CHAPTER 2
Melinda
The booming sound coming from downstairs causes me to sit straight up on the mattress that is placed in the middle of the master bedroom floor. I’ve yet to get a good night’s sleep because there’s a damn train that runs parallel to the town. It’s just two blocks over from the Mainer House, and it feels the need to blow its whistle around two AM each morning. This isn’t that big of a deal to most of the residents of the small town of Whynot, but to me… it chafes just a little because, well… I love my sleep.
I’ve been assured by the nice lady who runs Sweet Cakes, the bakery right across the street from Mainer House, that I’ll get used to it, but I seriously doubt it. Even the noise of New York City never penetrated my sleep the way a train whistle does, and I get a totally empathetic look from her when I stagger in for some coffee and a cheese Danish each morning.
I think I’ve slipped into a pattern at night where I now anticipate being woken up by that stupid train, so I’m not even able to get into good REM sleep. It’s probably why I shot straight up in bed at the banging that’s going on downstairs, although I can’t quite pinpoint from where it’s coming. A glance at the alarm clock sitting on the floor shows it’s 5:30 AM. It’s still dark outside, and I’m slightly—okay, greatly—confused. I struggle to process since it’s been almost two weeks since I came to Whynot and I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep since then.
Then it penetrates… someone’s at my front door.
Banging.
At 5:30 AM.
Immediate anger flows through my veins, heating me up from within. Without any further consternation, I know it’s Lowe Mancinkus causing all that noise. It must be him because there’s no one else in the entire world who has ever been such a thorn in my side.
Flipping the blanket back, I roll off the mattress and wince as my knees hit the floor. Almost three decades of sleeping on a mattress, box spring, and a frame, and I can’t get used to being only a few inches off the floor. I’ve held off on buying any furniture for the house until the remodeling is complete.
Pushing first to my hands and knees, I manage to lurch upright and stagger out of the bedroom. Down the rotund, sweeping staircase to the main floor. I don’t even bother to look out the leaded glass panels on either side of the heavy wooden door—so convinced I am that it’s Lowe on the other side—that I fling it open without an ounce of worry.
“What in the holy hell are you doing?” I snarl as the breeze generated from the doorway swinging open so fast actually blows my hair back.
Lowe stands there in mid-bang, fist raised high and a diabolical glitter to his eyes. His eyes lock onto mine for just a moment before they drop and casually run down the length of my frame. I look down at myself and cringe as I realize I’m still in my pajamas, which in the sweltering South consists of a cotton tank top and sleep shorts that are really short. My hand falls from the doorknob, and I cross my arms over my chest as Lowe looks back up at me.
And why does he have to be so damned gorgeous? In ordinary circumstances, this man pushes all my girlie buttons. Tall, just enough muscle to be strong but not freakish, and that dark chocolate hair with bright hazel eyes that are every woman’s fantasy. I always have to remind myself he’s a nasty SOB who I wouldn’t give the time of day to… in ordinary circumstances, that is.
“I’m here to start work,” he says casually as he pushes past me into the main foyer.
“It’s five-freaking-thirty in the morning,” I grit out, not moving from the open doorway. I expect him to be walking right back out again.
Instead, he ignores me and moves down a wide hall beside the staircase that goes to the kitchen. With a growl of frustration, I slam the door shut and then stomp off after him. “It’s completely rude to show up here at this hour.”
He doesn’t respond and as I turn the corner into the kitchen, I find him rummaging through the cupboards. “Where’s the coffee?”
“I don’t have any,” I snap at his backside since he hasn’t bothered to give me a second glance since he barged in. “And I don’t like you ignoring me any more than I like you barging into my house.”
“Get some decent clothes on, and I wouldn’t be forced to look through your cupboards for nonexistent coffee,” he replies calmly, moving onto the next cabinet even though I’ve told him I have no coffee.
In fact, I have hardly anything at all here. A mattress, pillow, sheets, and blanket in the bedroom, some orange juice in the fridge, and towels in the master bathroom. Those are the only creature comforts at this point, and they’re enough to get me through the remodeling. I’ve been eating out almost every meal and this is not a hardship as that’s pretty much what I do when I’m back home in New York. One, however, can only eat so many grits and collards, although I’ll take them over fatback and pickled pigs feet any day.
“I would like to remind you…” I say in a voice that comes off far too rancid and nowhere in control. “That this is my house. I can wear whatever I like to bed, with the assumption I won’t have visitors until a decent hour.”
“I’m not a visitor,” he points out, back still to me. “But because you couldn’t take a little joke and had to run crying to Judge Bowe, I now have to work for you. I also have to keep my own business running, which means I have to work early and late. You need to suck it up, buttercup. This is your life for the next few months.”
“I wouldn’t have had to go to the judge if you’d just fixed the damage you did to this house in a normal freaking way. Neon pink is not an acceptable color for a historic home.”
“What do you care?” he says as he spins on me. “You’re just in this to make a buck.”
I open my mouth to retort he has no clue what my reasons for caring are, but I get sidetracked by the way Lowe’s eyes travel down my body again.
“Stop ogling me,” I snap at him and his eyes come back up to mine slowly, taking his sweet time.
