LITMIR.BIZ

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she’d let the drunk into a secured apartment building. He’d helped unload the truck.

      At least she’d be safer here than walking on River Street when the bars closed.

      He checked the time on his phone, but the numbers didn’t make sense—6:08 p.m.? It was after dinner. The sun had set. It had to be after eight—8:06 p.m.?

      The kid thought he was a butthead. Hell, maybe he was. He planned to keep his distance from the pair. Kids made him uncomfortable. They guessed they were smarter than him.

      Everyone was smarter than him. First-graders could read better than he did. Nathan inhaled and choked on the dust.

      He unrolled the architect’s plans and anchored them on his toolbox. Since he’d remodeled restaurants in Atlanta, he was in charge of this project.

      Studying the blueprint, he willed his eyes and brain to work together for once. He planned to lay out the footings tonight. No way would he let the crew see him struggle.

      His twin brother, Daniel, might think Mom and Pop had scraped the bottom of the barrel asking Nathan to return to Forester Construction, but he would prove his brother wrong. He’d grown up in the five years since he’d been kicked out of the family company. Nathan wanted back in, permanently, not just while Pop went through chemo in Texas.

      For a week every month, Pop and Mom traveled from Savannah to Houston. Pop was enrolled in a clinical trial to help him beat back the monster Myelodysplastic syndromes. MDS. Cancer.

      The thought of not being good enough for the family business still stung. All his life, Nathan had wanted to be normal. Was that too much to hope for? To read without getting confused? To remember the names of people he’d known all his life? Hell, just reading street signs would be nice.

      He shook it off. He’d done okay in Atlanta. He’d coped.

      Locating the back door on the plans, he calculated where the first wall support would be and recited the numbers into his phone. Then he grabbed a tape measure and a roll of flagging ribbon. Time to translate the plan into the actual space.

      He moved to the kitchen area and tucked the end of the tape measure into a crack between the floor and the wall. Checking his phone, he walked straight back. He needed thirty feet. He looked at the numbers on his phone and the ones on the tape measure. The numbers swam and twisted. He closed his eyes and looked again, but it didn’t help.

      He ripped off a piece of flagging tape and placed it on the floor, not willing to commit. Then he worked his way through the plan.

      After he’d taken a half dozen measurements, he stepped away, comparing the markings with the drawing. The architect’s plan was a rectangle. His mess of orange tags looked more like a star.

      “Damn it!”

      He kicked one of the pillars supporting the second story. Why couldn’t he do this? He kicked the pillar again and dust rained down.

      He’d be here all night and even then he might not get it right. The crew would show up at seven thirty tomorrow and he’d still be doing effing measurements a ten-year-old could do.

      He headed to his toolbox, yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a flask.

      The door to the courtyard creaked open. He tucked the flask in his back pocket and spun to see who was spying on his stupidity.

      “Ooh.” Cheryl filled the narrow doorway. “What are you doing?”

      “Working,” he snapped.

      She crossed her arms over her chest. Her plain gray T-shirt strained against the swell of her small breasts. Her faded cutoff jeans cupped her ass like a man’s hands would.

      He fought to keep his eyes on her face. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. He’d only seen it brushing her shoulders a few times. It was straight and fine and would feel like silk in his fingers. Not that he would ever touch Cheryl’s hair.

      “Abby told me the work wouldn’t start until tomorrow. It’s almost ten o’clock.” She hesitated before stepping inside. “Did you kick something?”

      He swallowed. “The post.”

      Her brown eyes grew as large as dinner plates. She stepped back. Yeah. Be afraid.

      “What is that?” She moved into the room, pointing at the orange tape.

      “A fucking mess.”

      Her shoulders straightened. “I know you’re supervising this project. I’d appreciate you warning the crew that a six-year-old boy lives here. I don’t want him learning words like that.”

      “Sure.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing off his cap. The same kid who called him butthead.

      It landed at Cheryl’s feet. She picked it up, batted it against her leg to dust off the dirt and then handed it to him. “What are the orange tags supposed to be?”

      He jammed his cap back on his head. “I was marking off the kitchen. We’re pouring footings tomorrow.”

      Now he’d have to ask one of the crew to help. Apparently, he couldn’t measure and mark. The other option was to have his twin help. Perfect Daniel would give him the look. The one that said Nathan was an idiot. Besides, he’d lied and told Pop and Daniel he could do this.

      Cheryl stared at the mess on the floor, frowned and then moved to the plans he hadn’t rolled up. She carried them to where he’d been measuring. “This is close.”

      “Does it look like a rectangle to you?”

      Her head snapped up at the snarl in his voice. Her brown eyes flashed. “Do you want help or not?”

      She was willing to help him? Relief ran through him like a warm shower, easing the strain in his shoulders. “Yeah, I do.” Then he remembered her son. What the hell was his name? “What about your...kid?”

      “Josh sleeps like a rock.” She turned. Clipped to her back pocket was some sort of monitor. “If he wakes, I’ll hear him.”

      His eyes lingered on her lovely rounded butt. He wouldn’t mind wrapping his hands around those cheeks.

      Too bad she had the kid. Josh. Josh always glared at him. Kids were a deal breaker.

      “Let’s start over,” she said. “What’s the scale?”

      He knew this. “It’s...” The words slipped away. His fingers formed fists.

      She stared at the drawings. “Is it an eighth of an inch equals a foot?”

      He nodded, afraid the words would tangle. The story of his life. His fingers flexed against his thighs.

      “Wait. They already have the feet marked here. That’s what this means, right?”

      She moved close, showing him the blueprint. She smelled like—apples. His mouth watered. When her head turned, her hair brushed against his arm, a silky, soft brush.

      He’d known it would be.

      She shook the blueprint. Using her thumb, she pointed to a number. “Is that the measurement from one wall to another?”

      “Yes.” He choked out the word, hoping he’d answered correctly. Sometimes, as much as he concentrated, everything came out twisted.

      “Let’s see where you went wrong.” She set down the plans. “Can you hold the other end of the tape measure?”

      He headed to the wall to be a friggin’ anchor.

      “This one’s right.” She tapped the first piece of tape he’d placed.

      They slid along the wall.

      “This one needs to be here.” She moved the orange tape. And kept checking and rechecking each measurement. He’d gotten half of them right. What had taken him thirty minutes took her five.

      “That

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