Chapter 1
Ben
Iwoke in a foul mood. Hardly surprising, seeing as a number of my windows had to be boarded up after the thug broke them and then sprayed paint throughout the house.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the second I opened my eyes, the word murderer greeted me, just like the same word painted onto my driveway greeted my neighbors.
Why I had been branded a murderer, I didn’t know. Sure, I’d evicted people who had later gone on to die, but I hadn’t been the one to end their pitiful lives. If people couldn’t look after themselves properly, it wasn’t my fault.
Death was coming for us all; some just happened to meet their fate early. Didn’t mean I was responsible.
It was damn typical. The one evening I decided to stay late in the office instead of coming home to carry on working, and the little shit decided to wreck my place. If I had been home when he broke in, he wouldn’t have been in one piece when the cops came to arrest him.
For reasons I would never understand, I allowed Rob to talk me into not pressing charges, instead getting me to agree to his son fixing my house up. The only reason I agreed was so I didn’t have the hassle of dealing with the police and a court case. I had enough on my plate as it was.
Besides, by agreeing to Rob’s offer, I was going to be getting the damaged interior decorated for free, which was more than what would have happened had I pressed charges.
I’d stipulated to Rob that I didn’t just want the mess cleaned, I wanted the whole hog.
New kitchen, new windows, fresh coats of paint, all at his kid’s expense.
I wasn’t convinced the boy would stick to my terms of the agreement, so when the bell rang at five minutes to seven the following morning, I was more than surprised. Flinging the door open, Rob stood on my doorstep, looking sheepish. Next to him, his son.
I’d never met Tristan Crutchens before, and the instant my gaze landed on him, I wanted nothing more than to squash him like a bug under my shoe.
I couldn’t say what made me feel like that.
Perhaps it was the cocky smirk spreading across his chiseled features, or the fact that he’d turned up in a tight t-shirt showcasing his muscles, but was covered in paint and had holes in it.
Or maybe it was the way his gaze traveled over the length of my body before he licked his lips.
Whatever it was, my jaw twitched with the need to put him in his place.
“Mr. McScroodge,” Rob started, noting the way Tristan and I were glaring at each other. “This is my son, Tristan. He has something to say to you.”
“Mr. McScroodge,” Tristan said, his arrogant smirk widening. “I’m sorry about what happened to your house. My temper got the better of me, and I acted without thinking.”
My fists clenched at the insincerity of his tone. “Doesn’t sound to me like you’re that sorry, boy. Perhaps I should allow the police to proceed with the charges after all.”
Rob stepped forward, panic flashing over his face. “Please, Mr. McScroodge. Tris is sorry. He’s just upset.” He glanced at his son, his eyes pleading as he silently mouthed please.
Tristan sighed, briefly closing his eyes.
When they opened again, he met my furious gaze before raising his hand, offering it to me to shake.
“Mr. McScroodge, I really am sorry for what I did to your house, and I’m grateful that you didn’t press charges.
I promise you, I will work hard to fix the damage. ”
I glowered at him. There was a fraction more sincerity in his tone this time, but I was yet to be convinced that he would fix the mess he’d made to a standard I was happy with. Ignoring his hand, he finally lowered it when he realized I wouldn’t shake it.
“I’ll accept your apology when you prove that you’re sorry,” I barked.
“You’ve got until the end of December to repair my property.
I expect you here every day at 7 am sharp, and you will work until 7 pm.
If I so much as get the feeling that you’re not pulling your weight, then I won’t hesitate to go back to the cops and file a complaint. Do I make myself clear?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and I internally patted myself on the back for pissing him off the way he’d pissed me off. He quickly schooled his features, and a beaming smile graced his face. My breath hitched, but I refused to acknowledge how damn handsome he was.
Tristan was a similar height to me, maybe an inch or two shorter than my 6ft 2, and with his broad shoulders and muscular arms, I wondered if he worked out like me.
His mousey-brown hair was a mess, as if he’d rolled out of bed and hadn’t bothered to brush it, and a few strands rested against his forehead.
Whereas Rob had a pale face, Tristan’s was bronzed, an indication that he’d spent the entire summer outside in the sun. His sharp jawline had smatterings of day-old stubble, adding to my theory that he’d rolled out of bed and hadn’t bothered shaving.
