Studfinder (The Busy Bean) Read online

  “Then if you’d just sign off on this sheet, no one needs to be the wiser, and I can be out of your hair.” It was a risk asking this stranger to place her signature along the ten lines of my required meetings. I could get in big trouble if she tattled, telling my parole officer I tried to cheat the system.

  Rita shook her head, adamantly dismissing my request. “No can do, handsome. Maybe you’ll learn something by being here.”

  I couldn’t imagine what I’d possibly get out of listening to others tell their tales. I’d heard worse. So much worse inside prison. I didn’t need some bored housewife telling me how she drank in the middle of the afternoon while she watched soap operas. Or some local business owner sneaking shots behind his cash register.

  “Handsome, huh?” I mocked, matching her false smile with a teasing smirk of my own. At one time, I knew how to hook a woman. Flirting had landed me my ex-wife, but I didn’t waste my time with thoughts of Lisa. And I would never flirt with Rita Kaplan. She will not hold my heart, be sweet on me, or anything other than be a pain in my ass.

  To top it all off after that meeting, I find Rita as the supervisor on the job where I’ve been stationed the following day. It’s some restorative justice bullshit where I right the wrongs of the things I’ve done. I’d believe in it more if I thought I’d done something wrong that needed to be righted.

  On that note, I finish my coffee, enjoying the subtle noise of a busy café around me while I sit in solitude. I’ll never take for granted being alone again, and while I’ve longed for decent company, I’ve grown accustomed to the silence. However, when a dark-haired beauty enters and orders the most complicated drink I’ve ever heard, I decide she’s the company I might like to keep. At least, for an hour or two.

  3

  Rita

  “The couch thief,” I snap as Jake Drummond reports for work at Building Buddies, my passion project, the next day. The not-for-profit organization builds homes for those in need in the Vermont-New Hampshire area. It’s a program I’ve been dedicated to for over a decade and remain committed to in memory of my father, who stressed the need to give to others less fortunate. When I was ten, Dad taught me how to wield a hammer and work a power saw as we built my tree fort. As I grew older, I used my skill set to devote time to this worthy cause.

  As a part of the Building Buddies commitment to helping others, we take on workers needing re-acclimation into society from hardship, namely the prison system or drug rehabilitation centers. We offer manual labor, which provides tangible completion of a project, allowing our recruits to see what they’ve done for someone else. The hope is production gives former inmates a sense of accomplishment. In addition, we teach trade skills that can lead to jobs in construction, landscape, design, and utility services. It gives me great pride to be a member of the board and an active participant in the building projects themselves.

  I’d heard of Jake Drummond before I met him at the site. We’d been prepped as to who he was. Prison sentence for arson. Prior work as an electrician. We didn’t allow prejudice to mar our selection. We also didn’t want to form preconceived notions, so we don’t inquire further into a person’s backstory. If said person wanted to share his history, we listened, but it wasn’t a requirement. He was here to do a job in an effort to rebuild himself while constructing a home or facility for others. It was a fresh start at a new future, not a flashback to his tainted past.

  Unfortunately, I had a niggling sensation about Jake, and it counteracts the tingling feeling between my thighs when I look at him. The arson conviction alone raised hackles on my neck. However, giving second chances is the cornerstone philosophy of Building Buddies, so I ignored those fine hairs tickling my nape. The lacking warm-fuzzies began after our first introduction, where he dismissed the beliefs of Alcoholics Anonymous while attending the meeting I chaired. The final straw was sitting on my couch at the Busy Bean.

  “I’ve been called worse,” he teases in reference to the couch-thief accusation. “Blanket hog. Pillow thief.” He gives me that smirk of a grin at the bedding references, and my face heats. Instantly, I imagine him naked under blankets or with his head on a pillow facing me. I do not want to be attracted to him, but I recognize that I am on a physical level. I cannot deny a handsome man being handsome, but I do not like his attitude. He knows he’s good-looking. The dimples alone prove it, not that I can fault the dimples, but still, his smile reeks of sex and sinful things. Too bad the scent is overpowered by his attitude that stinks like burnt coffee and poor decisions.

