Page 18 of Manors & Mischief

My handyman prospect grips the paper tighter. His face pinches. “Meeting with a client.”

She peers from me to him. Then him to me. Her gaze sweeping between the two of us with all the enthusiasm of Eeyore. “Oh, no. Ember. We don’t⁠—.”

“Mom,” a thick, rough voice says from behind her.

I peer around the mayor’s form to find Devon hanging back, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s wearing a blue and black plaid, fleece-lined jacket. Instead of his usual work jeans, he has on a pair of fresh ones. Not necessarily designer, but a pair that isn’t roughed up with work—paint splatters, tears, or faded colors.

Bea was right about one thing. He sure is handsome. He looks rugged and strong, like he could throw me over his shoulder. I don’t know why that attracts me, but it does.

Mrs. Lachey angles herself in front of me, trying to cut off my line of sight with Mr. Shue. She lowers her voice, using her eyes to motion toward my meeting partner. “We don’t…” She clears her throat. “…We don’t use folks from Heritage.”

“Donna,” Randy starts.

“It’s Mayor Lachey to you.”

I have to stop myself from grinning at that.

“Mayor Lachey. Miss O’Malley called me because she couldn’t find anyone who would help her do the work on Sleepy Hollow Manor.”

“Nonsense. Devon will do it.”

She peers back at her son. He snaps his jaw shut, the tips of his ears turning red. His face morphs into a scowl.

Well, this is as good a time as any to get Devon into trouble. Hopefully. “Actually, I tried to hire Devon but he didn’t want anything to do with it.”

Mrs. Lachey clutches her pearls. Literally. “Devon, why would you do that?”

“You know why.”

“No. Nope.” She shakes her head. “We are not letting contractors from Heritage waltz into our town and take our jobs.”

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask, lifting my brows at Devon who is certainly not enjoying this, but then returning my attention to the mayor.

“Well, yes. I do. Devon will help you.”

“I’m not helping her.”

“Well, Randy Shue certainly isn’t helping her.”

“Can I just…” Randy interrupts, peering around and eyeing everyone with disgust. “…give my client the proposal?”

“Well, how much is it?” Mrs. Lachey asks, tearing the paper out of his hand. She peers briefly down the paper and laughs. “This is too much money.” Then to me, she says, “This is ridiculous. Is there a Harvest Falls tax on here? Doubling the price just because you have to come to our town?”

I press my lips together as the two of them square off. If I disassociate and watch this like I’m watching a movie, it’s hilarious. If I remember that I’m actually front and center in all of this, it’s embarrassing. Anxiety-inducing, even.

“I’m sure it’s a decent and fair estimate,” Devon says. “Can we eat now?”

“We’re sure not going to do that while this man is trying to pull a fast one on our new neighbor, Ember.”

“Ember can take care of herself,” notes Devon.

“She can,” pipes up Bea. “But I’m sure she’d love some help.” She puts every ounce of innuendo in that sentence, and my face is suddenly as hot as the beach in August during a heat advisory.

I swallow the humiliation, choking it down.

“Devon will do the work,” Mayor Lachey says.

“I won’t.”