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Like Mama.
I could almost smell the salt of the ocean. It took three songs to take things apart, and I hummed happily through each one, blowing my hair out of my face as I worked. Then I heard the opening strains of Wellerman.
This one was my favorite. Raylan and I used sing it loud and proud while making dinner, and while Calvin would roll his eyes, I caught him mouthing along with the words, his sneaker tapping the floor. This song made me think not only of home, but of my brothers.
And of Mama.
I couldn’t hum this one. Nor could I belt it out lying down. The job was going fast—I’d be done well before the owner came home. So I cranked the music loud into my headphones and gripped my plumber’s wrench in my hand, turning it into a microphone.
I was so ebulliently distracted that it wasn’t until I spun around to sing the last line of the song a few minutes later that I saw the person in the mirror.
Fear ripped through me like lightning.
It was a monstrous-looking man—over six feet tall at least, with a wild beard and shaggy hair, wearing nothing but a black robe. And his eyes—his eyes. They were as furious as a riled ocean, and deep sea green like it too. And they were fixated on me.
I yanked out my headphones, a scream crawling up my throat.
But his voice beat mine. “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
The low, raspy timbre of his voice wrapped itself around something deep inside of me, sparking the fear to a flame.
I couldn’t help it, I opened my mouth and screamed like a wild animal.
Then, using all my strength, I hurled the wrench directly at him.
Chapter 2
Mitchell
On instinct, I leaned sideways when the woman let go of the wrench. And thank Christ, because she had an arm on her. The metal tool whirred in the air as it sailed past me, then cracked hard against the marble wall next to my head.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I exclaimed, my heart thudding. “You could have killed me!”
But the woman, who couldn’t have been much more than five feet, had gone white as a ghost. She was shaking, her arms tense at her sides, fists up. “Stay away from me!” she yelled, her voice surprisingly loud in the enclosed space.
Fuck. She thought I was going to hurt her. I’d wanted to alarm her—it’s why I barged in here. I’d been pissed to discover someone in my house when I’d specifically instructed Sal I was not to be disturbed before noon. Over the six months I’d been here I’d learned it was the only way I could hope to get out a few pages on this godforsaken project. But the woman had been bopping her head to music I couldn’t hear, and I’d been so shocked to see someone so… pretty—dancing around in my bathroom that for a moment I hadn’t been able to move. But her little chin and upturned nose were incongruent with the dirt streaked across her cheek and baggy coveralls she had rolled up her forearms. But now, the woman’s striking sapphire eyes were so wide I could see the whites on all sides.
She was terrified.
My anger shifted to Sal, for going against my direct orders. And to myself, for being a fucking dick, as usual.
I held my hands out. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You just back out slowly,” she said, her voice tight. Then, not taking her eyes off me, she fumbled around in that toolbox. She was scared, but not helpless.
“Don’t—” I began, but she’d already reared her arm back.
This time I caught the thing with a slap to my palm. I looked over to see I’d caught a large metal flashlight.
Her eyes were somehow even wider.
“I live here,” I said, trying to keep the anger from my voice. “You’re in my home.” That bit came out in a snarl. Fuck. I lowered the flashlight onto the counter next to the sink.
Then I saw my own reflection. I knew I’d let myself go. I was here for a solitary artistic pursuit. What the fuck did it matter how I looked? But I hadn’t exactly examined myself in the mirror recently.
No wonder the woman was scared for her life.
When I looked back at her, her chin was trembling. She’d given up on anger. She was going to cry. My chest squeezed painfully.
