you.”

  Carly shook her head. Considering the circumstances, there weren’t a whole lot of things in the world weirder than her mother actually wanting Carly to reconcile with Travis. Then again, as a devout Catholic, her disdain for her only daughter’s failed marriage had been a source of contention between them for months. The sanctity of marriage was no small potatoes in the di Matisse house. Never mind that Travis had broken it by cherishing Carly’s career and talent more than anything else.

  The machine beeped with another message, and she braced herself. Please God, let it be a telemarketer, just this once.

  “Oh, hello there, young ladies.” Her landlord’s gentle voice filtered through the kitchen, causing Carly to both heave a sigh of relief and break into a tiny smile at being called a young lady. Mr. Logan was eighty if he was a day.

  “I have a bit of bad news. Unfortunately there’s enough structural damage to the deck that the whole thing has to be taken down and replaced. The contractor assured me he’d be as quick as possible, but the work will probably take about a week.”

  She groaned. So much for never seeing Contractor Guy again. Now she had to spend a whole week with him right outside her window? And with Sloane gone, Carly was the only point of contact, at least for a couple more days. Still, he’d be outside pretty much the whole time. Maybe she could avoid him.

  “Anyway, give me a call if you have any questions. The contractor should be there first thing tomorrow morning, so don’t be alarmed when you see him.” The machine beeped, signaling the end of the message, and Carly creased her brow in slow-motion thought.

  “Wait a second . . . this message is from yesterday . . .” The implication started to trickle in, like water slowly filling each pore of a sponge.

  The doorbell rang.

  She whirled around to stare at the door, eyes widening in panic as she raced toward it, pressing her body against the cool wood to look through the peep hole. Sure enough, there stood Mr. Fix-It, his eyes just as crinkly and breathtaking as yesterday.

  And once again, she wasn’t wearing any pants.

  “Oh, come on!” Carly cursed, hurling herself toward her bedroom while snatching the robe from her body. She jammed her legs through a mostly-clean pair of jeans, barely pausing to zip them before donning a bra and whipping through her dresser for a clean shirt.

  No dice. The only thing she’d had time to wash in the last couple of weeks were her chef’s whites, which stood at attention in her closet. Her hand closed around the only clean item in the drawer, a New York Islanders T-shirt her brother had bought for her at an Eastern Conference quarterfinal game in 2002. It was barely a step away from dust rag territory, and every time Carly laid eyes on it, she was tempted to toss it, but she could never manage to do the deed because despite its horrible state, the damned thing was beyond comfortable. She shook her head. There had to be something else. There had to be . . .

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Goooooood enough.” Carly yanked the holey old thing over her head, certain she was testing the limits of the ancient fabric with her less than gentle maneuvering. “Coming!” As much as she wasn’t looking forward to coming face to face with this guy again, at least this time she wasn’t in her underwear.

  Carly swung the front door open and tried not to gasp for air. “Hi.” It was all she could manage without passing out.

  “Morning.” His eyes zoned in and settled right on the Islanders logo emblazoned across her chest. “Hey, nice shirt.”

  Carly bristled. God, he was so unnervingly smart-assed! If she hadn’t been totally out of breath, she’d have flipped back one of the glib comments rattling around in her brain. As it stood, she could barely stay upright without wanting to collapse.

  Contractor Guy’s perfect-summer-sky eyes traveled up to her face, and his smile shifted, dropping slightly. “You look . . . uh, different.”

  She finally caught her breath. “I’m dressed.” Carly heard the naughty inference only after the quip had crossed her lips. “I mean! You know, I’m not in my bathrobe.” Fl
ushing all the way to her ears, she made a mental note not to speak again until more oxygen had reached her brain.

  But instead of continuing to make fun of her, Contractor Guy cut her some slack with an easygoing laugh. “No, it’s your hair.” He motioned toward his shoulders, mimicking the way her hair spilled over her own shoulders. “I guess you had it pulled back yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Carly’s hand shot up subconsciously, and she tried to smooth the tangled mess to no avail. Nine times out of ten, she braided it to keep it out of her way, but in her haste to find clothes, she’d forgotten all about it.

  “Ah, anyway.” He shifted his weight. “I just wanted to let you know I’m here. I usually start early, but I had to get some tools together for the demolition, so today was an exception.”

