Build Me Up (4 page)

Should he pull over and offer her a ride? It
would
be the polite thing to do, but that wasn’t really his style, was it? At least not according to his daughter and her mother. Then again, maybe Annabelle had a point. He needed to set a good example if he expected her to follow it. Of course, he knew she’d been grasping at straws for reasons not to do as he said, but that didn’t change the underlying truth of her statement.

Ford slowed and rolled down his window, poking his head out while keeping an eye on the road.

“You look like you could use a ride,” he said. He’d meant it to be casual and friendly, but the second she turned her head he realized he wouldn’t mind offering her a different kind of ride. Damn, she was beautiful. Her hair might have been pulled up into some fancy updo at one point, but now it was dancing around her face. She would look amazing with her hair all mussed, looking down at him with those green eyes dark and sparkling…

“You!” she said, pointing at his face accusingly, her eyebrows drawn tight together and her eyes narrowed. “You almost ran me over yesterday!”

It was like taking a cold shower. As soon as she opened her mouth he stopped thinking about what he wanted to do with it and started thinking what a bad idea it had been to pull over in the first place.

“Hey, lady, I wasn’t anywhere near running you over, but at least you’ve learned by now that our roads are for driving, not...” Oh, damn, what was the word for what she’d been doing yesterday? Gallivanting? That sounded like something out of some 19
th
century novel. Which was probably where he’d last read it.

“What? Walking on? Well, since this little craphole of a town doesn’t know the concept of pavements…”

“Whoa! No-one asked you to come to our little ‘craphole’, so keep your observations to yourself, will you? Tourist,” he muttered and rolled up the window, gunning the engine to leave her in his dust. Good riddance to vapid tourists. 

THREE

Kristen was seething by the time she got back to
Breeze Inn
. Not only were her feet absolutely killing her, she probably had bugs in her teeth from the wind, her hair had come undone and was now a tangled mess, and she’d been insulted not once but twice in the span of an hour. And now she was starving.

She tore at her clothes, shedding them as soon as she’d closed the door to her room behind her. The old lady had made her bed, and now Frank Sinatra was lying on it.

“No. No way!” Kristen said and marched over to the French doors. “You – out!”

The cat seemed to understand, but took his time getting up, stretching his back, his paws… her patience.

“Go kill a rat!” she ordered and he finally jumped off the bed and bounded outside. She slammed the door shut behind him, setting the glass shaking. Stomping her feet, Kristen scooped her discarded clothes off the floor – Frank Sinatra had gotten a striptease out of her, the scoundrel – and marched into the bathroom to run the tap. She needed a bath more than she needed a shower right now, something to relax her. She checked the bathroom cabinet for bath salts, but there were none. Another item to add to her shopping list.

Even though her stomach was growling at her, Kristen stopped by the grocery store first to pick up some necessities in the way of toiletries. When she got to the checkout counter, she saw the same teenager working the till as when she’d been in there last.

“Hi,” she greeted the girl, who wore her long dark hair in a ponytail and had caked on way too much makeup for a day job.

“Hey,” the girl beamed as she recognized her. “You’re back.”

“I expect I’ll be a regular, given my terrible memory and all,” Kristen smiled. “I’m Kristen, by the way.”

“Elle.”

“Oh, like in
Legally Blonde
?”

The girl shrugged.

“We did a
Legally Blonde
party when I was in college.” Kristen felt she needed to explain her offhand comment and reference to a movie that was probably made before this girl started putting on makeup.

“Where’d you go to college?”

“UCLA.”

“What? For real? That’s where I wanna go.”

“Really? Your parents are cool with you moving out to California?” Kristen said as she pulled out her credit card.

“My mom already lives there. My stepdad is a movie producer.”

“Oh, wow. Guess you get to go to a lot of screenings, then,” Kristen said, happy to have found some kind of connection to her home state.

“Um… not really…”

Kristen wanted to kick herself. Good job, Kristen, embarrassing the poor girl. Maybe she’d made up that her stepfather was a movie producer, or he didn’t make the kind of movies that were played in theatres.

“Well, they’re pretty overrated,” Kristen said, attempting to smooth over the damage her previous statement might have caused.

“Really?” Elle lit up. “Have you gone to many?”

“Uh… one or two,” Kristen shrugged. “Most of the frat parties I went to were way more fun.”

“Cool,” Elle said and Kristen gave herself another kick on the shin. Great, now she was corrupting minors. She should say something about how frat parties weren’t always fun, that you had to watch out for yourself, not drink too much… but what a hypocrite she’d be if she started moralizing. If she had a penny for every time she’d puked her guts out after a party…

“Well, I’ll see you around,” Kristen said and grabbed her bag of toiletries.

