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“Make eye contact, Dylan,” Eric said. “Talk to me man-to-man.”
The teenager fought it for a few seconds, then put his shoulders back and lifted his head. “I didn’t want to wake you up, so I went for a bike ride to kill time. I wasn’t running away.”
“Are you hungry?” Eric asked.
The boy looked startled, then he nodded.
“Even after eating a dozen chocolate-chip cookies?” Eric stepped back so that Dylan could come inside.
“Three dozen,” Marcy said, torn between hugging the kid and shaking him.
“They were good,” Dylan said, offering the barest smile. “Best I’ve ever had.”
She sighed. “Do you like omelets?”
“I’m not picky.”
“Go wash up.” She headed into the kitchen, ate the last few bites on her plate then went to the stove. She could hear them talking in the living room but, unlike the night before, she only caught words now and then. Soon Eric returned and sat at the table to finish eating.
“You didn’t look surprised to see him,” Marcy said quietly to him.
“Having taught for a long time has given me insight. But also, starting when I was twenty-two, I raised my four younger siblings. I got pretty good at reading teenagers.”
She stared at him, surprised, although after thinking about it, she realized she could see him in that role. Some people were born to be parents, were born protective and paternal.
“Is that what you meant when you said you’d raised one family?”
“Yes.”
“You had to know I would think you were at least fifty, if not sixty, years old.”
“I was having fun with you.”
And she’d started hunting for a woman for him, someone age appropriate, as he’d said. This changed everything—
Well, maybe not. There was still Annie, next door.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
“No. Have you?”
“Guess.” She smiled.
Dylan came in and took a seat.
“Grab yourself something to drink,” Eric said, refilling his coffee mug before Marcy could wait on either of them. Then Eric’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, grabbed Marcy’s notebook and pen and left the room.
“You can butter the toast when it comes up,” Marcy said when Dylan had poured himself a glass of orange juice.
He moved close to the toaster, leaned against the counter and gulped down the entire glass of juice then refilled it.
“Where’s your stuff?” she asked.
“Stuff?”
“Change of clothes. Toothbrush. Stuff.”
“In my backpack. Out in the yard, with my bike.”
“If you’d like to use the washer and dryer, now’s the time.” She slid the omelet onto his plate as he buttered the toast.
He dug into the food as he had the night before, barely tasting it, just shoveling it in.
She filled her mug and sat across from him.
“I’ve never seen hair like yours,” he said, catching her off guard, his mouth full. “Not red but not brown either.”
She ran a hand down it. She’d let it grow to the middle of her back, only occasionally pulling it into a ponytail when it was going to get in her way. “Is that a compliment?”
He shrugged. “It’s nice.”
“So you weren’t raised by wolves.”
He laughed, bits of toast flying.
“How did you know when to break in?” By watching me? she thought, realizing he had to have done so.
“There’s no curtains. You were always working. Cleaning. I only watched the house to see when you turned out the lights, then I waited a while before I came inside.”
“Where’d you sleep? There wasn’t any furniture until yesterday.”
“On the floor in the dining room.”
“When would you take off?”
“First light.”
“Why’d you take care of the cardboard and the other stuff? Why’d you do dishes?”
“I was paying for my keep where I could. You shouldn’t ever hire that drywall guy again, by the way. He should’ve cleaned up his own mess.”
“I’ll remember that, thanks. I’m Marcy, by the way.”
Eric returned. He set his cell phone and the notebook on the kitchen counter. “Change of plans. I’m starting work on Monday instead of four weeks from now. One of the professors had emergency heart surgery. They need me to fill in for the remainder of the summer session.”
“Teaching what?” Marcy asked.
“Vector analysis.”
She exchanged a look with Dylan. “Which is what?”
“Simplified, it’s multivariable calculus.”
“That’s simplified, huh?”
He almost smiled. “I could give you a few paragraphs of further definition, but I thought to spare you that.”
“Thank you,” she said dramatically, making Dylan laugh. She looked at her watch. “I should probably get going. I’ll do the dishes first.”
“Dylan will do the dishes,” Eric said. “He obviously knows how.”
“I don’t mind—” She stopped at his I’m-in-charge-here expression. “Okay.”
Eric eyed them both. “Here’s the deal. I’d expected to have a month to work on the house. I wanted to do a lot of the work myself, to have that personal satisfaction. Now I’ll be gone three-to-four hours a day, Monday through Thursday, plus prep work, plus I have my fall classes to prepare for.”
“Guess you couldn’t turn down the job, huh?” Marcy asked.
“I could have, but it seemed wiser to say yes. Goodwill adds up, especially when you’re the new guy.”
