“Jenny’s biased.” Kevin wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But honest. I’ve got a Dumpster coming first thing Monday morning. The crew will be here by seven thirty. We’re going to be loud.”
“I’ll deal.”
“See you Monday then.”
They piled into a minivan, and like the dog, Kevin stuck his head out the window. “We’re going to rock this place!”
Naomi put the coffeemaker in her bedroom on the desk, filled her cooler with soft drinks, lunch meats, some fruit. She could set her Coleman stove on the deck. She’d put meals together in much less cozy circumstances.
Monday, she gave herself the day off and joined in gutting the kitchen and adjoining bathroom. She swung a sledgehammer, wielded a pry bar, helped haul out old counters, old cabinets.
And exhausted, aching, fell dead asleep before the forest swallowed the sun.
Every morning the hammering started. She’d get coffee, a granola bar, her camera. The crew got used to her, stopped posing.
She took pictures of callused hands, hands bleeding at the knuckles. Of sweaty torsos, steel-toed work boots.
Evenings, in the blessed quiet, she ate sandwiches and worked. She cropped a study of the kitchen floor, the linoleum jagged against the exposed hardwood. She played with filtering, considered other compositions, spent time updating her site, punching up her marketing.
She chose which studies belonged on her site, which should be exclusive to the gallery, which should be put up as stock.
There were dozens of decisions to be made, and she would have sworn not as many hours in the day as there’d been a week before.
She took more time off to look at slabs of granite, and ended up spending more than an hour taking picturesthose raw edges, the graining, the dapples and colors. Tired of cold meals or soup over the Coleman, she stopped and picked up pizza in town on the way home.
She’d sit on her pretty slate blue glider, breathe in the quiet, and eat loaded pizza on her bedroom deck. Then she’d treat herself to a movie on her laptop. No more work that day. And thank God the king-size mattress she ordered would be delivered in the morning. She’d spend her last night on her air mattress.
Twilight shimmered in the west as she followed the snaking ribbon of road.
The deer leaped out of the trees. She had time to see that it was a massive buck before she cut the wheel to avoid the collision. She hit the brakes, fishtailed.
She felt more than heard her tire blow, and cursed as she tried to fight the wheel back.
She ended up thudding into the shallow ditch alongside the road with her heart pounding between her ears.
The buck merely turned his head, gave her a regal stare, and then leaped into the shadows.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it. Okay, okay. Nobody’s hurt, including fricking Bambi.” She shoved open the door to see the damage.
Tire shot, she noted, but she didn’t think she’d damaged the wheel. She could change a stupid tire, but it was going to be tricky with the way she’d angled into the ditch. And dusk was falling fast nowwith her on the curve of the switchback.
She opened the back, pulled out the emergency kit, lit a flare, set it several feet behind the truck, set another several feet in front, eased into the car, turned on her flashers.
Resigned to the annoyance, she hauled the jack out of the trunk.
She caught the headlights, worried they came too fast. But the truckshe made out the shape of a truckslowed, then swerved gently to the shoulder between her car and the back flare.
Naomi set down the jack and took a good grip on the tire iron.
“Got some trouble?”
“Just a flat. I’ve got it, thanks.”
But he sauntered forward, in silhouette with the headlights glaring at his back.
“Got a spare?”
Deep voice, deeply male. Talllong legs and arms.
“Of course I have a spare.”
“Good. I’ll change it for you.”
“I appreciate that.” Her hand tightened on the tire iron. “But I’ve got it.”
He just hunkered down to take a closer look. She could see him better nowa lot of dark, windblown hair, a sharp-boned profile under some scruff. A battered leather jacket, big hands on the knees of long legs.
“You’re at a bad angle for the jack, but it’s doable. I’ve got emergency lights in the truck.”
He looked up at her now. A hard and handsome face, a tough-guy face with the scruff, with the thick, windblown hair, a firm, full, unsmiling mouth.
She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but didn’t detect any mean in them. Still . . .
“I’ve changed a tire before.”
“Hey, me, too. In fact, you can make a living. Xander Keaton. Keaton’s Garage and Body Worksname’s on the side of my truck. I’m a mechanic.”