Maybe Megan had pushed this Harper guy at him because he was her old school buddy, but the guy seemed to know his stuff. The living room was twelve degrees warmer already for having received the expanding foam treatment and a couple of wood screws.
The man himself was currently perched on a twenty-foot ladder with his power screwdriver and foam gun, checking the rest of the windows. The part of him currently visible through the kitchen window was very nice indeed—worn blue jeans covering some musculature that hadn’t come from a gym, not with those thighs.
Note to self, find a gym.
Also note to self, stop noticing how well those jeans fit. And quit speculating on the package inside those jeans. Just because Don Harper was only visible from the waist down wasn’t license to ogle.
Worth ogling, though.
Oh terrific, Trevor. Go six months without sex and you start perving on the handyman.
Okay, it was nice to know that just because he was coming up on the big four-oh, he wasn’t dead yet. A long way from dead, actually—and while Harper had suggested checking the chimney for birds’ nests while he was on the roof, he wasn’t here to conduct a trouser-snake deflation.
Assembling the bookshelves while Harper worked on the windows gave Trevor something to do to make this house into a home. He busied himself with his own screwdriver, lining the entire living room with the makings of his personal library. Hmmm, should he get a desk to coordinate with the Scandinavian lines of the bookshelves, or something more ornate, or maybe even rustic, to go with the paneling? That honey gold finish had decades to achieve the warm amber-brown glow that seemed perfectly Montana. His bookshelves looked brash and modern next to the walls—covering them with his books helped a little. Sabrina snuffled at each box of books as if a strange transformation occurred somewhere in transit.
No, the only transformation was in Trevor—he’d be the reclusive writer until the wounds healed. Anything he needed from Hollywood could be done over the Internet or through his agent.
The footsteps from the roof had gone silent somewhere around the second to last box of books. Perhaps Trevor should have waited to shelve his own work, but having them out made the space feel more his. The novels were romances—the short, naughty stories lived on the Kindle—no one would have reason to admire all the naked chests on the covers. As if he was inviting anyone over to socialize who might start thumbing through his collection.
Sabrina announced Harper’s presence at the front door with a couple of happy yaps and some joyful jumping. She wasn’t getting much above knee height and then hitting the ground for some belly rubs. Harper shifted his tools to free up a petting hand.
“She must like you.” Trevor smiled indulgently on the spectacle at his feet. The rest of Harper looked as fine as the blue jeans section, with a shock of dark hair falling into his eyes and a light jacket stretched across broad shoulders. He wasn’t perving, he was just noticing. Like artwork: look and don’t touch. “Sabrina soaks up a lot of petting but she hardly ever rolls over for people.”
“She must smell Bandit on me.” Harper rubbed the dog’s belly to an accompaniment of wiggles and panting. He took his hand away, bringing her to her feet and rooting around for more caresses.
Okay, Trevor could respect that.
Damn, he was perving. Harper had to be about ten years younger than Trevor, with some sun crinkles around his eyes, a close clipped beard, and a bright smile with a slightly crooked tooth in front. About as fine a landscape as the Rockies.
For a guy who was nursing a broken heart, Trevor was certainly noticing a lot.
Maybe he ought to cultivate his broken heart, the better to get his book written, but a guy couldn’t ache forever.
Well, he might ache a long time and even spend some of that aching time in the hospital if he hit on a mountain man in the middle of Montana. All the more reason to keep his noticing to himself.
Harper and Sabrina had achieved the ear-scritching stage when Trevor came back to the conversation.
“...seen a dog like her.”
“Oh, she’s a puggle.” She’d cost a pretty penny, too, and probably the only reason Antony left her behind were those irritating habits she had of eating regularly and going for walks and requiring attention at moments of her choosing and not his. Jerk.
“Hadn’t heard of that.” Harper fended off doggy-kisses but kept petting.
“Pug crossed with beagle,” Trevor explained.
“Oh, no wonder you want a fence then. Mama got out and had herself a good time. Don’t worry none, darlin’, my Bandit’s a mutt too.” Harper ruffled her ears one last time and stood up.
A mutt! How dare he! Trevor kept his voice as even as he could. “She came from a reputable breeder.”
“That’s embarrassing. Bet the breeder was glad to find you a good home then.” Harper managed to include both of them in the conversation.
“I mean—” Trevor’s tone took on an edge he couldn’t quite control. “—she’s a designer crossbreed. The pups are over a thousand dollars.”
That dragged Harper’s attention from Sabrina to him, and finally made an impression.
“My mistake. Guess things are a bit different in California.” Color rose in Harper’s neck and he held all six feet of himself stiffly. “I’ll get out and measure for the fence then. Three feet high all the way around, you said?” Without waiting for a reply, Harper let himself out and headed toward his pickup truck.
“You’re not a mutt, Sabrina.” Trevor knelt to snuggle his dog, because that way he didn’t have to watch Harper measuring and making notes and carefully not looking at the house. “You’re not.”
***
Way to make a nice impression, asshole. Insult his dog. Harper made his apology and had to hope the new fella would be willing to leave it at that.
Yeah, things were different in California—wasn’t that why he wanted the fencing job bad enough to put off spreading gravel on the Murrays’ driveway until next week? Someone from the mythical land of the fruits and nuts? A thousand questions would have to wait until he was sure Trevor—what a name!—had forgiven the slight on his furry little pride and joy.
People moved out of Copper Bluff, they didn’t move in. Unless they were moving in from the wide spots on the roads that made this old mining town look like a real town. And Trevor came here from California! He could have gone anywhere, seen anything, and he came here.
If he really hated people enough to leave the big city for a sleepy burg like this, he might not want to answer any questions at all. Especially for a guy who insulted his dog.
Don might have to get this fence built and keep his curiosity to himself. Damn it. Because the man himself almost seemed like the answer to one of his questions.
And that could open the door to a thousand others he better never ask.