Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [40]
An accidental look in the mirror showed me that my new hair tamer (which cost fifty bucks a bottle) clocked out after 1:00 a.m., which was when I went to bed the night before. So if in fact Angus was saving my life and our photo did appear on the front page of the paper, I’d better do something about that hair before rushing out into the flames. I grabbed an elastic, slapped my hair into a ponytail and felt the door. Cool. Opening it a crack, I smelled no smoke. Drat. There went my chance at meeting a hot fireman who would carry me out of the flames as if I were made of spun sugar. Still, I guessed it was a good thing that my house wasn’t going up in flames.
Angus flew down the stairs like a bullet, doing his trademark Dance of the Visitor at the front door, leaping straight up so that all four paws came off the floor. Oh, yes. Today was Bull Run, and Margaret was coming along. Apparently she felt the need to rise early, but I needed coffee before I could kill any Johnny Rebs. Or was I killing Bluebellies today?
Scooping up Angus, I opened the door. “Hi, Margaret,” I mumbled, squinting at the light.
Callahan O’Shea stood on my porch. “Don’t hurt me,” he said.
The bruise around his eye had faded considerably, still there, but yellow and brown had replaced the livid purple. His eyes were blue, I noted, and the kind that turned down at the corners, making him look a little…sad. Soulful. Sexy. He wore a faded red T-shirt and jeans, and there it was again, that annoying twinge of attraction.
“So. Here to sue me?” I asked. Angus barked—Yarp!—from my arms.
He smiled, and the twinge became more of a wrench.
“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