of it. Embarrassed again, she glanced down and remembered she was wearing dirty, torn jeans and an ancient T-shirt cut off at the midriff. Well, looky here, she was already dressing the part of Bubble Wrap Queen. The only thing missing was the double-wide.
Not that Handy Andy seemed to notice. But then again, he was probably used to the trailer-park look. As he continued to brush away years of paint, Robin noticed that he had a very muscular arm. An Atlas arm, one of those you see in commercials holding up the world and babies in tires. An Atlas arm that was connected to an Atlas torso, and—
She abruptly turned away, appalled that, in spite of her total misery, she was ogling a workman in her house. Not good. Actually, pretty bad.
She stalked to the dining room, remembered the spilled coffee. A roll of paper towels later, she reminded herself she was starving, and marched to her kitchen and flung open the fridge. Like she was going to find anything there, other than a pack of AA batteries, two containers of yogurt, and a jar of crushed garlic. Ugh. She slammed that door, opened the pantry door. A box of spaghetti she figured dated to World War II, some oil, and one can of stewed tomatoes.
As the food supply wasn't looking too good, she moved to the next cabinet with the pullout wine rack, which usually held several bottles of wine. Except there were none, and Robin vaguely remembered polishing off the last couple of bottles a couple of weeks ago when Mia was fighting with Michael. There was, however, a bottle of vodka, which of course she didn't remember acquiring. Nonetheless, she took the bottle out of the cabinet and returned to the fridge hoping she had overlooked some cranberry juice. Naturally, she had not. “Damn,” she exclaimed with great irritation, her voice echoing off the bare walls and floor.
“What's that?” El Contractordodo said from the dining room.
Robin took two steps back, looked at him through the arched doorway. He was wiping his hands on a dirty towel, looking pretty damn virile. “Oh, don't mind me. I'm just expiring over here with no food, one lousy bottle of vodka, and nothing to mix it with.”
He actually laughed at that, the same warm laugh she had heard on the phone when they had discussed her renovations, which, upon sudden reflection, seemed like fifteen centuries ago. “You expire? No way could I be that lucky,” he said, still smiling.
Robin sighed. “Okay, look. I know you must think I am a grade-A fruitcake, but I'm not usually so… so…”
“So much trouble?” he finished for her.
Her eyes narrowed.
Hammerman brandished a charmingly lopsided, infectious smile, and Robin could feel a smile of her own spreading across her lips for the first time that day. “Oh great— you do think I am a complete nutcase!”
“No, I do not think you are a complete nutcase. No more than three-quarters.”
Robin couldn't help it—she laughed in spite of herself. “Well, I'm sure you've heard enough by now to know why, Mr. Manning.”
“Hey, call me Jake,” he said affably, dropped the towel, and put his hands on his hips to better consider her. “And for what it is worth, I figure there's a good explanation for everything.”
“Really?” she asked hopefully.
Jake Manning frowned and shook his head. “No. Not really.” With a chuckle, he went down on his (very fine) haunches, opened up his backpack, and extracted a soda.
Robin realized she was checking him out yet again and quickly looked at the bottle of vodka she held. Yeah well, he really was a very handsome man in a worker-guy sort of way. She looked up as he took a big swig of his soda.
“ Code Red Mountain Dew,” he said. “Good for what ails you and a perfect complement to any meal.”
“You actually drink that stuff?” she asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Sure; it's pretty good.” His cell phone rang; he put the plastic bottle on the table and wrestled the phone off his belt.
Robin looked at her
Not that Handy Andy seemed to notice. But then again, he was probably used to the trailer-park look. As he continued to brush away years of paint, Robin noticed that he had a very muscular arm. An Atlas arm, one of those you see in commercials holding up the world and babies in tires. An Atlas arm that was connected to an Atlas torso, and—
She abruptly turned away, appalled that, in spite of her total misery, she was ogling a workman in her house. Not good. Actually, pretty bad.
She stalked to the dining room, remembered the spilled coffee. A roll of paper towels later, she reminded herself she was starving, and marched to her kitchen and flung open the fridge. Like she was going to find anything there, other than a pack of AA batteries, two containers of yogurt, and a jar of crushed garlic. Ugh. She slammed that door, opened the pantry door. A box of spaghetti she figured dated to World War II, some oil, and one can of stewed tomatoes.
As the food supply wasn't looking too good, she moved to the next cabinet with the pullout wine rack, which usually held several bottles of wine. Except there were none, and Robin vaguely remembered polishing off the last couple of bottles a couple of weeks ago when Mia was fighting with Michael. There was, however, a bottle of vodka, which of course she didn't remember acquiring. Nonetheless, she took the bottle out of the cabinet and returned to the fridge hoping she had overlooked some cranberry juice. Naturally, she had not. “Damn,” she exclaimed with great irritation, her voice echoing off the bare walls and floor.
“What's that?” El Contractordodo said from the dining room.
Robin took two steps back, looked at him through the arched doorway. He was wiping his hands on a dirty towel, looking pretty damn virile. “Oh, don't mind me. I'm just expiring over here with no food, one lousy bottle of vodka, and nothing to mix it with.”
He actually laughed at that, the same warm laugh she had heard on the phone when they had discussed her renovations, which, upon sudden reflection, seemed like fifteen centuries ago. “You expire? No way could I be that lucky,” he said, still smiling.
Robin sighed. “Okay, look. I know you must think I am a grade-A fruitcake, but I'm not usually so… so…”
“So much trouble?” he finished for her.
Her eyes narrowed.
Hammerman brandished a charmingly lopsided, infectious smile, and Robin could feel a smile of her own spreading across her lips for the first time that day. “Oh great— you do think I am a complete nutcase!”
“No, I do not think you are a complete nutcase. No more than three-quarters.”
Robin couldn't help it—she laughed in spite of herself. “Well, I'm sure you've heard enough by now to know why, Mr. Manning.”
“Hey, call me Jake,” he said affably, dropped the towel, and put his hands on his hips to better consider her. “And for what it is worth, I figure there's a good explanation for everything.”
“Really?” she asked hopefully.
Jake Manning frowned and shook his head. “No. Not really.” With a chuckle, he went down on his (very fine) haunches, opened up his backpack, and extracted a soda.
Robin realized she was checking him out yet again and quickly looked at the bottle of vodka she held. Yeah well, he really was a very handsome man in a worker-guy sort of way. She looked up as he took a big swig of his soda.
“ Code Red Mountain Dew,” he said. “Good for what ails you and a perfect complement to any meal.”
“You actually drink that stuff?” she asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Sure; it's pretty good.” His cell phone rang; he put the plastic bottle on the table and wrestled the phone off his belt.
Robin looked at her
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