Maggie Moves On(10)
“Don’t even think about getting in the truck like this,” Sy said on the other side of the glass. Kevin barked and bit at the spray of water like it was a game.
Dean snickered.
“I should get back to—” Maggie’s intention to work flew right out the window when Sy stripped off his hat and muddy T-shirt.
“Oh, my,” Dean said.
“Wow,” she said in appreciation for the very fine male form that was now toweling off his dog.
“Pants. Pants. Pants,” Dean chanted.
“He’s not going to— Never mind,” she said as Sy toed off his boots and shoved his thumbs in the waistband of his cargo pants. She turned her back on the window.
“Bright-red Calvin Klein boxer briefs,” Dean reported with approval. “Just the one tattoo. Spare flip-flops in the back. Garbage bag for the clothes and towel. He’s prepared.”
Only Dean would find preparedness as attractive as a muscled man in nice underwear.
“He’s telling the dog to get in the truck. Uh-oh. The dog basically said ‘fuck you’ and took off running. Now our landscaper is running,” he said, continuing his commentary.
Maggie couldn’t help herself. She crossed the hall and peered out the bay window in the…parlor? Living room? Den?
Silas, in fire-engine-red underwear that confirmed her assumptions about his very fine rear musculature, sprinted into the backyard after the dog.
“I almost don’t care what his estimate comes in at,” Dean announced. “You have to hire him just for the face and the comedy.”
“He does make an impression,” she agreed when Sy came back into view carrying eighty pounds of wet dog like a very large baby. “He’s an outrageous flirt.”
“At least he’s an ‘of age’ outrageous flirt,” Dean said.
“I’m not dating my landscaper,” she said definitively.
“Is he too old for you?” he teased. “Oh, look. He’s so flustered he’s getting into your truck.”
She pushed him out of the way and looked.
“Want me to go tell him?” he offered.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Keep your trigger finger off the record button.”
She headed outside, across the wet porch, and down into the gravel and weeds.
“Hi there,” she said, approaching the driver’s side. Sy was behind the wheel doing a mad search of the console, presumably for car keys.
“Miss me already?” he asked, pausing his search and looking not at all embarrassed about being practically naked.
“Haven’t had the chance. I actually had some very important information for you.”
“Your astrological sign? Your love language? Your newly discovered fetish for men with ill-mannered dogs?”
“My truck,” she said.
“Your truck,” he repeated, resting his elbow on the open window, the picture of casual flirtation.
“You’re in my truck.”
He poked his tongue into the inside of his cheek and looked around the interior of the vehicle. “Huh. Yeah. That explains the lack of mulch on the floor mats and keys in the cupholder.”
“Yeah.”
He opened the door, and she took a step back as tall, nearly naked man and wet dog got out.
“It’s a hell of a story we’ll have to tell the grandkids,” he said. “Or nieces and nephews if you don’t want kids.”
The words barely penetrated. She was too busy admiring that long, lean body. The outrageous confidence and commitment to go-with-the-flow that made it impossible for the man before her to feel the slightest bit of embarrassment over his predicament.
“It was real nice meeting you, Maggie,” Silas said, offering her his hand.
“Uh-huh,” she said to his abs.
4
Fresh from a shower at the inn, Maggie went in search of a strong Wi-Fi signal and dinner. Her muscles were singing from a full day of heavy lifting. But she’d gotten a respectable jump on the initial cleanup on the first floor. The more dirty work she got done now, the faster she and the crews could dig into the real work.
It was past sunset and a little chilly, but Kinship’s downtown was lit with charming gas streetlamps and tempting window displays. The general store with its well-stocked candy and bug spray sections and the big timber church on the corner were familiar. But the brewery looked new, or if not new, it hadn’t caught the eye of her twelve-year-old self all those years ago.
Also new was the artsy café on Main Street that was still open.
She headed inside the white clapboard building and was delighted when it wasn’t a bell that chimed, announcing her arrival. It was a set of spurs hung above the door.
There were a few patrons huddled around small, round tables over books and coffees poured in big, white mugs. The vibe was Wild West meets folksy hipster. She liked it immediately. Cacti and other less pointy greenery perched on rustic wooden shelves in white and copper pots. The counter was crafted out of knotty pine, and on top was a glass case of sinful-looking baked goods that Dean would never eat.
Maggie admired the man’s dedication to his physique. She could appreciate the effort and ethic but preferred applying her own to different areas.
She ordered a peanut butter cookie with her roast beef panini from Jun, the teenage barista, and settled herself at a corner table under black-and-white photos of mountain peaks and river bends.