  Her brows paved the way for her frown. “It’s early now.”

  “It’s after nine,” he replied teasingly. Wow, his eyes were stunning, the same piercing blue of the cornflowers in her grandmother’s tiny garden plot back in Brooklyn.

  Carly blinked, rattling herself back to reality. “Uh-huh.” She tipped her head in an easy translation of I fail to see your point. “How early do you normally start?”

  “I’d like to shoot for seven-thirty, if it’s okay with you.”

  Carly couldn’t help it. She laughed. Out loud.

  “That’s not early. It’s cruel and unusual.”

  “Nah.” He shrugged, the wide expanse of his shoulders rising and falling with casual ease. “Cruel and unusual is trying to do manual labor outside in the dead heat of a summer afternoon. It’s easier to start early and end early. Unless that’s a problem.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not the one who has to be out there with the roosters. Be my guest.” After all, it would make it a whole lot easier to give him the slip if she was nestled in her bed clear on the other side of the house.

  “Okay then. I guess I’ll get to it.”

  As Carly replaced the door in its sturdy oak frame, she turned to cast a glance at the sun-filled windows on the rear wall of the house.

  Yup. She could steer clear of those. Forgetting he was there was going to be a piece of cake.

  Olive oil, pancetta, bay leaves, red peppers, olive oil . . .

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Carly stopped, pencil hovering over the page for a minute before she frowned and crossed the repeat offender off her shopping list. For God’s sake, how was she supposed to get anything done with all that racket going on outside? Not to mention the racket her libido was making every time the man she swore she’d avoid crossed her line of sight.

  Looks like there’s something inside the house that needs fixing. Betcha he’s got all the right power tools for the job.

  Carly sent a panicked look around the room, as if her dirty subconscious had broadcast the unexpected thought out loud. It wasn’t her fault that no matter where she went in the bungalow, Contractor Guy ended up in her line of sight, hard at work. And she could forget turning a blind eye, because staring at the man was just a foregone conclusion. Carly might still be irritated that he’d embarrassed her, but let’s face it: she was aggravated, not dead. And Contractor Guy was 100 percent red-blooded man.

  She inclined her head at the sliding glass door, pretending her pulse wasn’t doing the skip-to-my-lou in her veins at the sight of him at work. His thick arms were already burnished from having been exposed to the sun all morning, tanned muscles standing in relief against his white T-shirt. Carly nibbled on the end of her pencil, letting her eyes trail over the hard planes of his chest, clearly visible beneath that snug, light cotton.

  Just think. You’re stuck with him all week, you lucky girl.

  “Oh, shut up.” She tuned out the suggestive little voice in favor of the grocery list on the counter. Carly didn’t care how good his butt looked in those jeans when he bent down to rip up the old deck. She needed a man like she needed a tax audit, and plus, he’d laughed at her twice now. Although considering the circumstances surrounding both of those scenarios, it would have been nearly impossible for him not to laugh at her a little.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Olive oil . . . no, wait . . .

  Carly tossed her pencil in disgust. Okay, yes, he’d laughed at her, but he hadn’t really been mean about it. Not even when she’d made an honest attempt to knock his block off like a raving lunatic. A really foul-mouthed raving lunatic. Wearing underpants circa the Clinton administration.

  She eyed the sunshine pouring in through the windows. Yeah. Maybe apology lemonade was a good idea. Nothing said “I’m sorry for hurling insults and electronics at you” like a nice tall glass of summer, right?

  Christ, she really was an idiot.

  Carly padded to the bowl of Meyer lemons and limes on her countertop, rifling through it to pick out the prettiest specimens. She put a saucepan of water on the stove to boil before turning her attention to juicing the lemons. While there was an electric juicer hidden in the depths of her cupboards, she’d always been partial to doing the job herself. Something about the cool, imperfect exterior of the citrus just felt right under her hands, and she worked with quick, efficient strokes to get the job done.

  She measured the sugar for the simple syrup just like she measured everything in the kitchen—with her eyes. People usually fell into one of two camps when it came to lemonade, but if she split the difference between tart and sweet, she’d probably come up with a winner. After all, it was the thought that counted anyway, right?

