A Basic Renovation

By Sandra Antonelli

When it comes down to it, rats in the oven trumps Lesley's desire to never set eyes on another Brennan family member. So Lesley, a pro at property redevelopment, scrambles to Dominic Brennan's hardware store for supplies. Dominic knows poison – rat and otherwise – and he sees it in Lesley. The woman ruined his brother's life. Now that she's back in town, Dominic's afraid she'll drag up the past, the secrets, and the pain. They clash immediately, but mix in a teenage boy, a puppy, some white paint, and some loud music, and what starts as cold fury transforms into a nuclear attraction. This basic renovation becomes a major life refurbishment for them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857990204

Sandra Antonelli

Sandra Antonelli grew up in Europe, but comes from the land Down Under. She prefers peanut butter to Vegemite, drives a little Italian car, lives in a little house with a little peanut butter-loving dog, and is married to a big, bearded Sicilian. When she's not writing, Sandra can be found at the movies, drinking coffee, or eating cookies.   To find out more, visit Sandra on her website.  You can also Follow Sandra on: Facebook Instagram Twitter  Pinterest 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Toby leaned forward and squinted at the old Bronco through his rectangular glasses. ‘What’s this boogery gunk all over the front window?’ he asked, hitching up droopy, oversized jeans.

Lesley Samuels glanced at her cousin and winced. ‘Fireflies,’ she answered, grateful an expanse of plaid boxer shorts covered his butt crack.

‘Ah, fireflies, the tiny fairies of the insect world. They light up and glow when they’re ready for love.’ Romantic-thinking Toby ran his finger over the tacky glass.

Hot and grimy from clearing the driveway, Lesley felt about as sticky as the phosphorescent bug guts on the front window but nowhere near as luminescent. She snickered. ‘Guess their little mating ritual got cut short when they smashed into my windshield.’

‘You know,’ Toby wiped his fingers on his oversized pants, ‘the Cerro Grande and Las Conchas fires turned the sky an eerie, orange-red. Los Alamos got lucky with Las Conchas, but Cerro Grande had sparks like dive-bombing fireflies. Being uphill, this hovel you bought shoulda turned to charcoal dust, like the other places in this neighbourhood did, but just look at it.’

Lesley was looking at the still soot-coated, singed house. Back in May of 2000 it stood alone in the desolation of blackened tree stumps, melted plastic swing-sets, overcooked remains of cars and SUVs. At the bottom of the steep driveway, someone with a dark sense of humour had hung up a sign. It was still there, weathered but legible: The Last One Standing.

Last ones standing were Lesley’s specialty.

Toby wrinkled his nose again. ‘I’m glad you’ve moved back here, but you could’ve bought a place way better than this.’

‘I didn’t buy the house to live in, Toby. Growing up in this little town was enough torture for me. When this renovation’s over I’m going back to Chicago.’

‘Does your mother know that?’

‘I told her,’ Lesley felt a little smile creep over her lips, ‘but I’m not so sure she heard me say this was a working vacation.’

‘Sneaky. Fulfil your family obligation and write off your visit as a business expense, huh?’

‘Yeah, and I’ll come away with a tidy profit when I sell.’

‘In this economy?’

‘I can rent it. People want rentals in Los Alamos. Rent is steady income.’ She walked back to unlock a trailer hitched behind the old Bronco. The folded rollaway bed Toby had lent her blocked access to the door. ‘Thanks for dropping off the cot,’ she said, pushing it out of the way. ‘Would you mind giving me a hand with a few things from the trailer? They’re a little heavy.’

‘No problem.’ Toby hitched up his jeans and helped her swing open the double doors. He glanced inside the trailer, which was full of equipment and power tools, then back at the house. ‘Tell me you have some kind of magic wand in here, ’cause you’re going to need some kind of wizardry to fix this place.’