“See you,” Elle returned and Kristen headed over to the restaurant she’d been to the day before. She could use a drink before getting back to the drawing board.

“Thanks for fixing the cupboard, Ford,” Hallie said and squeezed his biceps, looking up at him like she wanted to repay him personally.

“Sure thing,” he shrugged and picked up his toolbox from where he’d left it on the bar. His buddy owned the Sea Shack and Ford was always stopping by to fix a thing or two, so he’d gotten used to seeing Hallie on a regular basis. She was attractive, but she was also his buddy’s baby sister, and there was no way he was going there with her.

“Can I get you a beer or something?”

“I’m going to pick Annabelle up, so I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Still trying to be a good role model, huh?” Hallie perched on one of the bar stools, close enough that their legs were touching.

“Yup. I’d better get going.” Ford backed up a step before turning around so that he wouldn’t hit Hallie with his toolbox. Instead, he slammed it into another person’s leg.

“Damn! I’m sorry,” he started, then looked up at the woman the leg in question belonged to. Double-damn.

Kristen let out a muffled curse when the heavy box hit her leg. Who carried around a freaking toolbox in a restaurant? She’d been heading for the table she’d occupied the day before, as there was no one around to seat her when she entered, and had veered to let a couple pass her when the metal contraption slammed into her.

It didn’t draw blood, but she knew she’d be sporting a bruise in a near future and rubbed at the impact zone. When she looked up at the culprit her blood froze in her veins. Not again. Were there
that
few people in Greenport? Or was this just Mess With Kristen Day? Funny, she hadn’t seen that marked on the cat calendar hanging on Mrs. Breezer’s fridge this morning.

“Seriously?” she voiced her frustration.

“Kristen? Are you all right?” the waitress she recognized as Hallie jumped off a bar stool and came up to her. It really was a small town if a local waitress could keep track of the people coming in.

With Hallie as an audience, she couldn’t very well lay into the jerk with the toolbox, so Kristen forced a smile. “I’m okay. I’ll be sore tomorrow, I’d bet, but I’m fine.”

“Well, come, sit down. I’ll get you a martini - on the house, of course,” Hallie said and showed her over to the table she’d been heading for before the painful interruption. Hallie disappeared behind the bar – apparently the bartender was on a break at the moment, and Mr. Handyman walked over to her table, bracing a weathered hand on the tabletop.

“I am sorry.”

Kristen looked up at him. He had a gruff look about him, stubble that suggested he either was too lazy to shave or that hair grew like weed on him, but his green eyes were sincere.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” she said surly. Granted, not very gracious of her, but she’d had a crappy day and he’d played a double feature in it.

His jaw twitched but he said nothing. If this had been L.A., he probably would have argued saying she was inattentive, never admitting he was at fault as that was just a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Here you go,” Hallie said, returning with a drink that had been poured into a highball glass and not a martini glass. “I figured you’d need a bigger glass,” she smiled as she set it down on a paper coaster. “Lunch, dinner?”

“Is the kitchen open? I know I’m a bit early for dinner, and a bit late for lunch, but I’m kinda starving,” Kristen smiled.

“Sure. How ‘bout a burger? Chef does a mean homemade barbecue sauce.”

“Sold,” Kristen smiled.

“Ford? Burger?” Hallie turned to the handyman.

“Sorry, can’t stay,” he said and Hallie shrugged, heading over to the kitchen.

“Ford?” Kristen frowned. Was it a last name or a first name?

“If I give you my name, you’re not putting it on a police report, are you?” he squinted at her and it took her a moment to realize he was joking.

“Don’t worry. I won’t sue for much,” she fired back, trying to keep a straight face.

“Ford Hamm,” he extended his hand.

Kristen almost fell off her chair. Not. Happening. There had to be another Ford Hamm in Greenport. One who wasn’t a contractor. One who she wouldn’t be forced to work with instead of against over the next year. One who didn’t get a dimple when he smiled. Oh, crap. She was so screwed.

”Ford Hamm, as in contractor Ford Hamm?” Kristen asked aloud. Better to find out now than when she had to face the mysterious contractor.

“The one and only,” he confirmed. Great. Just perfect.

“Do contractors always carry toolboxes around?” she blurted, not knowing if she should just cut to the chase or not. Maybe best to warm him up a bit and make him forget about their previous encounters. Operation Sweet Talker was officially underway.

“Maybe they should,” he shrugged his big shoulders. “You never know when there’s an emergency.”

“What, like a rusty nail that needs replacing – stat?”

“Exactly. One can always use a hammer.”

O….kay.

“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Kristen gestured to the empty seat opposite her. “My treat. I think I owe you for being an ungrateful bitch earlier,” she cringed.

