Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ she raced upstairs, slamming every door. To the office. To their apartment. To her room.

      The rafters above Joe shook when she flopped on her bed, showering him in dust.

      This was his life now. He had to be grateful. He and Sam. They were together.

      It could have been worse.

      Though it was hard to think of worse when you’d hit rock bottom.

      * * *

      “DIDN’T YOU CLEAN enough for one day?” Grandpa Phil stomped into the kitchen, a grumpy expression on his face.

      Brit stopped scrubbing the refrigerator shelf she had in the sink and glared at him. “I should have taken one look at your kitchen and left.” When she’d moved into his little house days ago, she’d been too tired to register the degree of kitchen filth and had been too busy settling in to do anything about it.

      Phil shrugged. “I’m not as fastidious as your grandmother.” Who’d divorced him twenty years or so ago.

      “I was considering sleeping in my car and renting a port-a-potty.” Or bedding down in the back room at the barbershop. Her arms ached from scrubbing. Now she understood why her family had stayed with Grandmother Leona the few times they came to visit. “You can’t let things go like this. Here, it’s not healthy. And at the shop... You can bet we’ll get a surprise inspection by the state board. We have to keep things clean.”

      “The state board isn’t coming here.” He mini-stumbled on a loose square of linoleum, catching himself with a hand to the door frame before she could reach him.

      “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

      He shuddered to his full height, nearly six feet. “I’m fine. I could stand here all night.” He listed to one side a few inches and gripped the door frame tighter. “When I agreed to let you stay, I didn’t think you’d want to clean and decorate and change everything here. I’m single for a reason.”

      “Because you like to live in squalor?” Brit deadpanned.

      He made a rumbling noise like an old hound dog when roused from its nap by an intruder.

      “No offense, Grandpa—” Brit patted his shoulder “—but I’m too busy to catch every germ you’ve deposited in this house in the past two decades.”

      “I can see I’ll have no peace in my home from now on.” He lifted his face to the ceiling, practically howling with displeasure. “Or in the shop. I’ve operated my business since the country’s bicentennial. Forty years and no complaints or citations.” He stomped into the living room in that unsteady, endearing way of his. “It says Phil’s on the window, you know.”

      “I’m sorry you’re upset.” She left the shelf dripping in the sink and followed him.

      The living room was torturous to her artistic sensibilities—plain white walls, a stained and lumpy tan couch, a scratched oak coffee table. No knickknacks on the mantel. No pictures on the walls. No personality. Nothing he’d regret leaving behind if Leona wanted him back tomorrow.

      “I’m not upset.”

      He was. And she thought she knew why. “You know, I didn’t come here to take over for you.”

      Just as Phil reached the couch, he spun and dropped in a heap of scarecrow-like limbs that sent coils squeaking. “That’s not what the ladies in town think.”

      Holy wet set. “They’re wrong.”

      “Not usually.” He jabbed the remote in the direction of his boxy old television. It came on loud enough to end the conversation.

      Demoralized, Brit returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t moved here intent on building a thriving business or forcing Grandpa into retirement. She returned the shelf to the near-empty refrigerator, put away the cleaning supplies and thought about how she’d feel if someone came into her business—into her home—and began changing things.

      She walked back to the living room, took the remote from Grandpa and muted the television. “I’m sorry I took down the beer mirror.” Not sorry enough to put it back up; just sorry that Grandpa Phil was bent out of shape. “I’m sorry I went through your cabinets and cleaned the place up.” Despite it being long overdue. “And I’m especially sorry that women in town are excited to have a female hairstylist.” Because that meant less time to devote to her art.

      Her hobby. Arts and crafts.

      The terms slid beneath her skin like barbed fishhooks, snagging her pride, dragging down her confidence. What if Keira was a fluke? Everyone loved her, but plenty of artists were one-hit wonders.

      Grandpa Phil gave a full-body huff. “You know how women are—wanting a shampoo and comb out once a week. Word will get out. This is just the beginning. You’re going to be busy.”

      “Phil’s is an institution in town,” she soothed, sitting next to him, flattening the sofa’s worn, noisy springs. “I’m not trying to replace you. Heck, I’d be happier poking through these women’s garages than through their hair.”

      Phil perked up at that. “I know people in town who’d love to get rid of their junk.”

      “Great. Hopefully, they want to give it away.” Her operating budget was nil. She was going to have to put her beauty supplies on credit tomorrow when she drove down to Santa Rosa. “Donations accepted.”

      “Duly noted. Now...” Smiling, he patted her knee. “What’s for dinner? I’ve been living on frozen burritos and cereal.”

      “Dinner is whatever Grandmother Leona is making.” Brit watched his wrinkled smile fade. “I’m sorry. I’ve been summoned.”

      “It’s okay.” Phil took back the remote. “I like frozen burritos and cereal.”

      * * *

      THE MOTORCYCLE WAS RETURNING.

      Joe had completed a first pass at cleaning the garage, the first of many it’d need. He’d just plugged in the battery charger and hooked it up to the tow truck when the put-put cycle came to a stop in the lot outside the garage.

      “Hey, there.” The rider was too big for the motorcycle, too old and too misguided. He’d stuffed himself into bright red riding leathers that looked two sizes too small. It might have explained his stiff gait. “I heard the garage was reopening. I’m Irwin Orowitz. Barbara here could use a tune-up.” Irwin gestured to his very small, very sedate motorcycle.

      It wasn’t a “hog.” It wasn’t even the kind of bike you named. Brittany’s mermaid sculpture was more deserving of that honor. It was the kind of motorcycle “real” bikers made fun of with terms like scooter or two-wheeled hearse, because the rider seldom knew what they were doing. But Joe couldn’t afford to joke with what might be a paying customer.

      As Joe was in the process of swallowing his opinions and putting on his best customer-service expression—if not to smile, then at least not to scowl—Irwin hitched up his too-tight, too-short pants.

      This was proof. There was a hell. And Joe had fallen into it.

      “Um...” СКАЧАТЬ