Lesley looked at the dilapidated home again. Abandoned by an elderly owner uninterested in making any repairs after the big fire, the Witteveen house had sat untouched for over a decade. Her parents and cousin thought the place was a nuclear waste dumpsite, but Lesley saw beyond the decay even when they couldn’t. An ancient garden hose sagged like a brittle, plastic snake over the front door. Dented, rusty downpipes had shifted out of place. Strips of scorched mission-brown paint waved in the pinion and sagebrush-scented breeze. Scrub oaks and scraggly box elders tangled together at the front of the house. It all made Lesley think of fairytales.

Oh, yeah. This Ugly Duckling is a real Sleeping Beauty.

Fairytales. That was it. Things finally made a little more sense. She hadn’t been able to figure out what possessed her to buy this place when she’d seen it listed on the Internet. Something had drawn her back to town with a whisper that sounded a lot like ABBA’s Money, Money, Money. She’d make faster cash from flipping a bungalow in Chicago, even in a crappy economy, but a run-down challenge like this place was the mainstay to the homes she and her partner, Kelly, renovated. The fact was, there was an appealing storybook romance to this renovation. This Isleta Street property was neglected, dilapidated, ugly and easy to reject. People seldom looked beyond the cosmetic. No one had realised that beneath the twisted forest and disrepair of the Witteveen place was a treasure: panoramic mountain views. And they were worth a fortune. Or could be.

Lesley hummed ABBA and brushed wisps of hair from her cheeks as anticipation, and a little swell of greed, washed over her.

Deliveries weren’t part of Dominic’s normal routine. He’d set up Kyle to run shotgun with Edgar, but Edgar was on his honeymoon, and somebody had to step in and fill the void. Cue the hardware store owner. For the next two weeks, Dominic was playing strongman delivery guy with his son. This was their first lunch together. Dominic thought it might be their last. Or at least the last time they came to Sonic and ate in the truck because the instant Kyle tore open a mustard packet the windshield was decorated in a turmeric-scented spray of sunshine yellow.

‘Oops,’ the kid said.

The hamburger paused at Dominic’s lips. ‘OK. Get that crap off the window.’

‘I only have one napkin.’

‘Then use it.’

‘See, this is why we should have a dog.’

‘So, do you want a car or a dog?’

‘Seriously, you’ll get me the car, Dad?’

‘Seriously? No.’

‘Can I get a dog then?’

‘How about you clean up that mess and save me some of those onion rings?’

‘What about the dog?’

‘One thing at a time. Let’s see how you do with those onion rings.’

‘What the hell do onion rings have to do with getting a car or a dog?’

‘Show me you can meet the challenge of sharing those rings and cleaning up that shit on the window and then, even if I think you’re a little old for one, we’ll talk about dogs.’

‘And cars?’

‘Your lunch hour is almost over.’

‘I’m with the boss, so why does it matter if I’m late when you are too?’

‘You’ve got mustard on your alien.’

‘Oh, crap.’ Kyle’s t-shirt was emblazoned with a mushroom cloud and little green man who now sported a yellow beret. Dabbing at the stain made it worse. It turned into a halo around the fluorescent extraterrestrial.

Dominic shook his head and spoke with his mouth full, ‘I hate that shirt. No, actually, what I hate more is the fact Don Yardley sells tourist crap like that in his store. The dumb thing perpetuates myths about this city simply because of the Manhattan Project and National Lab.’ He paused to swallow. ‘Atomic study and the construction of the world’s first A-bombs do not mean the town, its residents, or lab employees have some kind of nuclear luminosity.’

‘You’re just pissed you didn’t think of selling these shirts first.’

‘Just for that, from now on you’re wearing one of the store’s polos.’

‘No way am I wearing one of those. And since you brought up myths, Taos hums you know. It’s been documented that town resonates and the government covers it u—’ Kyle’s mouth dropped open. The way his fair, chin-length hair swung over his ears made him look like a blonde Irish Setter. ‘Man, look at little Cheyenne Rowe now!’

