The Good Ones Read online

  He’d worked on a variety of restoration projects all over the country. Traveling to jobs was the nature of his business. Some were straightforward, bring the old building back to its former glory types of jobs and others were the take something old and repurpose it to be something new while maintaining the integrity of its original structure types. Those were his favorite.

  He stood back and stared at the Queen Anne looming over him and tried to picture it as a bookstore. The wraparound porch lent itself to potted ferns and comfy chairs, maybe some built-in display racks that could be opened during the day and shuttered at night. The front door was a big, old, thick oak door. ADA regulations would require it be automated for easy entry for all customers. In fact, a ramp off to the side for customers with mobility issues could be built to blend in with the existing structure.

  The interior was more of a concern. He wanted to do a quick check of the plumbing and the electrical to make sure everything was up to code. If not, the restoration project might prove to be more expensive than Maisy was planning on, which brought another concern. Did she have any idea about what she was planning to do here? Turning this place into a bookstore, a romance bookstore, wasn’t as easy as putting on some fresh plaster and paint, adding a few more bookshelves, opening the door, and waving people in to buy books.

  How many people the building could realistically hold was a consideration. Heck, a structural engineer needed to come out and figure out if a house like this was meant to hold this many books. He remembered one of his professors telling his class about a university library that had to be closed because in the remodel of the new building, the architects hadn’t taken into account the weight of the books, and the building was sinking into the ground. It had proven to be an urban legend used to scare young architects, but he’d never forgotten the importance of having a good structural engineer on his team.

  Ryder shrugged into his utility vest, which held all of his tools, such as his flashlight and electrical testers, to help him inspect the building and gauge what sort of shape it was in. He’d have a professional building inspector come in and do a more thorough examination, but since he had started his architecture career as a carpenter, he liked to be as hands-on as possible. Clearly, he had no problem embracing his inner control freak.

  He strode back up onto the porch, pulling on his leather work gloves, and knocked on the door. Maisy answered on the second knock and he wondered if she’d been waiting for him. He did a double take when she opened the door. Gone was the grungy college student and in her place was a pretty young professional woman in a skirt and tank top, with her loose curls dancing about her head as if they couldn’t contain their exuberance.

  Her black-framed glasses perched on her upturned nose and she appeared to have put on eye makeup and lipstick. Ryder would have to be half-dead, blind, and playing for a different team not to notice that she was all woman in a delicate package that provoked equal feelings of protectiveness and desire in him. He tried to ignore both, but dang, she was cute.

  With one hand, she played with the curls at the nape of her neck as she waved him into the house. It was such a decidedly feminine gesture that Ryder was immediately beguiled by it. This was the first clang of the alarm bell in his head. He had a hard-and-fast rule that he didn’t get involved with clients. Heck, he still wore his wedding ring, even though it was now a symbol of what had been as opposed to what was, to ward off any women who might get the wrong idea. He glanced down at his left hand and noted he’d put on his work gloves. Shoot.

  When he glanced up, she was watching him as if she found him to be a curiosity. Sort of like the way people stared at the caged lions at the zoo. Good, that was good, he told himself. It would help him shut down any stray thoughts of romantic shenanigans on his part.

  Despite the new look she was sporting, Ryder had a feeling Maisy was closer in age to his teenage daughter than she was to him, which made her even more hands-off than just being his client. He was thirty-five and he had rules about getting involved with anyone who did not have the same pop culture reference points as he did, because while some men might find that charming, it just made him feel as old as dirt. Dating anyone who didn’t remember life before smartphones and the World Wide Web was a hard pass for him.

  “Can I get you some lemonade?” she asked. “It’s going to be a hot one today.”

  Ryder felt a trickle of sweat slide down the side of his face. He was pretty sure it wasn’t the temperature that was making him perspire but he wasn’t stupid enough to admit that.

  “Sure,” he said. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  Maisy turned and led the way to the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, there were stacks of books lining the hallway that led to the back of the house. Ryder wondered if they were covering heat convectors and electrical outlets and he was amazed the house hadn’t burned down with so much potential for fire. Staring at the books lining the walls kept his focus on something other than the swish and sway of Maisy’s skirt as she walked ahead of him, and this redirected focus was good, very good. This was a short-term job meant just to fill the summer. He didn’t want any complications. Period.

  He moved around the old-fashioned kitchen while she poured two glasses of lemonade from a glass pitcher she pulled out of the refrigerator. The appliances were all black, the section of counter that he could see between piles of books was an old style of laminate, and the sink was a big steel double basin. If he had to guess, the last time the kitchen had been overhauled was in the late ’80s, early ’90s.

  “This room seems functional,” he said. “Were you planning to use it when you turn this place into a bookstore?”

  Maisy glanced around the room. Ryder took a sip of the lemonade. It was tart and sweet and bits of pulp let him know it was real lemons he was drinking. He liked that. He supposed it was ridiculous but he liked that the lemonade wasn’t made from a mix. He guessed it was the architect in him, or maybe the Texan. Either way, he liked authenticity in his beverages.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said. “Mostly, I use it to make my lunch while I’m sorting books. I suppose if the bookstore is successful, it could become a break room for any staff I might hire.”