  “Huh.” I ignore him, glancing over the day’s spec sheet although I’m unable to focus enough to read a thing. Jake’s nearness distracts me. In reality, he smells good—all spicy male mixed with the scent of fresh sawdust and outdoor springtime—and I shiver. I don’t know how I’ll make it through the day. Thankfully, the studs are up, and the roof tapped down on this house. Today’s order includes window installation and hardwiring the electricity, which is Jake’s assignment as electrical work was listed as part of his skill set. I’m here to supervise. To his credit, Jake is a diligent worker. He jumped in immediately upon his arrival. He’s early to work and does additional jobs we don’t ask of him, like picking up garbage and scraps at the end of the day.

  “Let me make the couch thing up to you. I’ll buy you a coffee the next time I’m sitting on it.” The implication is clear. If our paths should cross again in the Bean, he’ll be taking—and keeping—my seat on the sofa.

  “How about if you just move your fine . . . just move the next time you see me?” My traitorous eyes roam his body as I speak, taking in the way his faded jeans dip on his hips, weighted down by a tool belt, and how the fit of his flannel hugs his chest. Jake runs hot, so he’ll have that thing off soon enough, giving me a show with the tight T-shirt he wears underneath the outerwear.

  “You want to see my moves?” Jake teases. Bending his arms before his chest, he tips his head forward and sways his hips.

  Holy sticky maple syrup.

  Jake starts to dance to some song in his head, and a playlist of music runs through mine, which includes “Afternoon Delight” and “Let’s Get It On.” Quickly, I turn away from the subtle thrusts of his pelvis, slowly tapping left to right. However, those eyes of mine have their own mind, and my gaze drifts back to him, watching as he lowers his lids and bites his bottom lip. If he moves like that when he . . . and looks like that when he . . . I’d let him steal my pillow, take the blankets, and have the damn couch.

  “Okay, Michael Jackson,” I snap, more aggressively than necessary.

  “Michael Jackson?” His head pops up as he stills his dance. “I’m insulted. That was my best Chase Rice doing ‘Ride.’ Michael Jackson dates you a bit.”

  He chuckles, but his humor hits a sore spot for me. I’m newly forty-three. Never been married. Never had children, and I’m sensing a midlife crisis coming on. Not that the crisis is like a common cold or anything. It can’t be detected by aches, chills, fever, stuffy nose, and the like. It’s more a feeling inside me that I need a change in my life. It’s time.

  “Well, Chase Rice called, and he wants his groove back.”

  Jake laughs harder. “Rita, you’re a hoot.”

  “Speaking of dating oneself.” Who calls anyone a hoot nowadays?

  “Who’s dating?” Sullivan Vance interrupts us, and I’m grateful for the intrusion from our construction manager. Sullivan is a burly guy, complete with bristle brush beard and unruly dark hair under his knit cap. Everything about him is typical Vermont and kind of cute, but nothing that attracts me enough to give in to the constant dates he’s asked of me.

  “Rita wants to date Michael Jackson,” Jake states, and Sullivan glances a little wide-eyed and hurt at me.

  “Is he new around here?” His dark eyes show he’s seriously questioning me.

  Jake snorts before covering his mouth with a fist, pretending to cough.

  “Never mind, Sully. We don’t have all day to dance. Let’s get to w
ork,” I state, going into supervisor mode. I have a one o’clock court time, so I need to finish here by noon.

  Jake starts humming whatever tune he had in his head, and I make a mental note to find that song and give it a listen. In the meantime, Sullivan leads the way to the house we’re building for a family of four who lost theirs this past winter in a fire. Jackie and Bob applied for our assistance after Bob lost his job. They didn’t have enough homeowner’s insurance for the damage done to their house, and one of their children has extensive medical bills.

  By noon, we have a few windows installed. The electrical wiring is still on the docket, and Jake will take the lead while Sully assists.

