He had to contact his parole officer soon and have an acceptable alternative, or he’d find himself back in his cell.
Whatever Erin Parrish was thinking, she was a hard worker who made good progress scraping the siding while he continued beating back the jungle. When he finished, he returned to find her standing high on the ladder, stretching as far as she could to reach a spot beneath the eaves.
“What should I do with the piles of stuff I cut?” he asked.
Turning too quickly, she lurched. He lunged forward and grabbed the ladder to steady it.
Gripping the ladder herself, she blew out a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”
Despite a temperature that was likely in the midsixties, he’d worked up a sweat, and saw that she had, too. Damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and she wiped her forehead with her forearm. Flakes of white paint looked like confetti in her hair and on her shoulders.
“I have no idea,” she admitted after a minute. “I noticed when I put out my garbage can that a couple of neighbors had big green ones, too. I wonder if they’re for yard waste? I’ll call the company and find out. Otherwise, I might need to get a Dumpster of some kind. I think it’s possible to rent one.”
“You might need both. There’ll be nails in what I tear off the house. Some of that wood’s been treated or painted, too. It can’t go in yard waste.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Why don’t you come down? I’ll deal with what’s up there, above your reach.”
She looked mulish. “I’m doing okay.”
“I’m taller and I have longer arms.” And if she fell and was injured, he’d be up shit creek. How could he ask for his pay while she was being loaded in the ambulance?
“Oh, fine.” She climbed down with extra care.
Cole saw that she was trembling, and it couldn’t be from cold. Suddenly angry, he said, “You’re exhausted.”
She glared at him. “I can keep working.”
He plucked the scraper out of her hand. “You’ve done enough for one day.”
“It’s none of your business if I want—”
Something froze inside him. He set the scraper down on a ladder rung and stepped back. “You’re right.”
He’d started to walk away when she said, “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”
Stupid? Cole turned around. He thought it was shame that colored her cheeks.
“I don’t have much upper body strength,” she admitted. “It’s been a while since—” She broke off. “I don’t like feeling useless, but you’re right. I’ve reached my limit.”
He didn’t dare say anything.
Her eyes shied away from his. “I’ll go in and call the garbage company. And look at the paint samples. Um, if you’d like to stay for dinner—”
He shook his head.
“Well, then…”
“I can get a couple more hours in.”
She backed away. “Okay. Thank you. Don’t take off without knocking. I’ll pay you as we go. Cash for now, unless you’d rather have a check—”
“I don’t have a bank account yet.”
She nodded and disappeared around the corner of the house. A minute later, he heard the front door close.
Cole shifted the ladder and started in where she’d left off.
* * *
ERIN DIDN’T SLEEP any better than she had the night before, or any other night in months. This was different only because she had something new to think about.
Someone.
Cole Meacham disturbed her.
The irony was, she could hardly bear being around people who wanted any kind of normal interaction with her. Whether it was chatting about nothing or an exchange of deeply personal information, either had her longing for escape. Cole asked for neither. He seemed to have no more interest in chatting than she did. Less. He answered questions as briefly as possible, and sometimes she sensed him struggling to pull a response from somewhere deep inside him, as if he’d forgotten how to make conversation.
That was fine with her. He was a day laborer, that was all. She hoped she was helping him out, as he was helping her. And maybe her self-consciousness around him, her constant awareness of him, was only because of his history. As far as she knew, she’d never met anyone who had served a term in prison, or if she had, they hadn’t looked the part as completely as he did.