Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

Strong, capable fingers made deft work of the remaining strands, his hands dancing lightly over my collarbone, straying closer than was probably necessary to my br**sts. I held my breath as he continued, his body noticeably warm within the confined space. His cologne once more rose up in the air and swirled, making me drunk. Making me swoon. Making me sneeze.

“Achoo!” I blew, and hay flew.

In a romance novel, it would have been dainty and darling, a sneeze one could write sonnets about. In the life of Viv Franklin, it was powerful enough to scatter chickens.

His hands left my shoulders and he exited the barn.

I followed. “So, what exactly do you do here, Hank?”

“I take care of the animals,” he answered, striding toward his truck.

“Yeah, I got that. But is that like daily? Twice daily?” I asked, still hurrying after him. Ridiculous.

“Depends,” he said, swinging up into the cab. He was a man of few words. And pecs you could cut your teeth on. Yes, please.

“Depends?” I asked, slowing down and trying to recover a little bit of mystery, a little intrigue.

“Yeah, it depends. I’ll be back later today, going to ride Paula.”

Who was Paula, and how much could I kill her for getting to be ridden by Cowboy Hank?

“Paula?” I asked, my voice darkening.

“The mare. I took Paul out yesterday, so it’s Paula’s turn.”

“The horses’ names are Paul and Paula?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who the hell came up with those?”

“I did,” he replied, raising his own eyebrow. It was a strong eyebrow. I wondered what else he could raise with that eyebrow.

“Those are great names,” I whispered. “Really great.”

He just nodded his head and started the truck. “Stay out of the barn.”

Storming back into the house, I berated myself for turning “idjit” every time this sonofabitch was around. I was determined to make a better impression the next time. But for now, I had more important things to do.

I needed to call my mom.

“Well, it’s about time you checked in,” was her greeting.

I smiled, sinking down onto a green velvet love seat in the living room. I hadn’t had a chance to clean in here, so it answered with the appropriate dust puff.

“Sorry, Ma, I’ve been a little busy,” I started, knowing the response I was going to get.

“Busy, my foot, you’re never too busy to call your mother. If it wasn’t for your text letting me know you’d actually gotten there I’d have been a nervous wreck.”

“I’m good, Ma, everything is good. How’re things back home?” If I didn’t get her off the guilt train, we’d move to hand wringing and heart palpitations.

“Here? Oh the same as always, getting ready for the big bingo benefit at St. Gabe’s next weekend. Did I tell you we got Father Mike to agree to a new caller? I mean, everyone knows Father Mike has called bingo for years and years, but we thought this year we needed some new blood, so—”

As she prattled on about the St. Gabe politics, I tuned out a little bit, letting my eyes wander around the living room. On the opposite wall there was a grand fireplace, mahogany by the look of it, inset with green marble. I pulled myself off the love seat while my mother talked about Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. O’Halloran fighting over who made the best fish batter, and began wiping the grime from the mantel with a cloth. In the hearth was a beautiful old iron grate, in which Aunt Maude was storing her collection of Johnny Mathis records. As one does . . .

“So tell me, how’s the house?” she asked finally.

“It’s good. More cluttered than I remember, but it’s still good.”

“Aunt Kimberly mentioned that the last time she was out for a visit it had started to look a bit worse for wear. How bad is it?”

“It’s not great.” I sighed as a piece of the mantel came off in my hand. Oh, for the love of—

“Oh, boy. Do you want your father and me to come out?” she asked as I set the piece of the mantel against Johnny Mathis.

“No no, I’ve got this. It’s just more than I bargained for, I guess,” I replied, looking around at the amount of work that needed to be done. “What the hell was she thinking, leaving this to me? It makes no sense.” I slumped back into the love seat.

“It makes perfect sense, if you ask me,” my mother said.

“What do you mean?”

“Maude knew exactly what she was doing when she left this house to you. You’re the only one in the family who wouldn’t immediately sell it. Do you have any idea how much the land alone is worth? Oceanfront property in Mendocino?”

“Dad might have mentioned a few numbers,” I answered. Zeros upon zeros upon zeros. It was enough to make me dizzy.

My family lived in a part of town that was considered old money, blue blood money, with the occasional new money like us thrown in. We’d been solid middle class until my dad struck gold in computer technology. So while money was something we enjoyed, we also appreciated its value. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table one morning, one of my older brothers pestering my dad for an advance on his allowance to buy some new something or other. “It’s only a hundred dollars” was the phrase he used, and a phrase he will never forget. The tirade my father launched into about how we will never be the kind of people who say things like it’s only a hundred dollars became a family legend.