He regretted the words the minute they left his mouth. Shit—why did he have to be such a dick? Lashing out at the only person here to target. Sounding just like his father. The pinch of Leah’s lips made Jackson feel like crap.
“You could be right,” she conceded eventually. Her eyes flashed but she kept them averted, drying her hands with careful precision. “Apart from one thing.”
“And that is?”
She hung the dish towel neatly. “Sam is not attracted to women.” Leah headed for the door, giving Jackson as wide a berth as possible. “In fact, if he wasn’t extremely loved up with his partner, you’d be far more his type than I am.”
Jackson tried to concentrate on the evaluation from the second realtor but the letters and numbers kept moving around. The headache that had been grumbling all morning was kicking in with a vengeance, and the dim lighting of the living room and below-freezing temperatures were making it worse.
Closing his eyes briefly, Jackson cursed and then startled as Leah placed a glass of water by his arm. She nudged a plastic packet across the table toward him.
“Advil.” Her tone wasn’t friendly and she didn’t linger.
Once Leah had closed the living room door behind her, he downed a couple of small pills with a large swallow of water and shut down the email. Impressed that Sam Archer had been honestenough to give him a straight and knowledgeable opinion, he knew he wanted Archer and Desai to handle the sale anyway.
Jackson couldn’t deny the small thrill he felt as he drew up a list of the most important renovations, with a plan to market the house as soon as possible. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to project-manage a development, and old building renovations were something he was itching to get more involved with; he’d get what enjoyment he could from this part of the process. Seeing as he was stuck here in the short term, he might as well dive straight in.
But, as Jackson played around with the budget and costs, the reality of the company’s financial situation hit him again and his headache flared. There was no time for indulgence while the loan hung over their heads. Pushing personal interest aside, he scrolled his phone for the heating engineer in his contacts. If he had no choice about living here for the time being, the number one priority was warmth.
Chapter 7
Leah
Hazel and Marjorie executed their next ambush with the subtlety of two reversing eighteen-wheelers.
“Hello, darling!” Hazel’s breezy voice on the phone was instantly suspicious. “Is there any chance your lovely young man is around today?”
Leah rolled her eyes. “If you mean Jackson, then yes he is, but why are you asking?”
The man in question raised an eyebrow at her from the doorway of the study, and she shrugged in a “search me” gesture. She wondered why he’d come to find her; it wasn’t something he made a habit of.
“I’ve got a jar situation and need a man’s help, dearie.”
“What? Can’t I help you—”
“Men like to feel useful, Leah,” Hazel insisted, dropping the elderly vulnerable act immediately. “Marjorie has just arrived, we’ll be round in five minutes.”
The phone went dead.
Damn.
Jackson’s eyes were still burning into her. “That sounded interesting.”
“I tried my best to save you, but I think you’ll be getting a visit shortly from a couple of Esther’s friends.” Leah shrugged as he winced. He was big enough and feisty enough to fight his own battles. She shot a glance at his folded arms and admitted that the contours of his biceps could be considered a work of art. “I’ve managed to put them off until now. But on the plus side, it will involve flattery and you’ll have the chance to feel like a superhero for five minutes.”
Jackson looked away.
Escaping from those eyes like a roped calf breaking free from a lasso, Leah hopped up from the desk. “Did you want me for something in particular?”
“I was looking for an extension cord. Do you know where I can find one?”
She was half in, half out of the junk cupboard in the mudroom when the doorbell clanged. Emerging with the extension cord, she found Jackson being swept into the living room on a tidal wave of hairspray and adulation.
“I’ve tried and tried to open it, but it won’t budge!” Hazel was holding a jar of pickles aloft as if it were the Holy Grail.
“She does like a pickle,” added Marjorie, as if she were imparting vital information.
Hazel thrust the jar at Jackson. “I don’t have the grip I used to,” she said. “It’s so hard when you live alone and there’s no one you can call on to help.”
