Tillie hadn’t stopped droning on and on about the guy. Even April, who tended to be much more reserved in her appreciation of the opposite gender, had agreed. J.P. was downright gorgeous with his dark hair, cocoa-colored eyes, and five-o’clock scruff that made a noon appearance. A person would have to be blind not to find him appealing.
But they’d have to be crazy to find anything about his personality attractive.
Nora rinsed her empty wineglass and gently placed it on the wire drying rack. Her hands hooked the sink and she pushed closer to the window, narrowing her gaze out the glass panes.
It was nearing sundown and the guy’s white pickup truck was still there. He really was burning the candle at both ends with this project. Nora shouldn’t complain about that, since it would mean he might be done even faster than the six-month timeline he’d suggested. She’d love to have him out of her hair before Christmastime. Nothing like a sour personality to ruin the season.
She shook her head.
No, she wasn’t going to let him ruinanything. He didn’t have that power. Maybe he’d tried to ruin her day, but there was still time to turn it around.
She squinted at the vinyl lettering on his truck.J.P. Builders.
What did J.P. stand for?
She snorted as she ran through the possibilities, figuring the red wine she’d consumed likely added to their absurdity.
Juvenile Pig.
Jarring Personality.
Jaw-dropping Pest.
That last one gave her a start.
Whatever his name, he wouldn’t be a fixture as her next door neighbor for long, and for that, Nora wasJust Plainthankful.
Chapter Four
The alarm jerked J.P. out of a dream. Okay, maybe it was a nightmare.
It had started off believable enough. He’d been working on the downstairs half-bath at the Callahan property. Two-by-fours were lined up with pencil marks measuring out the places to cut each board. He had his music cranked so loud, had the house had any glass windows in their frames, they would’ve been rattling, maybe even shattering. With his pencil tucked behind his ear, he’d snapped his measuring tape back into place and holstered it on his tool belt.
Then it happened. The first bee zoomed across his line of sight. Then another. Before long, a group swarmed right in front of him, zipping in and out as he lunged and dodged their disoriented advances.
He’d grabbed a rag and flapped it toward the buzzing cluster. When the cloth fell away, triple the previous amount of bees appeared. He shook the material at them again. They doubled. Over and over, they increased exponentially until nothing but a sea of yellow and black stripes filled his vision.
J.P. had blinked hard and whipped his head in a shake. When his eyes reopened, all the bees challenged him head on. But instead of little, beady bug eyes staring him down, their faces were replaced with the likeness of Nora. Thousands of her image, repeated over and over like some creepy funhouse mirror.
He’d gasped himself awake the same moment his alarm went off.
His sheets were damp with sweat and his breathing took extreme effort to rally back into a steady rhythm.
What was happening to him? He’d totally lost it.
Clearly, it was a pot of coffee sort of morning.
J.P. filled up his large Thermos to the brim, grateful for the technology that brewed his dark roast the moment his eyes popped open. Snapping a banana from its bunch on the counter, he jammed it into his work tote and raked a hand through his hair, combing it thoroughly with his fingers.
Most of the time, he enjoyed living right on Harmony Ridge Row. The apartments above the shops were inexpensive and small, with just enough square footage that he didn’t feel constricted but didn’t have too much space to tend to, either.
What he didn’t love was inevitably running into his neighbors in the stairwell on his way out the door each morning. He knew he was groggy, and he couldn’t echo their cheery greetings with one of his own. He found that earbuds and a downcast gaze were the necessary combo to keep from engaging, but no one had given that memo to his dog, Waylon.
The dog had fooled him. When they’d first met, J.P. was convinced the mutt was his clone in canine form.
Waylon liked to keep to himself.
He wasn’t impressed with high-pitched fawning or false enthusiasm.