Dominic followed his son’s line of sight. All legs, the teenage girl walking across the parking lot was a California blonde with a spray on tan. Her ponytail swished over her shoulders as she wiggled in a pair of white hot-pants, while two softball-sized breasts stretched the red fabric of her crop top. Dominic frowned and shook his head. ‘Little? Glory days, she looks like a real live walking Malibu Barbie. She sure as hell wouldn’t if she were my daughter. I can’t believe her mother lets her out of the house like that.’

‘Her mother dresses the same way, remember?’

There was no way to argue with that. Mrs. Rowe and her cleavage had lived next door a few years back, and she’d liked to sunbathe topless.

‘Uh, how do you know if they’re real, Dad? How can you really tell?’

Dominic felt his mouth twitch. Frank discussions about sex weren’t new, but usually the kind of chassis Kyle talked about had low profile tyres and a limited slip differential. He tried to stay casual. ‘Fake or genuine, no girl is going to want you if you talk with hamburger falling out of your pie hole.’

‘Cheeseburger.’

‘It’s not polite to correct your elders.’

‘What about the tile and the grout?’

‘The tile and the grout?’

‘You know, like the carpet matching the drapes? Her pub—’

‘I know what you mean. The carpet and drapes…where do you hear this stuff?’

‘Isn’t that how you know a woman’s a natural blonde?’

‘Not always.’

‘OK. What about the eyebrows, then, aren’t they a dead giveaway?

Not sure if he was supposed to be uncomfortable or glad his child was asking for manly guidance, Dominic took a long drag of Sonic’s famous Cherry-lime, sucking up the icy pink drink through a fat straw. In the years since Stefanie took off it had been just the two of them. Maybe it made them a little rough around the edges, but they’d talked about everything and Dominic was always forthright. So it made them seem more like buddies or frat brothers than father and son. Whatever they were doing worked, and he thanked God for that. He licked cherry-lime juice from his bottom lip and cleared his throat. ‘Eyebrows can be tinted, and let’s just say a bikini wax isn’t the only thing some women have done.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And then there’s the fact the hair on your head is more exposed to sunlight.’

‘So, how can you tell if boobs are real?’

‘You work it out.’

‘What about Big-boob Sue? Did you ever work out if hers were real?’

Dominic wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he bit into his hamburger, ‘Kyle,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘there are times you share things and times you don’t, women you talk about and women you don’t.’ He chewed for a moment then swallowed. ‘You know, in a way I envy you.’

‘You envy me? Which one of us owns a car and a truck?’

‘You’re on a voyage of discovery, never to be repeated. Sure, it’s confusing and weird, you might even feel like your body isn’t exactly yours anymore, but it’s all supposed to be like that. Jesus, enjoy it while you can.’

‘Enjoy what?’

‘Melody Ferrell, she’s in your class, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s got a pool in her backyard and I’ve got a landscaping job over on North Mesa, right next door to her house next week. You want it?’

Kyle’s face lit up. ‘Seriously? Or do I have to hand over the onion rings?’

‘Seriously, yes, and later you can tell me if you enjoyed it.’

Laughing, Kyle passed his father the bag of onion rings. ‘Later, you can tell me if I’m right about Mrs Hafner looking like her dog.’

‘Arf-arf,’ Dominic said, taking a bite of succulent, deep-fried onion.

‘Can I ask you something, Dad?’

Dominic wondered if this was about to turn into a discussion about more mysterious parts of the female anatomy. ‘Ask away.’

‘I was just wondering. What were you thinking when you bought the hardware store?’

It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but Dominic continued to be as honest and open as ever, ‘I wanted to guarantee my son a part-time summer job so he could buy his own car, just like I did when I was sixteen.’

Of course, there was no way that was going to happen, but why kill the kid’s dream?

While Toby pulled the Bronco into the filthy garage, Lesley dropped the trailer’s ramp. She climbed inside and hopped on her candy-apple red Harley. New Mexico was made for motorcycles and Lesley was itching for a ride through the Jemez under New Mexico’s turquoise sky, but putting the house in some order had to come first. After heaving a wistful sigh she hit the ignition and the Sportster thundered to life. A moment later she’d parked the motorcycle at the base of the steep driveway, just next to her cousin’s bright yellow Ford Ranger.