  “I need to head out,” I tell Sullivan, and he nods. “But I’ll be back after court.”

  This turns Jake’s head in my direction. “What are you going to court for?”

  “I’m an attorney by day.” Some people consider my law practice fledgling, and I never know if that’s a compliment or an insult after all this time. May Shipley is my partner, and I love her energy for the law. Although she started out with the typical real estate contracts and farm disputes when I brought her on, I’ve handed over more and more of my client list and prospective cases.

  I’ve been a lawyer for almost twenty years, and I’ve loved it. Taking over Kaplan and Associates—now Kaplan and Shipley—from my father was an honor and a necessity, but I’m lacking luster with the same old thing. I brought May on with the intention that one day she could take over the practice in its entirety although I’ve never given her a specific start date to my retirement. Forty-three seems too young to retire. Even though I recognize a need for renewed passion in something, I’m not certain what I’ll do with the next half of my life.

  “Attorney-client confidentiality.” I wink at Jake, emphasizing I won’t be telling him more about my case although it’s nothing other than petty theft. Maybe one day I’ll prosecute the couch thief for stealing my seat at the Bean.

  4

  Jake

  Sullivan Vance seems like a decent guy. He’s quiet and a little clumsy. He wears your typical oversized jeans, displaying a slight plumber’s crack when he bends forward, but he’s strong and vested in this project for Building Buddies. I’d honestly never heard of this organization before being assigned here for my parole. I don’t need to explain myself to the group. They know why I’m here, at least on a simplistic level. Only those at the top know the severity of my case. What happened. Why I went to prison.

  In truth, it’s an unsolved mystery. I didn’t do it. With the evidence stacked against me, though, and a department-appointed attorney with strong political ties to the State assigned to me, I didn’t have a prayer of getting off for a crime I didn’t commit. I also had my reasons for not fighting the sentence. None of it matters now, though. The bottom line is I don’t trust lawyers, which leaves me conflicted about Rita.

  “So, what’s her story?” I ask Sullivan as we halt for a half-hour lunch break. The job is typically eight to four, and the collaboration of workers rotates with Sully in the lead, Rita as supervisor, and me as a permanent member of the team. I don’t mind the work. Every day is one more day closer to freedom, and I keep that in mind every time I hammer, drill, or, in today’s case, eventually run wire.

  “Who?”

  “Rita,” I state, hoping not to betray my curiosity.

  “She’s good people.”

  Though I wait on Sully to expand his answer, he doesn’t, and I swallow a thick bite of my organic peanut butter and raspberry jam on wheat. My brother, Nolan, made me the sandwich like he’s my mother or something. If he starts writing me inspirational notes of encouragement, he’s fired from lunch-packing duty.

  “I know”—although I don’t—“but what’s her deal? Why does she work for Building Buddies?”

  Sullivan shrugs. “Been working here for years. Started with her dad.”

  Silence falls again, and I see I’ll need to pull the string to keep Sully talking.

  “And her dad is . . .”

  “Judge Kaplan. He died a few years back.” Good ole Sully. A man of words.

  A judge? Jesus, I hate those almost as much as attorneys. Judge Kaplan . . . the name is not familiar.

  “And she just kept working here after he passed.” It’s more of a question, and Sullivan takes the bait.

  “Continued on with her fiancé.”

  “Rita’s engaged?” My voice rises. I don’t recall a ring on her finger, and I haven’t had a hint she’s attached to someone. In fact, I swore she was interested by the way she eyed me that first meeting. At least a spark of something flickered as she stared at me that entire session, but then again, it could have been the lighting and how it hit her lenses. She wasn’t wearing those red-hot glasses this morning, giving me a better shot of those baby blues, and the glare she gave said she was on the verge of throat-punching me—or kissing me.

  “Nah. He died, too.”

  Shit. I choke on another bite of sandwich I’d taken while waiting on Sullivan’s response.

