Marie Ferrarella - Playboy Bachelors

The woman shook her head, as if put off. “Mr. Zabelle, I think there’s been some mistake.”

He didn’t want there to be some mistake. He wanted her to take the job. He couldn’t see himself going through this process over and over again.

Philippe took a stab at the reason for her comment. “You’re full-time, right?”

“When I work, yes.”

Philippe paused, thinking. “I really don’t need anyone fulltime.”

“I think what you need is an interpreter.” Her response confused him, but before he could tell her as much, she was saying, “When I start a job, Mr. Zabelle, I finish it.”

Well, that was a good trait, he thought, but he still wasn’t going to hire her full-time. “That’s very admirable, but like I said, I’m only going to need someone once a week.”

Rather than accept that, he saw her put her hands on her waist. “And why is that?”

Maybe this was a mistake after all. He could have gone to the store and back in the amount of time he’d spent verbally dancing around with this woman. “Because there won’t be enough to keep you occupied,” he told her tersely. “I’m pretty neat.”

She shook her head as if to clear it. “What does your being neat have to do with it?”

“I realize you probably charge the same whether you’re working for a slob or someone who’s relatively neat—”

She cut him off before he could finish. “I charge according to what the client requests, Mr. Zabelle, not based on whether they’re sloppy or neat.”

That sounded a hell of a lot more personal than just cleaning his house.

Their eyes met and Philippe watched her for a long moment. The more he did, the less she looked like a housekeeper. Just what section had his ad landed in? And if it was what he was thinking, what was she doing bringing her daughter along on this so-called job interview?

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you get my number from the personals?”

He watched as her mouth formed as close to a perfect O as he had ever seen. He saw her hand tightened around Kelli’s.

“Mommy, you’re squishing my fingers,” the little girl protested.

“Sorry,” she murmured, never taking her eyes off his face. She was looking at him as if she thought that perhaps she should be backing away. Quickly. “I got your number from my machine, Mr. Zabelle,” she told him, her voice both angry and distant now.

Okay, he was officially lost. “Your machine?” That made no sense to him. “I called the newspaper this morning.”

She cocked her head, as if that could help her make sense of all this somehow. “About?”

“The ad,” he said, annoyed. Had she lost the thread of the conversation already? What kind of an attention span did she have?

“What ad?” she demanded. She sounded like someone on the verge of losing her temper.

Taking a breath, Philippe enunciated each word slowly, carefully, the way he would if he were talking to someone who was mentally challenged. “The…one…you’re…here…about.”

Her voice went up several levels. “I’m not here about any ad.”

Suddenly, something unlocked in a distant part of his brain. Her voice was very familiar. He’d heard it before. Recently.

Philippe held up his hand, stopping her. “Hold it. Back up.” He peered at her face intently, trying to jog his memory. Nothing. “Who are you, lady?”

A loud huff of air preceded the reply. When she spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I’m J. D. Wyatt. You called me about remodeling your bathrooms.”

And then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks. He knew where he’d heard that voice before—on the phone, last night. “ You’re J. D. Wyatt?”

J.D. drew herself up. He had the impression she’d been through this kind of thing before—and had no patience with it. “Yes.”

He wanted to be perfectly clear in his understanding of the situation. “You’re not here about the housekeeping job?”

“The housekeep—” Oh God, now it made sense. The weekly shopping, the cleaning. He’d made a natural mistake—and one that irked her. “No, I’m not here about the housekeeping job. I’m a contractor.”

He thought back to what Vincent had said when he’d given him the card. “I thought I was calling a handyman.”

J.D. shrugged. She’d lived in a man’s world all of her life and spent most of her time struggling to gain acceptance. “A handy-person,” she corrected.

The discomfort he’d been feeling grew. It was bad enough not being handy and feeling inferior to another man. Aesthetically speaking, all men might have been created equal, but not when it came to wielding a hacksaw. Feeling inferior to a woman with a tool belt? Well, that was a whole different matter. He wasn’t sure he could handle it.

It felt like he’d been deceived. “What does the J.D. stand for?”

She eyed him for a long moment, as if debating whether or not to tell him. And then she did. “Janice Diane.”

“So why didn’t you just put that down on the card?” he asked. “You realize that’s false advertising.”

“My mama’s not false!” Kelli piped up indignantly, moving between her mother and him.

“Kelli, hush,” J.D. soothed. “It’s okay.” And then she looked at him and her sunny expression faded. “There’s nothing false about it. Those are my initials.”

“You know what I mean. By using them, you make people think that they’re hiring a man.”

That was the whole point, she thought. This man might look drop-dead gorgeous, but he was as dumb as a shoe—and probably had the soul to match. She spelled it out for him.

“People do not call someone named Janice Diane to fix their running toilets or renovate their flagstone fireplaces. They do, however, call someone named J.D. to do the same work. This world runs on preconceived notions, Mr. Zabelle. One of those notions is that men are handy, women are not. Your reaction just proved my point. You thought I was here to clean your house, not to renovate it.”

She was right and he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t come up with a face-saving rebuttal. “Well, I—”

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, she wouldn’t let him finish.

“I’ve been around tools all my life and I know what to do with them.” She folded her arms before her. “Now, are you going to let your prejudice keep you from hiring the best handy-person you’re ever going to come across in your life—at any price—or are you going to be a modern man and show me what exactly you need done around here?” It was a challenge, pure and simple. One she hoped he would rise to.

Out of the corner of her eye, Janice saw Kelli mimic her actions perfectly, folding her small arms before her.

Mother and daughter stood united, waiting for a reply.

For what felt like an endless moment, two different reactions warred within Philippe, each striving for the upper hand.

Ever since he could remember, he’d had it drummed into his head—and had come to truly believe—that the only difference between men and women were that women had softer skin. Usually. His mother had enthusiastically maintained over and over again that women could do anything a man could except go to the bathroom standing up. And even there, she had declared smugly, women had the better method. At the very least, it was neater.