Toby tsked at her she headed back up the incline. ‘I can’t believe you still ride that noisy thing,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘You think I should drive a boring Volvo with eighteen front and side airbags, like my dad does, don’t you?’

‘Motorcycles,’ Toby shook his greying head, ‘aren’t safe for anyone. And speaking of safe, have you got a broom or a rake or something we can use to make a path in the backyard? ’Cause it’s really a tangled mess and I don’t want to step on a chipmunk or rattlesnake.’

Lesley rummaged around inside the trailer until she found a blue-handled broom. Then she headed for the backyard with Toby following. The splintery wooden gate at the side of the house was jammed. She shoved against it hard, kicking it until it popped open with an obstinate squeal. As she tramped across a cracked cement patio, she picked a few small splinters from her shoulder, flicking off the tiny bits of wood with her nails, which had finally gotten long enough to have white tips. She came to a dead stop.

The key to a successful property flip was to stick to the basics, the cosmetic rather than structural. The same went for landscaping. While the actual profit on this venture was uncertain, the one thing guaranteed was that re-landscaping the backyard was going to kill her budding fingernails.

‘See what I mean?’ Toby spread his hands.

It was impossible to miss what he meant. The craggy, boulder-strewn yard was full of hip-high weeds, wildflowers, grass and yellow-green chamisa.

‘You can hire the guy from Trujillo’s Hardware to mow back here. The owner, I forget his name, he does landscaping too, but I don’t know if he’d take that away.’ Toby gestured at a rusted swing set. It leaned so far over it kissed a wooden birdfeeder that looked ready to collapse.

Beyond, the overgrown yard rolled off into a rocky, sunset-coloured canyon. Purple morning glories climbed over what was left of a fence, while pink straw flowers and Black-eyed Susans smiled with happy faces. Lesley smiled too and turned to survey the rear of the house where bees darted around tinted windows that ran the length of the place. She pulled another splinter from her arm, still smiling. ‘Oh, Toby, this is fabulous!’

‘Fabulous?’ he swatted at the air in front of his face. ‘Ha! You’ve got rats, moles and bees! Bees, Lesley, and probably hornets too!’

‘Try to look beyond that, will you? Once I cut the trees in the front there’ll be views to Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Santa Fe. When these trees back here are gone you’ll see the aspens growing on the Jemez. This house will be amazing!’ Grinning, she used the broom to keep vegetation from tickling her knees as she headed towards the windows. ‘I could make a mil—’

The view of the house suddenly vanished. Lesley found herself sprawled in the high grass, one foot sunk deeply into a mound of earth, the grainy taste of soil on her tongue.

‘Lesley!’ Toby shouted. The weeds made a slapping sound against his big pants as he rushed towards her.

Level with the ground, it was easy to see the yard was dotted by a series of mole tunnels and holes. Lesley wiggled her cowboy boot free and sat up. She spat out dirt, chamisa, and what she hoped to God wasn’t mole poop.

‘I think you’re safe.’

‘Safe from what,’ she said and wiped her mouth, ‘vengeful, killer moles?’

‘No. I’m pretty sure the hanta virus can’t be contracted from mole dung. It’s mouse droppings you have to worry about, but let’s go inside and rinse out your mouth, just to be safe.’ He reached out and hauled her up. A nub of broom handle was still in her hand. The straw part peeked out of the grass.

Laughing, Lesley dropped the broken broomstick, picked up the bristly end and returned to the front of the house, spitting more grit from her mouth. Toby was behind her when she opened the grimy front door for the second time that morning. ‘You might want to hold your nose,’ she said.

‘Hold my no—Oh my God.’ Toby tucked his chin into the neck of his shirt and pulled it up, buttoning the collar closed over the bridge of his nose.

Lesley would have done the same thing, but her top was a sleeveless camisole. Cat pee and musty carpet assaulted her nostrils. She tried to breathe through her mouth. ‘You got here before I had the chance to open any windows. Will you please get the ones upstairs?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Toby nodded and the front of his shirt outlined his lips moving under the fabric. ‘OK if I use the facilities while I’m up there?’

