Despite my concerns, she’s dressed, though not in scrubs. The yoga pants and sports hoodie give her full coverage, but they cling to her in a way I know I’ll be seeing again in my masochistic mind.
Disgust with myself leaves me scowling. I need to think of something else. I pull my eyes away from her to see a sleepy looking Emmett coming up behind her. He’s practically dragging a backpack behind him the thing is slung so low over his shoulder. “Off to school?” I ask him.
He just glares at me. The kid looks grumpier than I feel. My eyes flick to Millie. She lifts her brows as if to say,tell me about it.
“Case of the Mondays,” she says under her breath. Her tone is light, but the look in her eyes is anything but. She’s been here before. Too many times.
“Why do I have to go to school when you get to stay home?” Emmett drones.
She turns to him, and I watch her inhale through her nose, gathering herself, the line of her jaw tense. “Come on, Bud. You already know the answer to that.” She tilts her head toward their SUV parked in the open garage. “Let’s get in the car. We don’t want to be late.”
“Don’t care if I’m late,” Emmett mutters, but at least he moves. Sort of. His feet drag like they’re weighted.
Millie brings her gaze back to me, and I don’t miss the hint of embarrassment in it. “Harry and Mattie already caught the bus. No one’s inside except Clarence,” she says, nodding toward the house. “But I put him in my room in case your guys don’t like dogs.”
I shake my head. “Not a concern. They can deal. We work in your home, not the other way around,” I say, echoing a message my guys have heard me say a thousand times. House rules come first. You don’t like a homeowner’s dog, cat, music, mother-in-law, soap opera, you keep it to yourself and keep working.
The side of Millie’s mouth curves up. “Good to know. Anyway, I’m off today. Heading to the gym, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. The kitchen door is open,” she says, pointing to the garage.
I watch her go, reminding myself—a little late—of my Daily Three: Training, Communication, and Professionalism.
“Professionalism,” I say aloud as soon as her driver’s side door closes. “Work on that, Valencia.”
Donner pulls up as soon as Millie drives away, and Sam and the temp, a smiling guy named Joey, show up just before seven, but still on time. I’m glad Millie has left garage entrance open for us. The temp looks tame enough, but I don’t need him traipsing through Millie’s house, taking notice of the Delacroix’s stuff, all of which is top of the line. Potty Time is delivering a port-o-let this morning, so the guys should have no reason to leave the kitchen to venture further into their house.
I lead them inside and they take in the kitchen while I tape the permit to one of the panes of the big bay window.
“The upper cabinets come out first. Skip the one over the range hood,” I tell Donner. “That way we don’t have to shut off power or water until later. Strip everything down. Crown molding and all.”
Donner nods. “Got it, boss.”
“Now the waste bin’s not gonna get here until tomorrow, so put a tarp on the lawn and pile everything there for today. Keep it neat.”
“Will do,” Sam says. Joey just smiles.
I keep my eyes on him until the smile shrinks. “Yes, sir,” he says.
Good.
And then Clarence decides to make his presence known. Three pairs of eyes snap to the ceiling. Even from upstairs, the unholy racket threatens to shake the house down.
“Good God,” Joey mutters.
“That’s Clarence,” I say, a new appreciation forming for Millie’s beast of a dog. “He’ll eat your face if provoked, so don’t provoke him.”
This comment is directed at the temp, whose eyes go wide. Donner and Sam exchange uncertain glances.
“I’m gonna check on our other crews, but I’ll be back before lunch.” I don’t need to spell it out that I expect them to still be here when I return. Even though I’ve said nothing about Hector’s termination, everyone seems to know the what and why.
* * *
Millie’s garageis still empty when I get back at ten-thirty. I’m both relieved and disappointed. I push the feelings aside and take note of the debris pile on the tarp in the Delacroix’s front yard. Not a ton, but not a bad start either. Walking into the kitchen, I find Sam and Donner, both standing on countertops, working drill-drivers. Only two upper cabinets remain, one over the range hood, and both of these have had their doors removed. By the looks of it, Joey has been assigned hauling duty.
“It’s going okay?” I ask. Donner looks back at me and drags an arm across his forehead.
“No drywall,” he says, and I know what this means. The house is old, the walls all center-matched, which means everything drilled into the walls is going through solid wood.
“Your drills holding up?”