He gives me a grim smile and rumbles, “I’m a dude. If you dress like that around me, I’m going to look.”
My entire body flushes hot from embarrassment, and well… from something else I dare not even give a voice to. He stares at me with challenge, hoping to cow me in my own home. I know if I scurry off, he’ll have won this battle. But there’s no way I’m ever going to let him win.
He made this personal.
Not when he brandished a shotgun or boarded up the doors and windows. That I could understand and ultimately forgive once I realized it was his family’s home. But the minute that jackass painted a portion of the house neon pink, it became a war.
Lifting my chin and dropping my arms I just realized I had involuntarily crossed over my chest again, I stare him down in challenge. “If you come uninvited into my home, you’re going to just have to deal with me the way I am.”
I hope he understands I’m not talking about the way I dress but in how much cooperation he’ll get from me going forward.
He doesn’t take the bait, though. Nor does he ogle me further. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders as if I’m nothing and leans against the counter. Hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, he crosses one leg over the other and says, “What project do you want me to work on first?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked,” I say sarcastically, then jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I want you to work on the project entitled ‘get the hell out of my house and don’t come back until at least eight AM’.”
“Yeah, that project doesn’t work for me,” he says in a bored voice and I swear… I have a brief moment where I think I could cheerfully strangle him, cut his body up into little pieces, and throw it in the creek that runs behind my house.
Of interest, people around here call it a “crick”. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, but finally figured out they were referencing the small stream that meanders across the back property line of Mainer House.
“Well, maybe we should see if Judge Bowe thinks it’s reasonable for you to show up at this ungodly hour to my house,” I retort.
“Putting an emphasis on the word ‘my’ doesn’t make it any more your house, you know,” he says blandly, and I know he’s talking in a metaphorical sense.
“It’s definitely not your house,” I taunt him—in a literal sense—and that strikes a chord. His jaw starts ticking, and I want to do a victory dance.
We stare at each other, flinging razor blades, grenades, and arrows in our mutually loathing stares. Finally, Lowe says thoughtfully, “Maybe you should bring this before Judge Bowe.”
I pull my chin in and look at him with suspicion. “Why?”
“Because he’d throw your pretty butt in jail for forty days and I wouldn’t have to deal with you,” he snarls, coming off the counter in one sleek move that makes me think of a panther stalking his prey. I take a step back and come against the wall, but that doesn’t stop his momentum.
Lowe Mancinkus—all six-foot of him if I had to take an educated guess—walks right into my personal space and glares down at me as he puts one palm flat on the wall beside my head. He’s not caging me in, but he is demanding my attention.
“Now, the way I see it,” he says softly. “You can accept this is the way it’s going to be and direct me on what you want me to do. The sooner you do this, the sooner I can get the work done and we can part ways. Or you can be a brat and go cry to the judge. I’ll be sure to visit you in jail, but I won’t bring you a nail file to escape. Your choice. What’s it going to be?”
My breath seems stalled within my lungs, mainly because all I can think about is how great he smells. Freshly showered, woodsy, spicy and…
I lick my lips, try to swallow past the sandpaper coating my throat, and manage to say, “I’m not a brat.”
His head drops, bringing his face to within inches of mine and is it my imagination, or does he inhale as if he’s trying to smell me? That rough, rumbling voice actually makes me weak in the knees. “All evidence to the contrary, but how about you prove me wrong? Tell me what you want me to do today and I’ll get started.”
“Cabinets,” I mutter, resisting the urge to either push him away from me or grab him around the neck and kiss him.
“What about the cabinets?” he asks. His own voice has dropped low and has a sexy roll to it.
Ugh. He’s doing that on purpose, and I’m still reactive to it.
With a burst of adrenaline, I dip below his arm and take three steps away, clearing my voice. “I’m replacing all the cabinets in the kitchen. You can remove them this morning and cart them off. Of course, I’d like you to leave the section in that holds the sink so I can continue to use it until the new cabinetry and counters get here.”
Lowe straightened the minute I escaped, looking almost disappointed that I put distance between us. But his face smooths out as he asks in that frustratingly impassive voice. “Do you care if I keep the cabinets?”
I blink at him in surprise even as I’m shaking my head. “No. Why?”
“I’ll refurbish them, then donate them to someone who needs them,” he says without a hint of emotion.
I don’t like that. I don’t like knowing Lowe Mancinkus has a soft side for people. I don’t like it because it endears him to me, and I’m completely fine with just hating him.
So, I just shrug… give him a taste of my own indifference. “I don’t care what you do with them. And please keep it quiet. I’m going to try to get more sleep.”
“You want me to demolish cabinets quietly?” he asks with more than enough sarcasm to last me an eternity.
“I want you to leave, but if you have to stay, then yes, I want you to be quiet,” I tell him.
“I’ll try,” he says with a wink that says he won’t try at all, but also comes off as a little bit charming.
“Thank you,” I snap, refusing to get drawn into his mischief.
Lowe moves past me into the hallway. I don’t ask what he’s doing, nor do I care.
With a sigh, I trudge to the staircase, intent on getting a quick shower in. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be quiet, and besides… I couldn’t go back to sleep now if I tried because he’s got me so annoyed.