“I hit you with a toolbox. I think we can call it a draw.”

What, like he was so seriously wounded by their conversation? She was the one with a freaking bruise! Kristen tamped down her irritation and schooled her expression. No point arguing with the only contractor in town.

“Okay, then you can pay for your own burger,” she said lightly. “In case you missed it, I’m new in town. I could do with getting to know people.”

“Well, like I said, I need to get going. Hallie is a people person, though. You could ask her for recommendations.”

“Thanks,” Kristen said to his already retreating back. Well, that went well…

Ford put his toolbox in the back of his truck before heading over to the Food Shopper to pick up Annabelle. Stupid name, as the store sold a lot more than food to its customers, but old man Crenshaw had named it after his favorite magazine, which was now long gone. It was the only grocery slash convenience store in Greenport, but Crenshaw was an honest man and kept his prices fair. The souvenir shops had no qualms about pricing, though. Ford supposed they had to keep the money flowing in during tourist season if they were going to survive the rest of the year. Of course, most of them had other shops in the state, ones that stayed open all year long, and their businesses in Greenport were just a lucrative side venture.

He raised his hand in greeting as he walked in and spotted Mrs. Crenshaw – old man Crenshaw’s daughter-in-law who was the current manager of the Food Shopper – stocking the fresh baked bread section.

“Hiya, Ford,” she called back, sliding an empty tray back into her trolley. “You just missed her.”

What? Annabelle knew he was picking her up today. They were supposed to go visit his grandfather’s grave at Greenport Cemetery.

“She left already?” he asked, walking over. He could smell the sugar on the donuts she’d just piled. His mouth watered and his stomach let it be known he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Oh… you didn’t have plans, did you?” Mrs. Crenshaw gave him a look of pity. Or was it solidarity? Her own kids were a few years older than Annabelle, and he knew they’d been a handful over the years.

Ford sighed. “Yeah.”

“That boy was here – Donny Preston? You know, Donna Preston’s son?”

Ah, the lady with the clever name selections for her kids – Donny, Donyelle (because Danielle was just too ordinary) and Donner. Chairman of the PTA and overall busybody. Her kids were the spitting image of their mother.

“What was Annabelle doing with Donny Preston?” Ford asked even as the obvious answer was staring him right in the face. The pharmaceutical section was practically jumping out at him and screaming ‘sale on prophylactics’. He cringed.

“Oh, Ford,” Mrs. Crenshaw clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You should bring Annabelle over for dinner one night. I’ll make sure to have the grandkids around.”

“As a scare tactic?”

“No, as a distraction. I could get my kids to hire Annabelle for babysitting, keep her busy until she heads back to her mom.”

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” Ford sighed.

“You’re human,” Mrs. Crenshaw said and patted his cheek. “Heaven knows I had my moments when I considered dumping the kids with Mom and flying out to Vegas.”

“They’ve turned out well, though.” It was true. The Crenshaw kids had wreaked havoc on the town for awhile, but now they all held steady jobs and were raising families of their own. All except the youngest, who was going to college in Boston.

“I had a good team backing me,” Mrs. Crenshaw said. “It was tough going when Bobby died, but my parents and his all pitched in to help out. “It
can
be done, Ford.”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us – giving Annabelle a job here and all. I know she can be-“

“She’s a teenager,” Mrs. Crenshaw cut him off. “A little rough around the edges, but a sweet kid. She’ll be all right, Ford.”

“I feel like I’m failing. She’s growing up so fast, and I’m missing out on everything in between visits.”

“Did you talk to Suzy about California?”

“I can’t afford to move out there. I’m struggling to pay the mortgage
and
child support every month. I have a business here. If I go to California…” he shook his head.

The money wasn’t the only issue, of course. He didn’t want to live the life Suzy wanted, or the one Annabelle was starting to crave. Then there was the custody agreement. Even if he did manage to move out to California, in some small town outside of L.A. where he could start up a contracting business, he still wasn’t allowed to see Annabelle more often than the agreed upon times. And as long as he could get her to come out here, to Greenport, he had a chance to show her that there was more to life than shoes and makeup.

“You do what you need to do,” Mrs. Crenshaw said reassuringly. “I’d better get back to the oven – freshly baked bread draws in the crowds, you know.”

“All right, I’ll get out of your hair,” Ford smiled. “Thanks for the pep talk, Mary.” He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “If you see Annabelle, tell her-“

“That she’s invited for dinner tomorrow night,” Mrs. Crenshaw filled in, winking. That wasn’t what he had been about to say, and she knew it. Realizing there was no point in protesting, Ford simply shook his head and headed out.