‘Sure, but don’t come back and tell me the toilet’s overflowed.’

The electricity had been switched on. A dim light glowed above her head and the rust-coloured Kelvinator refrigerator in the kitchen ran with a noisy hum. For a moment, Lesley stood in the small foyer space, acclimating to the unpleasant mix of odours.

Then she tossed the broom onto the kitchen tiles and opened the two windows above a cracked enamelled sink. After she rinsed out her mouth, she hurried into the living room, swishing aside oppressive walnut-coloured curtains that ran across the back of the house. The exposed glass was clouded by hard water stains, but the cat hair-coated screens were still intact. The windows whined as she cranked them open. Cool air breezed through the house.

The Witteveens had favoured deep earth tones and the colour scheme made Lesley feel as if she were inside one of the backyard mole holes. It was hard to tell dirt from decor. While the exterior was mission brown, the open-plan dining-living area was a drab shade of buckskin. The crunchy shag pile beneath her feet – the source of the unrelenting feline odour – looked like old chocolate. Kitchen cupboards, faux pecan wood grain, were offset by bright, jack-o-lantern orange countertops. Another splash of colour came from wallpaper patterned by still-life clusters of grapes and tiny American flags. The orange and pecan motif continued into the laundry. All that was missing were Alice and Mrs. Brady.

‘It’s not too bad up here,’ Toby called out from the landing at the top of the staircase, ‘but down there looks like 1973.’

‘It feels like it too, only darker.’ Lesley tried several wall switches, testing what knob operated which lights. A single forty-watt bulb cast a dull shadow in the living room. The hanging light fixtures above her head had two working bulbs and four burnt out ones, all shaped like tiny flames. Clusters of frosted glass starbursts dangled from a cobwebby chain thick with heavy grey dust. When she tried another switch, a low-wattage glow came from the dining room starburst. Then the bulb blew out with a cloudy little puff.

Lesley waved away the fog of dirt particles and glanced up at her cousin as he came downstairs. His green high-tops crunched across the rug as he walked into the dining room. He pulled back the rest of the drapes. ‘Think that stuff will come off?’ he asked, bathed in a glow of sepia window tinting.

‘Probably.’ Lesley scraped her short fingernails at the corner of the glass to see if the film peeled away. A long, wide section came off in a strip that promptly disintegrated to little flakes all over the crispy carpeting. As Toby worked off a few more broad ribbons, Lesley changed her mind about the task. ‘Hang on, Toby. Before we take off any more of this stuff, before I move anything inside, like the bed, the carpet is coming out. I have to get rid of this smell.’

‘Good idea.’

She tested the strength of the revolting floor covering, grasping a clump beneath the window frame. It only took a few light tugs to lift. ‘This won’t take us more than an hour.’

‘Wait. We? Us? You want me to help you with this too?’

‘Please?’

Toby rolled his eyes and exhaled. ‘You got a scuba tank in your trailer?’

Laughing, speckled with carpet filth and window tint, Lesley hopped over the counter that separated the dining room and kitchen and headed for the front door. She flicked dust and sepia-toned fragments from her hands. Her boots squeaked over tiles that were, of course, another shade of brown. Then a different sort of squeaking registered in her ears. Pausing, she cocked her head, listening to soft scuttling sounds that she tracked in the direction of the oven.

Rust-coloured like the Kelvinator, the gas stove and oven combo sat wedged between two sets of grease-spattered brown drawers. Lesley made a face and grabbed the broken broom from where it lay on the floor.

‘I knew it,’ Toby said, ‘you’ve got roaches. You’ve bought the Roach-Carlton.’

Lesley shrugged. She wasn’t a big fan of bugs, fleas were especially disgusting, but in renovating for profit she’d dealt with a fair number of insects. She didn’t get all freaked out by them like Kelly did; she was too practical for that. She reached forward and opened the oven door. It creaked on its disused, dust-caked hinges and something bug-sized fell out. It tumbled to the tiles below with a metallic clink and rolled across the floor, coming to rest in front of the dishwasher. It was a penny, a shiny copper penny that gleamed brightly against the cracked, dull, brown tile.