  Yes. I made you some lemonade. Please forgive my complete lack of social graces and oh, by the way, I’d love it if you’d take off your shirt while you work.

  Snappy sexual tension aside, she really needed to apologize and forget it. Her track record with all things male was abysmal on a good day. Carly didn’t have the time or energy to deal with anything that would sap her concentration from the restaurant, thus lessening her chances to move back to New York on the buzz of great success. If she got distracted and La Dolce Vita failed, she’d have no way to regain her good reputation. So, while Contractor Guy provided quite the view, as soon as she was done with the apology-and-lemonade thing, she was going to put her nose to the grindstone and get some work done.

  With the blinds drawn.

  Sighing, Carly filled the belly of a gallon-sized infusion jar with ice, then added the ingredients to come up with a not-too-tart, just-sweet-enough batch of lemonade. She tossed in some lemon slices for good measure and gave the whole thing one last swirl before locking the spigot so it wouldn’t all leak out. All that was left to do before embarking on her little peace offering mission was to exchange her T-shirt for one that wasn’t impersonating Swiss cheese.

  Except Contractor Guy had noticed her threadbare wonder earlier, enough to make a snarky comment about it. If she changed now, surely he’d notice that too, and the last thing she wanted was for him to think she’d changed because of his little remark. She glanced down at the garment in question, only to notice she’d managed to dribble coffee along the bottom hem at some point during the course of her morning.

  Lovely. She picked up the infusion jar with a grumble, heading toward the back of the house before she could change her mind.

  As soon as Carly peeked through the sliding glass door, she realized that walking through it wasn’t an option. In addition to the damaged board from yesterday, all of the railings the storm had left intact had been removed. The broken down railings and accompanying pickets littered the yard like discarded toothpicks, and power tools dotted the wreckage in a sprinkling of scary-looking machinery. Contractor Guy was down by the side yard, hauling a long beam of wood away from the house.

  Right. Time to put an OUT OF ORDER sign on the ol’ sliding glass door until further notice.

  Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves of the soaring oaks and poplar trees that lined the property as Carly made her way from the front door around to the side yard. Other than the obvious clamor from the demolition of the
old deck, it was terribly quiet out here. No sirens breaking through the flurry of activity on a busy street, no voices floating by from people going out for a bite to eat. The quiet weighed on her, pressing against her eardrums as if she were under water and sinking fast.

  “Hey. Just so you know, I’m behind you. I want to cover all my bases for personal safety.”

  Carly whirled around, only to find herself face-to-sternum with Mr. Fix-It.

  “Oh! You startled me. Again.” Damn! He must’ve made a whole loop around the house rather than doubling back as she’d expected.

  “Everyone’s good at something, I suppose.” He chuckled, a low rumble that managed to reach into her belly. He was close enough for her to catch the clean scent of soap mingling in with a masculine layer of sweat and freshly cut wood. All of Carly’s plans to play it cool took the hand basket route straight to hell.

  He gestured to the infusion jar awkwardly balanced on her hip. “Here, that looks kind of heavy. Do you want me to take it?”

  Carly nodded, and he slid the cumbersome jar from under her arm just as easily as if it were the daily mail. “Thanks.”

  “So, what is this?”

  She blinked and craned her neck to look up at him. Man, he must have eaten his veggies as a kid.

  “It’s lemonade.” Carly thrust out the glass she’d grabbed from the cupboard in an awkward peace offering.

  His good-natured laughter plucked all the way down her spine, and he took the cup with a lopsided grin. “No, I meant the jar thingy. I’m pretty familiar with lemonade.”

  Could she be any more graceless? “Oh, right. It’s, ah, called an infusion jar. See the spigot on the bottom there?” She pointed, and his muscles flexed as he turned the jar beneath his tree trunk of an arm to take a look.

  Holy. Moly.

  “Oh yeah! It’s kind of like the thing football players use to dump Gatorade on the coach after the Super Bowl. Only yours is smaller. And nicer.”

  Carly’s laugh escaped before she could temper it into a mere smile. “Yeah, it’s exactly like that. I figured you might be thirsty, and it’s less likely to spill than a pitcher, so . . .” She trailed off, clasping her hands in front of her and wiggling her thumbs.