Page 7 of Something Borrowed

“I’m sorry I used the word ‘shit’ when I was speaking to you earlier, ma’am. It wasn’t very professional.”

Audra sniffed. “That’s really the least of your problems when it comes to professionalism.”

The man shook his head and strode out.

All of Vic’s other shoes were currently stored in the big boot room at the back of the house. She had no choice but to slip her Legacy stilettos back on. Then she slid on the sweater coat she’d worn to the Second Chance shop.

Anxious and certain she was about to be chastised for letting Audra be so rude and that he’d inform her they were on their own for other house repairs going forward, Vic followed the man to his awaiting van.

Chapter 5

Cal opened the van’s sliding side door and stalled for time by fiddling with junk on the floor, pretending he needed to make room for his gear. The toolbox was overkill for this small job, but he’d learned a long time ago that it was less annoying to come to a task fully prepared than to have to trudge back and forth to the van a hundred times for tools he hadn’t thought he’d need.

He was very aware of the petite woman standing behind him. Even in those killer heels, she was what? 5’5, 5’6? He wasn’t the kind of guy who spent time reliving his teens. For one, they were about a hundred years ago. Okay, not quite—but almost four decades felt like a century. For two, they’d never been his glory days. Still, something silly from those years came back to him now. City. It was a word he and his friends had used as a compliment for any girl or woman they deemed too beautiful or polished or interesting for their one-hick town. As in, wow, she’s city. He didn’t remember why they’d adopted the phrase, just that they had, and it came to him now. Vic was city. Definitely city.

His dumbass words from inside came back to him. I thought Vic was here. I need to speak with him.

Now it seemed so obvious. Vic was an androgynous name, as equally likely to be the short form of a feminine name as a masculine one. Why had he automatically assumed it would be a man arranging home repairs? Was he the sexist Melanie had always accused him of being? Vic must think he was an absolute clod.

“Um,” a hesitant voice came from behind him. “Did you say you needed to talk to me?”

Cal gave himself a mental shake. What was wrong with him? He pushed the toolbox into its spot and turned to face Vic.

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Cal. Cal Anderson. Hire a Handyman. You’re Vic.” Cal’s face exploded with heat. Normally he considered himself, if not eloquent, at least capable of speaking in compound sentences. He might as well have introduced himself as Tarzan.

Definitely-not-male Vic smiled up at him. (Those breasts! Curse her awful mother for pointing them out, but the woman wasn’t wrong. The long sweater coat thing Vic wore clung cozily. Very cozily.) Even more distracting than some of her other features, however, were her eyes. In contrast with her tentative smile, they were big and brown and full of pensive shadows. (Pensive shadows? Who was he? Some character from a Jane Austen novel?)

“Yes, that’s right. Short for Victoria, not Victor.” Her smile fell away so quickly that Cal wondered briefly if he’d imagined it in the first place. The sadness in her eyes deepened. No imagining that. “I’m sorry about—” Vic bit her lip and motioned back toward the house. “My mother.”

“She’s, uh . . .” Cal was at a loss for words, wanting to be honest, but not hurtful.

“Awful? Terrible? Rude? Mean?” Blotches of color rose on Vic’s cheeks and neck as if she hadn’t meant to blurt all that. “Anyway, I’m very grateful you could come. Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

Cal named his price minus the pain-in-the-butt tax he’d originally planned to add after tangling with Vic’s mom. “Carrie, my . . . assistant, will invoice you sometime next week. You can pay by credit card or eTransfer.”

“Great, thanks.” A tiny crease appeared between Vic’s brows. It was cute. “Is that all?”

Right. He’d asked her to “talk” outside. That implied more than a one-liner about billing. “I was careful with your old toilet and tried gentle, consistent plunging first. Then, when that didn’t work, I used the toilet auger. It’s designed specifically to avoid scratching the porcelain bowl, but sometimes even with the most careful work, old pipes crack or break, especially if there’s already some corrosion.”

Vic nodded.

Cal groaned inwardly. What was he doing? Telling her that he’d damaged her pipes? What was she supposed to say to that?

“Also, I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but the grout on the tiles in that bathroom needs resealing, and I noticed the window doesn’t close all the way. Must lose a ton of heat out of that room in the winter.” He held up his hands like she’d already accused him of something. “I’m not making things up to get work from you or anything. I swear.”

Vic’s sheet of shiny hair swayed as she shook her head. “I know you aren’t,” she said urgently. “I’m not my mother.”

“Says every woman.” Cal meant the comment as a joke but regretted the words immediately when he saw how they landed. Vic visibly winced and took a step back.

“There are quite a few repairs that should be done sooner rather than later,” she said apologetically, as if she was worried that asking a person who literally fixed things for his livelihood was somehow inappropriate. “Is there any chance you’re available?”

It was Cal’s turn to sound apologetic. “November and early December are pretty booked up, unfortunately.”

Vic sighed and nodded as if she’d expected to hear as much. “Well, thanks again.” She took a step toward the house as if that was that.

“But if you can wait until mid-December, I could probably fit a few things in—and then I can make your work a priority in January till you’re satisfied.”

“Oh, that would be great. I’m not in a rush. They’ve waited this long, after all. Thank you.”