Toby exhaled. ‘Money’s good. Maybe there’ll be an envelope full of it in there.’

‘Cross your fingers.’ She picked up the coin, set it on the orange countertop, and turned back to the oven, peering inside. A small bulb at the rear lit the cavity. There was enough light to see a filthy quilted potholder stuffed into the back along with a dryer fabric-softener sheet and a large, fluffy ball of lint.

As she reached in and tugged at the softener slip, the big ball of lint separated into smaller balls of lint that spilled out of the oven and scrambled over her feet.

Instinct took over. With Toby shrieking, she smacked the broken broom against a linty orb as it scurried for the cover under the dishwasher. Moles, roaches, overkill brown décor, a Brady Bunch kitchen, and the smell of cat pee Lesley could handle.

Pack rats were a different story.

Parts of Los Alamos were stuck in a time warp. The town had a Starbucks and a bagel shop, but some things remained as they’d always been. The Fuller Lodge, a boys’ Ranch School until the government took it over for the Manhattan Project in the 40s, still looked like a giant log cabin in the woods. The Post Office still maintained its officious grey stucco. Trujillo’s Timber & Hardware still occupied the corner of Central and Fifteenth Avenue.

Inside Trujillo’s was blessedly cool, but a strange fragrance, a mixture of WD40, weed killer and popcorn scented the air. It made Lesley’s empty stomach growl almost as loud as her motorcycle. She paused near the service counter and looked at her watch, trying to remember what time it had been when she had eaten breakfast.

A pretty Latina salesgirl, half hidden by a movie-style popcorn machine on the service counter, smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said, adjusting her green apron. Her nametag was upside down.

Lesley was pretty good reading upside down and backwards. The girl’s name was Daphne.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Daphne smiled.

Lesley nodded, ‘Does the store still rent out equipment?’

‘We sure do.’

‘Great. What do you have to cut through a rocky jungle?’

‘We got a Bush Hog. Is that what you’re after?’

In Chicago, the places she’d grown accustomed to renovating or restoring didn’t have yards. Lesley was quite adept at using hammer drills, nail guns, planers, but when it came to lawn care machinery she was lost. ‘Know anyone who can run it?’

‘We got a part-time kid who does that sort of thing. He’s always looking for extra work. I can set it up for you. He’s trying to buy a car, so I’m sure he’ll fit you in whenever he has the time.’

She borrowed Daphne’s pen, took a business card from a pocket and scribbled on it. ‘Let’s try and make it tomorrow then. Here’s my address on Isleta. That’s my cell number on the bottom.’

Daphne looked at the card Lesley handed over. ‘Conversions? Are you a nun or something?’

‘No. That’s my business name. I renovate properties. So I pay for the Bush Hog rental now, and then pay the kid for the work later?’

‘Yep.’

‘What’s the going rate for a single yard job?’

‘Thirty-five bucks sound OK?’

‘Sounds fine. Maybe I’d better start an account. Can I do that?’

‘Yeah. You gotta fill out an application. We can do it electronically.’

‘You’ll need to check my credit details, won’t you?’ Lesley fished her wallet out of the back pocket of her shorts, laying her driver’s license on the counter. ‘What do you have for moles and pack rats?’

‘Eee, rats,’ Daphne said, punching Lesley’s particulars into a computer, ‘I hate those things!’

‘Any idea what I can use?’

‘Hand grenades.’

‘How about for moles?’

‘Traps, you know, like for mice. My dad swears Juicy Fruit gum works if you drop it in their holes, but there’s those cone-shaped poison-filled things you put in the ground, or you can get those little cages from the county.’

Lesley’s stomach growled noisily. ‘I’ll look into that. Can I have some other items delivered along with the Bush Hog?’

‘No problem.’