  Her eyes went round when she talked about hiring staff, and Ryder got the feeling she was nervous about taking on such a big challenge. That was good. She’d take it seriously if she was nervous.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  She looked surprised at the sound of someone at the front door. She put down her glass of lemonade without drinking and said, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Okay if I check the plumbing and fixtures in here?” He pointed to the sink and the ancient dome light in the center of the ceiling and she nodded.

  “Of course, thanks,” she said.

  He watched her disappear with a twirl of her skirt. He liked that skirt. Then he scowled and put down his lemonade. He decided to start with the kitchen sink to see how old the plumbing was. He could hear the murmur of voices and paused to make sure everything sounded okay before he bent down to check on the pipes.

  He was halfway under the sink, pleased to see that the pipes were copper, when the voices grew louder and he realized that Maisy and whoever had been knocking on the door were headed his way. He thought about getting up, but he just wanted to see how modern the connection to the sink was. He figured if this was good the rest of the house might be, too. He wedged himself into the cabinet a little bit more.

  “I don’t want to discuss it anymore, Dean,” Maisy said. “You can show yourself out.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re not coming back to the university in the fall.” It was a man’s voice. Ryder froze. Was he about to land in a relationship drama? He hated relationship drama.

  “Why?” Maisy’s voice rose in pitch. Uh-oh. Ryder knew this higher register in a woman’s voice. This was the t
hings are about to get thrown because this guy is an idiot decibel. “Why am I not returning? Gee, Professor Berry, let me think about it. Hmm, maybe it’s because you used me, betrayed my trust, and stole my job!”

  Oh, man, he did not want to get in the middle of this. Ryder rose up quickly, too quickly, and cracked his head on the underside of the sink. Smack!

  “What was that?”

  “Ryder?” Maisy dropped down beside the open cabinet and peered in. “Are you okay?”

  “Yup, sure, I’m fine,” he said. She was pressed up beside him as she tried to see and he could smell the scent of her perfume or maybe it was her shampoo. It reminded him of sweet pea blossoms on a summer day, faintly floral and rather intoxicating.

  “Who is that?” the man asked.

  “Ryder Copeland,” Maisy said.

  “What is he doing under your sink?” This sounded ridiculously pervy to Ryder and he wondered if his head injury was more serious than he’d thought. “Are you seeing him?”

  Maisy turned away from Ryder and glared at Dean.

  “What if I am?” she asked. “I can’t see how it’s any business of yours, given that you’re married and all. What I do is none of your concern.”

  Ryder felt his head. He was pretty sure a lump was forming just above the temple. He pushed out of the cabinet and rose to his feet. He wobbled a bit, not so much from the knock to the head but from standing up too fast.

  “Oh, let me help you.” Maisy fluttered around him. She put her arm around his waist and led him to a chair at the large table in the center of the room. Her head fit right up against his shoulder and he was distracted by the surprising bursts of copper that were mixed in among her dark curls. Pretty.

  It took him a second to register the tall, skinny man who was scowling at him. He wore glasses like Maisy’s but while hers made her look cute his specs made him look anal. No, that was probably his haircut. The thinning blond hair was so precisely trimmed that Ryder would have bet money he went to the barber every week. Even if the hair and glasses didn’t make him look so knotted up, the pressed slacks, glossy loafers, and tailored blazer over a crisp dress shirt definitely did. The ensemble screamed that the guy had a stick firmly wedged up his behind.

  The professor was scowling at Maisy, and Ryder found himself leaning a bit more heavily on her just to piss the guy off. He let go of her only when she had maneuvered him into the chair and he couldn’t think of a reason to hang on to her.

  “Let me see,” she said. Her hands were so gentle. He felt like he was getting assaulted by a butterfly, and wasn’t that just lovely. “It needs some ice.”

  “Hmm,” Ryder hummed. “Ice.”

  She spun away from him and crossed the room to the freezer.

  “Maisy, I know you’re angry—” The professor cast him a furious look, but Ryder just sat there feeling bemused by the way Maisy’s fingers had brushed the hair off his forehead.

  “Dean, just stop,” Maisy said. “I am angry. In fact, I’m furious.” She dropped some ice into a dish towel and used a rolling pin to smash the cubes into bits. If Ryder were the professor, he would have read the body language and beaten a hasty retreat. This guy did not seem to be quick on the uptake however. “I told you, Dean, I’m done with the university and you. I am not coming back next semester, next year, or ever.”

  “But what are you going to do?” Dean protested. “You can’t live in this broken-down monstrosity with all of these . . . books. My God, it’ll fall down around you and crush you.”

  “This ‘monstrosity’ is my home, and these books are mine, too,” Maisy snapped. She came at Ryder with the cloth full of ice and he wondered if he should take charge of it in case she applied it to his head with the same force she’d used whacking the ice with the rolling pin. He needn’t have worried. She was as gentle as before and he felt himself relax. “Besides, Ryder is going to fix it for me. Aren’t you?”