“I understand that,” she said. “Sometimes we have to do what we have to do.”
Eric studied her, trying to keep his eyes on her face. Ever since he’d walked into the kitchen earlier and had seen her standing there wearing shorts and a tank top he’d been forcing his gaze above her shoulders, with only occasional success. He’d always been drawn to slender, athletic, quiet women. Marcy laughed easily and with open pleasure. She wore her hair down, untamed, and was all tempting curves. He wouldn’t mind running his hands—
Someone kicked him under the table, yanking him out of his fantasy.
“Dude,” Dylan said, looking embarrassed.
Had Marcy caught him staring, too? “Sorry. Too much on my mind. I lost my train of thought.”
“You were about to offer me a job,” Dylan said, angling toward him as if persuading him with body language alone.
“What makes you think that?”
“Your hands are soft. Do you know anything about remodeling or yard work?”
Marcy leaned both elbows on the table and pressed her mouth against her fists, her eyes sparkling.
Eric looked at Dylan again. “Do you?”
“More’n you, I bet.”
Eric wondered what had brought the kid out of his shell. “You might be surprised. I’ve been living in New York City for the past twelve years, but before that I did plenty of home repair and yard work.” Which wasn’t entirely true. He’d made his siblings help, too. Building character, he’d always told them. “What experience do you have?”
“I’ve earned my keep here and there. You planning on remodeling in here?”
“I expect to gut the kitchen and all the bathrooms. Kitchen first. Bathrooms as I have time.”
“I’m a hard worker.” Desperation overrode Dylan’s usual attitude. “I don’t know much about plumbing or electrical stuff, but I know what tools do what. Maybe I don’t look strong, but I am. I can demo the kitchen, haul everything out. I could do that while you’re at work, no problem.”
How long had the boy been on the streets? Long enough to become a hustler? Would the cops have known that about him?
Marcy didn’t interrupt the conversation, but she was obviously interested.
“You said you don’t have another job lined up,” he said to her. “And nowhere to live.”
“Just my regular Saturday job tonight.”
“Wait. You’re homeless?” Dylan asked.
“Not in the way you are, but technically, yes.”
He frowned, as if the concept was beyond his comprehension.
Eric took charge again. “Here’s what I’m proposing. Dylan, I could use you to do exactly what you just said—demo the kitchen, but also work in the yard. It would save me from hiring a gardener for the cleanup. Do a good job and you’ll have a reference to use when you apply for work elsewhere.”
Dylan’s mouth tightened. “You ever try to apply for work when you don’t have an address?”
“No, I never have. Maybe we can figure out a way to deal with that. Marcy, if you would stay on, too, I could use you to supervise the work people and also pitch in where you can. We’ll discuss wages later. Would that be possible?” He wasn’t sure how well he was going to deal with having her around all the time when he wanted to sleep with her. But she was a hard worker and a known quantity. He just needed to keep a rein on his hormones, which had sprung to life in a big way since he’d first seen her last night.
“We’ll talk,” she said.
“If you stay, so can Dylan. Sorry,” he said to the boy, “but I don’t know you well enough to leave you here alone all day.”
Marcy’s expression said it all—she knew he was playing on her sympathies for the teenager. “We’ll talk,” she said again, more coolly.
He respected her for not letting him ramrod her, but he figured she would end up saying yes, anyway. He’d learned a lot about her sense of responsibility during their phone calls as he’d driven across the country, plus he saw she had a soft spot for the boy.
He also figured he would be helping her out, because she didn’t have another house-sitting job to go to. Win-win.
Dylan stood. “You go talk. I’ll do the dishes.”
“Shall we?” Eric asked Marcy. “Upstairs?”
She sighed but she went with him, leading the way up the staircase, her hips in his direct line of sight. He wished they were going up more than one flight.
They went into his bedroom, the only upstairs room containing furniture. He shut the door, then offered her the bed to sit on. She perched on the edge. He went to stand by the window, looking out at the tree-lined street. He hadn’t lived in a neighborhood like this since his sister, Becca, had left for college and he’d sold the family house and moved to New York to teach at NYU.
“It’s a pretty neighborhood,” Marcy said. “I hope you like kids, because the block is full of them. It can get noisy. Although that’ll change when school starts again.”
“I do like kids. I intend to have a few of my own. How about you?”
Her brows arched, as if questioning his right to ask that—or perhaps at the fact he wanted a few, not a couple, of kids.
“Not anytime soon,” she said.
“Why not?” He put up a hand. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“It’s fine. I’m only twenty-eight, and right now I have goals to meet. Finish college, decide on a career. That’s critical to me. And, no, I haven’t been married.”