‘Good. We can just put it all on the account.’

Daphne unhooked a clipboard from behind the counter. It had a pen and a credit application attached. She handed it over. ‘Here you go. You need to fill in a few details yourself and sign. Even with the computer, we still keep a paper copy of accounts, just in case.’

‘If it’s OK, I’ll use my business details.’

‘Sure. I’ll get your order started on the computer.’

‘For now, just put down six gallons of white sealer-primer, KILZ if you’ve got it, four gallons of Perma-White Mold- and Mildew-Proof Paint, and a broom.’

‘The old-fashioned kind or a short bristle one that you push?’

‘I’ll look at what you have.’ Lesley nodded and set to work scribbling on the form.

Daphne started keying in the order. ‘Hey, DB,’ she said, giving someone a nod.

‘Hiya, Daph,’ a man replied, ‘is the popcorn fresh?’

‘Uh-huh, just made it.’

From the corner of her eye, Lesley saw fingers reach across the counter to take a small bag of popcorn from Daphne. ‘’Scuse me,’ the hand’s owner said.

Lesley scooted over slightly.

‘You both back from lunch now?’ the sales girl asked.

The man crunched a mouthful of popcorn, ‘Yeah, the kid’s ’round the back.’

‘I’ve got another run for him today and one for tomorrow, too. He’ll have that car by the end of summer.’

‘Thanks, Daph. It may be his dream, but a teenage son with a car is a parent’s worst nightmare.’

‘Eeee, I thought it was getting a girl pregnant.’

‘Let’s not even think about that scenario. For my peace of mind, I’m trying to maintain a little control over his advancement from two wheels to four. Fabian call?’

‘About twenty minutes ago. He said you’d need three.’

‘Well, if he said three, I guess I better get five,’ the man set the bag of popcorn on the counter and moved off in another direction.

While she hadn’t looked at him, the guy had an enthralling scent, like cypress and cedar mixed with soap and the slight tang of masculine perspiration. Lesley’s hormone radar took notice and things fluttered appropriately, but what really got her going was the buttery aroma beside her elbow. The man may have smelled delightful, but the popcorn made her mouth water.

Her empty stomach let out another rumble and her hand moved for the discarded bag, but instead of chowing down someone’s unwanted snack food, she decided to stop at Sonic on the way home. She’d have a good grease-feast with their onion rings.

Sonic’s onion rings were sweet and crunchy. While some women craved chocolate, Lesley craved Sonic’s onion rings, something not available in Chicago, despite it being a city open 24/7. For just a moment, she thought buying a house to flip in Los Alamos might have been the result of an onion ring craving brought on by hormonal fluctuations due to impending peri- or full-blown menopause rather than greed. Whatever the reason, it was definitely something she could ponder better over onion rings; large onion rings and a 44 ounce root beer. Quickly, she finished the application and handed it over to Daphne, ‘Where would I find brooms?’

Daphne swept her long black hair over one shoulder and pointed, ‘Aisle three, on the left side. The rat traps we have are around the corner, over by the bug spray. Would you like some popcorn? It’s free.’

‘No, thank you, but it sure smells good.’ After a polite nod Lesley proceeded to aisle three, singing under her breath, ‘I’m gonna sweep those rats right outta my house…’ She rounded the corner of a display rack hung with flower seeds, ‘I’m gonna sweep those rats right outta my—’ and stopped dead in her tracks.

He might have been crouched down in front of dustpans, but his profile was unmistakable, as distinctive as the aquiline nose on his tanned face.

She smiled, ready to say hello, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled suddenly. Her brain sent out signals of danger. Primitive instinct made Lesley take an involuntary step backwards.

Then she took a whole bunch of hurried steps backwards and ducked around into the next aisle. And, just to be safe, she moved to the rear of the store, all the way to the back, where paint cans were stacked in a pyramid display, and waited until the hazard had passed.

