Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
CAT
I give my reflection one final assessment in the hallway mirror. My black Lycra running shorts show off my legs nicely, and the pink tank top hugs my curves in all the right places. Perfect for my “I was just about to go jogging” charade.
The doorbell rings, sending a little flutter through my stomach. I take a deep breath and open the door.
“Hi!” I beam at Robbie, who fills my doorframe like a tattooed colossus.
“Evening.” His expression is neutral, although his eyes briefly flick over my outfit.
I step back to let him in, and immediately my tiny hallway feels even smaller. He has his leather jacket draped casually over one arm, and he’s in a plain white T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He smells freshly showered—soap and something woodsy.
“Sorry about my outfit.” I gesture down at myself. “Squeezing in a run after this.”
“Hmm. Right.” His pierced eyebrow lifts, scepticism written all over his face.
“Anyway, let me show you around! I’ll take your jacket.”
I grab it then realise there’s nowhere to hang it. “Er...” I balance it precariously on top of a stack of moving boxes. “I’ll need to get some hooks. Maybe that’s something you could help with. Anyway, the tour!”
I lead him into the living room, hyperaware of his presence behind me. Robbie glances around, taking in the cracked walls, peeling wallpaper, and worn carpet. He lets out a low whistle.
“So,” I say brightly, “just needs a bit of TLC, right?”
“More like CPR.” His gaze lingers on the stack of paperbacks piled haphazardly in one corner. “That’s a lot of books.”
I raise my hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “English teacher. It comes with the territory.”
He crouches to read some of the spines. “Ah, Trainspotting . Brutal but honest. Shows a side of Scotland tourists never see.”
I put a hand on my hip. “Have you actually read it? Or just seen the film?”
“Read it. Just because I work with my hands doesn’t mean I can’t use my brain.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“Sure you did.” He straightens. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk books.”
“ Actually ...” I grab my tablet. “I have a few ideas for custom bookshelves I’d love to get your opinion on.”
I pull up my Pinterest board and hold the tablet between us, forcing Robbie to lean in. His proximity—his body heat—makes my pulse quicken.
“How about something like one of these for the living room? Built-in shelving with space for all my books. Is that something you could do?”
Robbie studies the images, and I take the opportunity to study him up close. His profile is all strong lines and hard edges, softened by dark lashes that cast shadows on his cheekbones. He really is beautiful.
“Aye. If you need something made of wood, I can make it. Whatever it is.”
I like that. There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows exactly what he’s capable of.
“Brilliant,” I say. “Shall we look at the rest of the flat?”
I lead him through each room, watching as he taps walls here and there and takes mental notes of all the work that needs done. In the kitchen, he glances at the drawer that’s still sitting on my floor.
“Ah. So, about that?—”
“You got a screwdriver?”
“Er, aye, I think I do, actually.” I fetch it for him, and within thirty seconds, the drawer that caused me so much grief last week is back on its runners, opening and closing smoothly.
“Easy fix,” he says, then he grimaces up at the flickering fluorescent light. “That, on the other hand, needs replaced.”
“To be honest, I’d love to replace the entire kitchen at some point. But that’ll have to wait. For now, the priority is to get the place livable.”
Once he’s finished looking around, we head back to the living room, where we agree on a list of everything he’s going to tackle.
“All in, should take about two weeks, give or take.” He tells me his daily rate, which is not insignificant, especially for someone who’s newly self-employed.
“Wow.” I play with my braid. “How about we haggle that down a bit, and in return, I’ll make sure everyone in town knows you’re the best handyman in the Highlands?”
“Nope.” He glances out of the window, completely unfazed by my little negotiation attempt. “People already know I’m good.” His blue irises meet mine once more. “They think I’m trouble, but they know I can fix anything. My rate’s my rate. Take it or leave it.”
Again with that confidence. It’s infuriating and attractive all at once.
“Is there really nothing we can do?” I try once more, giving him my best pleading look, complete with dimples.
He doesn’t even respond, just folds his arms.
“All right, fine!” Although, as soon as I say it, a thought flashes through my mind: I can’t afford this! I quickly flip it, though, just like the self-help book I read earlier this year taught me. I can afford this.
It’s all about the power of positive thoughts and manifesting abundance, baby. I used the same technique when buying this place, and look how that turned out! It’s not every twenty-four-year-old who can say they’re a home owner.
The universe provides for you when you put good energy out there. Or at least, that’s the theory. True, my bank balance may be low, but things will sort themselves out. I’ll just... leave it to the universe to handle the details.
“Just a reminder,” Robbie says, “but my rate assumes you’ll be out at your job while I’m working. If you distract me with chat and...” He waves a hand at my outfit. “... this , I’ll have to increase my quote accordingly.”
I gasp, outraged by his insinuation. Also, it turns out Project Bang a Bad Boy might be more difficult than I was expecting. Still, I can’t help feeling a teensy bit smug that my choice of attire is getting under his skin.
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I assure you, this is purely functional sportswear.”
“Mm-hmm.” He pulls a tape measure from his pocket. “Anyway, I need to take some measurements and jot down a few things. Won’t take long.”
While Robbie moves around the flat, his tape measure snapping, I pop on the kettle. I take down two mugs—one with a Shakespeare quote and the other featuring a Highland cow—and pop a teabag in each. When the kettle clicks, I fill the mugs and leave them to brew.
“Do you normally have two drinks at once?” Robbie asks, returning to the kitchen.
“One of these is for you, silly.”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ve got beer if you prefer?” I open the fridge to reveal several bottles of Golden Stag Lager. Maisie mentioned it was his usual order at the Pheasant.
“Er... no.” He pops his notepad into the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s me got everything I need. If you’re happy with the quote, I can start tomorrow.”
Part of me itches to come up with an excuse for him to stay longer, but no, best not to push my luck. Besides, he’s going to be here every day for the next two weeks. That’s plenty of time to wear down his grumpy exterior.
“Tomorrow is perfect.”