“How is sweet Elle?” Ma asks. “She is always so lovely on the phone and she pays her bills so promptly.”
“Well, she’s fine, but I guess her marriage wasn’t. She’s divorced now.”
Both Ma and Dad’s mouths drop open in unison—to them divorce is like a capital crime.
“What? Why?” Ma asks. Her Irish brogue is thick, and her accent always gets heavier when she’s upset.
“Apparently they were incompatible,” I reply, leaving out the fact that it was specifically in bed that they were incompatible.
“Tsk, tsk. Well, thank heavens they had no wee babes yet. I bet he was a cheater,” Ma says.
“Only a man who had lost his mind would cheat on that darling lass,” says Dad.
“Anywaaay . . . I know your rule about me not working with clients who aren’t married, and she’s Ms. Jacoby now,” I say.
My sister gives me the evil eye like she can see right into my dirty mind but then follows it with a confused look as to why I’m trying to get out of working with her.
For some reason my parents skip over my plea.
“I never understand women who don’t take their husband’s name. I don’t buy that nonsense that it was because she was established with her own business,” my dad says.
“I kept my name,” Trisha says.
“Well if your husband had been a real man he wouldn’t have put up with that.”
“Dad,” I say as I watch Trisha’s face get red, “let’s not get into this again.”
Dad looks down at his plate and stabs the potatoes with his fork.
Everything is silent for a minute while we chew our food until Ma clears her throat.
“So, what do you think, Papa?” She nods over toward Patrick who knows the calorie counts for everything, and can do a balance sheet like a champ, but can’t add one plus one when it comes to women.
Dad looks doubtful as he squints considering what she’s thinking. It’s creepy how he always seems to know what’s on her mind since they usually communicate telepathically or something, but after she winks at him he nods.
“Okay, invite her to dinner next week.”
“What?” I clutch the end of the table so hard the table tips.
“Ma’s matchmaking and doing a hook-up for Patrick again,” Trisha explains.
I’m pretty sure my firefighter sister, the upstanding citizen that she is, doesn’t actually mean ‘hook-up’ but just hearing the term applied to Patrick and Elle fills me with rage.
“What’s this? So I can’t fix her sprinklers but Patrick can date her?”
“Well you guys have opposite problems don’t you?” Trisha says.
“How’s that?”
“You can’t keep it in your pants, and he never seems to get his out of his pants.”
“Trisha McNeill!” Ma yells.
“You know I’m right,” Trisha says leaning back and folding her arms over her chest.
“Paddy’s older so I think a divorcee is okay,” Dad says. “And as for you, Paulie, I’ll handle Elle from now on.”
“Awesome,” I grumble.
I get up from the table, go to the kitchen and come back with a beer. I’ll need more than a beer buzz if sexy Elle gets served up to my clueless brother next week.
Chapter Three
STAND AND DELIVER
“You aren’t going to believe this.”
My hand tightens over my phone. “Elle?”
“My lawn is orgasming again.”
I feel a blow to my pride. “But everything was so tight when I left.”
“No, that backyard issue is fine. My poor old gardener took out two more heads this week in the front. I swear the man is blind.”
“Old or not, that’s messed up. He should replace them.”
“I tried to get him to do it once and it was a disaster. Ask your dad.”
I’m reminded of dinner with the family last week.
“Speaking of my dad, he told me he wants to handle your account from now on.” I feel bad as soon as the words come out of my mouth.
“What? Why? Did I do something wrong?” She sounds more upset than I expected.
“No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong. Remember how I told you he won’t let me see young unmarried clients because of my issues?”
“He thinks you’ll have sex with me?” She sounds hopeful and it breaks my heart a little.
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust me. I mean look at you.”
“You think I’m attractive?”
“How could I not? Even if I were blind, your voice is beautiful.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. Well, you know how I feel about you.”
I let out a long sigh. “Elle . . .”
“Don’t you want to see me?” she asks with a sad lilt to her voice.
“Of course I do. And you’re making it sound like you still want to have me work on your yard?”
“Yes . . . I do,” she says softly.
“Okay, let me finish up here and then I’ll be on my way.” As I hang up guilt starts crawling up my spine but I do my best to say the hell with it.
When she pulls open the door I sense that something is wrong—something more than our discussion about my dad. Damn, what is it with this woman? I want her to give me her real smile, not this half-baked smile.
I nod toward the yard. “You wanna show me where the old guy messed up my work?”
She sighs. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m your man.”
She looks up at me and blinks repeatedly.
“Your sprinkler man,” I add, correcting myself.
She blushes and steps out the door until she’s standing next to me on the porch. I notice she’s barefoot and wearing no make-up. She looks prettier that way. I like it.
She walks to the middle of the lawn and points to the areas of destruction.
“Damn. Does your gardener have issues? What does he have against sprinklers?”
She smiles. “I know, right?”
“You should fire him.”
“Actually he’s so old he can barely push the lawnmower anymore. I could never fire him. I’d feel terrible.”
I bend down and pick up one of the broken heads.
“Can you fix it?
I wink at her. “Baby, I can fix anything.”
She turns away and I realize her expression has fallen.
“You okay?”
She nods. “I’m going to get some coffee. You want some?”
“I’m good.”
I watch her walk away and I can’t shake the feeling that something is really wrong.
When I’m done with the work I let myself in the house and pause in the entryway before walking further in. Everything is in hues of grayed blues and cream. The floors are whitewashed wood, and a quiet beach landscape painting hangs over the couch. It’s sophisticated and more serene that I would expect from saucy Elle.
“Elle,” I call out.
She doesn’t answer and I pause wondering what to do.
Hearing a sniffle, I walk past the living room toward the light-filled den. I spot her curled up in the corner of the couch.
I notice her eyes are red as she brushes a tear away.
Damn it all. I feel so fucking awkward. I pick up the box of tissues on the coffee table and thrust it toward her.
She pulls a tissue out and looks away as she dabs her eyes.
I sit on the edge of the couch. “You want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
We sit silently for a minute. I twist my fingers together and look over at her.
She has a glassy stare, her gaze focused out the window.
“You sure, Elle?” I ask. My voice has an edge. I can’t hide my anxiety.
She nods.
I rub my hands over my knees and slowly stand. “Okay then, I think I’ll take off.” I’ve taken several steps toward the door when she clears her throat.
“I don’t think I’m going to do Tinder anymore.”
I stop and turn around. “What?”
She picks at something on the sofa arm and doesn’t look up. “No more Tinder for me.”
As thrilled as I am to hear it, I’m worried about what happened to lead her to that decision. Judging from her demeanor, it must’ve been bad. I sit back down on the sofa. “Seriously? You’re really done with it?”