Long, dark lashes framed golden brown eyes, which sparkled with life; a far cry from my dull, almost black eyes. As I stared at him, a knot tightened in my stomach; one I’d felt only a few times before but had never acted upon, nor would I.
“Mr. McScroodge,” Rob said before his son could reply. “I know I’m pushing my luck here, but to expect Tristan to work every day for the next month is a little…unfair. He needs rest, you see, he has-”
I turned my furious gaze on Rob, snarling at his audacity to imply that I was being unfair, when Tristan beat me to it.
“Dad.” He gave his dad a subtle shake of his head, telling him not to divulge whatever it was he was about to.
A silent conversation passed between them, and I watched, intrigue growing as to what Tristan didn’t want his dad to tell me.
After several seconds, Rob’s shoulders slumped, and Tristan returned his attention to me, his grin still fixed firmly in place.
“It’s all good, I’ll be here until the work is done. ”
An unfamiliar feeling swirled in the pit of my stomach as my gaze darted between the two, and before I could stop myself, words fell from my mouth. “I’ll allow you to have Sundays off. But I still expect the work to be completed on time.”
Tristan’s brow quirked in surprise as Rob released a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mr. McScroodge. I appreciate it.” He shuffled awkwardly before adding, “Well. I’ll be going, I don’t want to be late to the office.”
“I’ll see you tonight, Dad.”
Tristan patted his dad on the back as Rob gave his son an affectionate smile before getting into the car that was parked behind a van, signwritten with Crutchens’ Interiors.
The two of us watched in silence as Rob started his car and headed down the driveway, leaving me alone with the menace who thought it was funny to break into people’s homes.
When his car was out of sight, Tristan turned to me, his dazzling smile reaching his eyes. “Right, I best get started.”
My mood never improved as the day went on.
Not that I was ever really in a good mood, but today, something was irking me, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Whatever was bothering me had kept me distracted as I tried to work through the mountain of paperwork I had, but my mind kept wandering.
Mainly to the irritating bug I’d left at my house this morning.
I didn’t trust him; he was too fucking happy and upbeat when he had no reason to be.
It was evident from his beat-up van, to his torn clothes, that he didn’t make much money from his business, yet there he was, grinning at me like a damn Cheshire cat as I walked him through my house and instructed him on the repairs I wanted carried out.
My gut told me that by the time I made it home, he would have spent the day pissing around instead of getting on with the work. That was if he was still at the house in the first place.
When 6 pm rolled around and the office closed, I made it home in record time, shocked to see that his van was still parked in my driveway. To my annoyance, though, the spray-painted word marring my drive was as clear as day, fueling my sour mood.
I parked my sparkling new convertible A-Class Mercedes behind his van and stormed into the house, pausing in the foyer when the beat of loud music filtered down from upstairs. It sounded like the little fucker was having a party rather than working as he should have been.
Jaw clenched, I marched upstairs, once again freezing in the doorway to my bedroom at the sight before me.
Tristan had his back to me, one hand holding a tray of white paint, while he ran a paint roller over the wall.
Dustsheets covered every inch of my room, and in the corner was the source of my irritation.
A speaker that must have been at full volume, given the racket coming from it.
Anger pumped through my veins as I watched Tristan. He hadn’t heard me come in because he was too busy singing along to the music while gyrating his hips in time to the beat. Unwittingly, my gaze dropped to his ass, the tight cargo pants showing how firm it was.
Seconds passed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off him, and when I did manage to pull them away, they traveled over his back, noting the muscles rippling under his shirt as he rolled the paint. I swallowed, suddenly aware of the knot in my stomach pulling tighter.
Worse than that, though, was the way my cock twitched the longer I stared at his muscular physique.
Disgusted with myself, not just because he was a guy, but also much younger than me, I shook my head and crossed the room, unplugging the speaker.
The room fell silent, and Tristan stopped singing and dancing, turning to face me. “Oh, hey man.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, resting my hands on my hips to stop myself from doing something rash.
Like throttling him.
His gaze dropped to the paint and then to the walls. “Um…painting?”
“I meant with the music. Did I say you could have a fucking party in my house?”