Beyond nail guns and hammers, the smell of milled timber, caulking and tile grout, there was something earthy, primal about manual labour that made sweating under a coating of cement dust appealing to Dominic. Getting his hands dirty was something he always loved and, brother, had he been thinking about how he could get his hands dirty with the strawberry-blonde examining the rainbow rack of paint sample cards. She’d looked attractive bent over the front counter, but the way she stood now showed off exactly what was wrapped in the pretty package.

Dominic felt his blood flow change direction.

He moved up the aisle to the back of the store, walking towards her. The closer he got, the better she looked, the more ideas he started to have. Cobwebs and crunchy brown pine needles stuck to the back of her sleeveless blue blouse. Most of her sun-kissed ponytail had come undone, but what was secure bounced when she reached out for a booklet of Laura Ashley colour samples. Worn, red cowboy boots accentuated the delectable back curve of her knees. Her olive green cargo shorts were too big for her and sat low over her hips. He got a nice glimpse of creamy, pinkish-white waist when she stretched up on tiptoe for the booklet. She tugged hard at the tightly-packed paper display, jerking so forcefully the entire contents of the rack dislodged and spilled over her in a shower of flapping cardstock.

He heard her swear under her breath as she crouched to pick up the mess she’d made. Another zesty rush of desire hit him low. Glory days, she looked soft, just like a woman ought to. He hated females with sculpted, hard bodies of sinew and bone. God intended women to have curvy bodies and, as far as he was concerned, this woman had everything exactly as nature designed. Lord, he would love to have pulled the band from that messy hair and started something else nature designed.

Mouth twitching over a wolfish smile, he pulled on his sheep’s skin and paused in the aisle behind her. ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’ he asked, all sweet and nice.

She turned slightly, head down, eyes on the Laura Ashley booklets in her hand, hair in her face, just the tip of her nose poking out.

Something about her perfume was familiar. It was light, subtly floral, and tickled his memory in a far off, hazy manner. In the scant millisecond it took his brain to process the scent, to go through a catalogue of females he’d known: Willa, old girlfriends, aunts, ladies he’d worked with at the Sandia Lab in Albuquerque, the woman lifted her chin and turned to look at him. His rakish thoughts deflated.

So did his dick.

Dominic couldn’t believe he’d just had a hard-on for his youngest brother’s ex-whatever one called the female party from an annulled marriage. Were there words for former spouses of an invalidated union? ‘Lesley,’ he said, when his tongue started working again.

‘Hello, Dominic.’ She gave him a small, wavering smile. ‘It’s been a while.’

He looked her up and down, hands on his hips. ‘It’s been what, thirteen years?’

‘More like sixteen,’ she said.

‘Thirteen, sixteen, not much difference there.’ Dominic’s fingertips smoothed over an eyebrow. He was still coming to terms with finding her attractive. He stared at her, trying to figure out why his body had responded so exuberantly.

Lesley stared back and wondered if Dominic was about to spit on her like his mother had. She’d given up feeling awkward and unattractive shortly after leaving Terry and this town, but the scowl on Dominic’s face brought those feelings back. His gaze bore into her as if she were still a naïve twenty-something – with two heads, a mono-brow, buckteeth and horns.

That momentary reminder of ugliness had been enough. Instinct said to avoid him, and she had tried, but he’d sniffed her out and now he blocked her access to the aisle. Lesley was not the type to back down from confrontation and, quite clearly, the way he’d cornered her, confrontation was his intention.

He stood too close, towering over her, which wasn’t hard; at five-one most people did. However, Dominic loomed, in more ways than one. Aloof, and barely twenty-two when he’d received his PhD in Quantum Physics, his intellectual ego was even more imposing than his stature.

Big brains or big bodies, a lot of men used intimidation to their advantage, but that sort of thing never worked on Lesley. That tactic simply ignited her inner Napoleon. Initially, she’d wanted to be civil because she felt that was the right thing to do. She had nothing against him and she’d even tried to smile, but since civil wasn’t going to happen, she could play it his way too.

Sun-burnished threads of gold, red and more than a little silver in his hair made his tanned complexion seem warmer, as hotly intense as his blue-flame