  He found himself nodding. Of course he would. He would do anything she asked when she stroked his hair and clucked at him with such tender concern. It had been a long time since a woman had tended to him with such gentleness and it was rendering him positively stupid.

  “Ryder? What is he, a carpenter or a plumber?” Dean scoffed. “How is he going to fix this whole house?”

  Maisy drew herself up straight at that. She stared at the professor and her lip curled just the slightest bit as she said, “I’ll have you know—”

  “I am a carpenter,” Ryder interrupted. For some inexplicable reason, he felt compelled to needle this guy. He decided not to mention that he’d worked his way through architecture school as a day laborer. “It was an unfortunate choice because plumbers have a better union and make more money, but what can you do?”

  The professor blinked at him and then he turned to Maisy. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Like a heart attack,” she said. She threw an arm around Ryder and ruffled his hair. He practically thumped the floor with his foot like a big old dog getting his ears scratched.

  “You have made a horrible mistake, Maisy,” Dean said. “Do not come crawling back to me when this whole house comes down around your ears because of that.” He waved his hand dismissively at Ryder. Ryder was not bothered in the least. “You had so much potential. It’s tragic to see you squander it. What would your aunt El say?”

  In a flash, Maisy’s eyes filled with tears and the tip of her nose turned pink. It was a low blow, and Ryder felt a white-hot ire rise up inside of him burning his sense of boundaries to ash. He removed Maisy’s hand holding the ice to his head and stood. He was pleased to see that he had a few inches on the skinny man. He took two steps toward him, just enough to loom over the weakling, and said, “Leave.”

  Dean scooted backward toward the door, never taking his eyes off Ryder. So, he wasn’t completely stupid. Then he looked at Maisy, who sniffed once and seemed to pull herself together.

  “When you come to your senses, call me,” he said.

  “Not a chance, dingleberry,” she said.

  The professor’s eyebrows shot up in shock and then he glowered. “Fine, you’re giving me no choice but to hire your replacement. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Whatever happens is on your—”

  Ryder took another quick step toward him and the man jumped and then fled. The door slammed shut behind him. Ryder turned and found Maisy staring up at him as if he was her hero. He felt his chest puff up like he had actually done something worthy of her admiration, which was ridiculous. He shook it off.

  “Dingleberry?” he asked. “As in not a very bright person?”

  “Yeah, because he’s Dean Berry, aka Dean-gle Berry.” Maisy shrugged. “It does mean ‘slow-witted,’ but it’s more commonly known in these parts as the bit of poop clinging to the fur on an animal’s backside.”

  Ryder stared at her for a moment and then a laugh bubbled up, surprising him, making him laugh even harder. Maisy blinked at him and then she laughed, too. It had been a long time since Ryder had laughed with a woman. It felt good, too good.

  “So, what’s the story with that guy?” he asked. “Is he going to be a problem for you?”

  “Nah. He’s just my ex,” she said. “In the simplest of terms, he turned out not to be the man I thought he was.”

  Ryder had a million questions. But this was a business relationship, despite the delicious memory of her wicked fingers ruffling his hair, and he wasn’t going to cross that line.

  “Are you still up for giving me a tour of the house?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Absolutely.”

  He gestured for her to lead the way out of the room. “Onward.”

  She beamed at him and with a swish of her skirt she headed out of the kitchen. Ryder followed, feeling as if something in his world had irrevocably changed. But that was crazy. This was a job. He’d do his work and he’d move on like he always did.
Right? Right.

  Chapter Four

  “DAD, you have that weird look on your face,” Perry said.

  Ryder glanced in the truck’s rearview mirror to see his fourteen-year-old daughter studying him from the backseat of his pickup truck.

  “What weird look is that?” he asked.

  “The one that says, She’s the one,” Perry said. She made her voice overly dramatic and he chuckled. The kid knew him too well. And weren’t teenagers really awesome for checking the old ego, letting a guy know when he was being completely uncool?

  “I do not have a look like that,” he protested. He felt the need to defend himself even though he suspected what she said was true.

  “Yes, you do,” she argued. She leaned over the seat back and studied the large house in front of them through her rectangular-framed glasses. “And this ginormous house is totally the sort of building that gives you that sappy She’s the one look. Every single time.”

  “It’s a Queen Anne,” Ryder explained. “Built sometime in the 1880s—”

  “I know, I know,” Perry cut him off. “The Victorian age, the height of creative residential architecture in your not-so-humble opinion. Go give the owner your bid already so at least you’ll be in the game for the restoration job.”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked. “You used to love checking out old houses with me.”

  “Not today,” Perry said. She held up a well-worn biology textbook. “I’m studying for my final.”

  “Right,” Ryder said. “Good choice. Very responsible of you.”

  “Well, I have to have top grades if I’m going to keep my coveted spot at Saint Mary’s Prep, don’t I?”