  “That’s . . . sad.” I swallow around the thick chunk of bread in my throat. I’ve experienced my share of death in my family. My mother died when I was eighteen and a freshman in college. Her death was one of the reasons I was back in the area. Nolan was too young to be on his own, and our father had long since fled the family.

  “How long were they engaged?” I ask for some reason, thinking back to my own engagement years ago and the eventual divorce from my wife.

  Sullivan shrugs again. “Don’t know. She was, and then she wasn’t.”

  My shoulders sag with sympathy. Rita is still a thorn in my side, but this information softens the wound a bit.

  “You about done?” Sullivan asks, nodding at the last corner of my sandwich. Shoving the final bite in my mouth, I nod, and we wad up our trash. Nolan’s been making my lunch in a brown paper sack because I refused to use a lunchbox like some damn kid. Considering I was once a student in natural resource studies, I should be using an environmentally sound carrier for my meal and need to reconsider the idea of a paper sack. After years of eating off a segmented tray, I need to rethink many things in my life.

  Rita returns late in the afternoon, but I’ve lost track of time. It’s been a gloomy day, and the underbelly of the house is dark. I’m in the basement installing the electrical box with a bright halogen work lamp hooked to a generator that highlights the space.

  “You can call it quits,” Rita says from somewhere behind me.

  “I just want to finish this.” I hate to leave things left undone, and I have the electrical box hung but no wires installed. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice Rita’s leaning on the makeshift railing of the basement stairs. She’s wearing some kind of woman power suit, complete with formfitting skirt and a blazer, and those damn hiking boots again. “Quite the fashionista.”

  Rita glances down at her attire, swiping her hand along the hips of her skirt before gazing up at me with those piercing eyes. The red-rimmed glasses have returned.

  “I can’t wear heels at a construction site.”

  It makes sense, but she looks ridiculous, and I turn my back on her. Keeping those hiking boots in mind cancels out the effect of those glasses and dampens any naughty boy fantasies of being punished by Rita as a teacher. I hear her trod back up the stairs and dismiss Sully. This isn’t a large house, and without the drywall, it’s a hollow shell, so noise travels.

  “You don’t need to stay,” I holler to her, forgetting myself for a second as I concentrate on the work before me. Heavy feet trudge back down the staircase.

  “Yeah. I do.” The authoritative reminder puts me in my place. I need to be supervised. I need to be watched. I hate the distrust.

  Around us grows quiet until we hear the voice of Sullivan at the top of the staircase.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Sully asks, calling down to Rita, expressing his concern for her safety. “I can stay if you need me.”

&nb
sp; “I’m not an ax murderer,” I mutter under my breath, fingers slipping along the initial wire I’m running through the box.

  “I’m good,” Rita calls up to him, surprising me. Her confidence speaks volumes. She’s trusting me, at least at this moment.

  As we hear the stomp of Sully’s feet leaving the house, Rita mumbles, “No one thinks you’re an ax murderer.”

  I huff in response and continue working on the box. She’s silent, but I can almost hear the gears turning in her head.

  “Just ask.”

  “Ask what?” she snaps, and I twist enough to glance at her at the base of the staircase. She’s removed her blazer. Leaning against the bare studs, she’s still a juxtaposition in her uptight shirt and those damn boots.

  “Whatever’s on your mind, sweet.” I struggle with another wire leading into the box.

  “Whatever you did, you can talk about it, if you’d like.”

  “Attorney-client privilege,” I mock.

  “Or if you just need someone to talk to.” Her softened voice surprises me, but I ignore the tenderness. I don’t have anything to say about what happened seven years ago. It happened. It’s over. Almost.

  “Not much of a talker,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the wires before me. I can’t concentrate with her watching me, knowing those damn eyes are assessing me behind those red rims.

  “You seem like you have plenty to say about my appearance,” she mocks, a light chuckle in her tone.

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it different to verbally insult my clothes but not talk about what happened?”

  She can’t be serious. There’s a world of difference between her boot-skirt combination and the events of years past. As she’s a lawyer, she isn’t stupid, so I don’t feel the need to clarify the contrast.