Nan Dixon - The Other Twin

“Cheryl and Josh lived in this building during the renovation and I was glad for the extra security,” Gray said.

Nathan grimaced. “I guess.”

Gray turned to her. “What do you think about living in another work zone?”

Men working below her apartment? She looked at Nathan and chewed her thumbnail. Having him around most days might bother her, but she couldn’t explain that to Gray. She sank into a chair, not able to take this in. “Savannah’s safe.”

Nathan snorted. “Don’t be a fool.”

First he called her an idiot and now a fool.

“My mom’s no fool.” Josh glared.

Nathan held up his hands but didn’t apologize.

Nathan knew nothing. This place was a huge improvement from the apartment she and Josh had rented after escaping Levi. Drug deals had happened daily in the nearby Laundromat.

Living in a brand-new apartment had lulled her into a false sense of security. And she’d had to be saved—again. The story of her life.

Her son crawled onto her lap. “He’s a butthead,” he whispered.

“Josh,” she warned. Unfortunately she agreed.

But if Nathan hadn’t come along, her son might have been hurt. She shuddered and held him close. Josh had to be safe. That was her job as a mother. Living across the courtyard from work might be the perfect solution.

She swallowed. “I would love to rent the carriage house apartment.”

* * *

A BUMP ECHOED above Nathan’s head. The bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling swayed and dust drifted to the dirt floor of the Fitzgerald carriage house.

What were Cheryl and the kid doing, dropping loaded boxes from the top of the bunk bed?

They’d moved into the carriage house this afternoon, barely a week after she’d let the drunk into a secured apartment building. He’d helped unload the truck.

At least she’d be safer here than walking on River Street when the bars closed.

He checked the time on his phone, but the numbers didn’t make sense—6:08 p.m.? It was after dinner. The sun had set. It had to be after eight—8:06 p.m.?

The kid thought he was a butthead. Hell, maybe he was. He planned to keep his distance from the pair. Kids made him uncomfortable. They guessed they were smarter than him.

Everyone was smarter than him. First-graders could read better than he did. Nathan inhaled and choked on the dust.

He unrolled the architect’s plans and anchored them on his toolbox. Since he’d remodeled restaurants in Atlanta, he was in charge of this project.

Studying the blueprint, he willed his eyes and brain to work together for once. He planned to lay out the footings tonight. No way would he let the crew see him struggle.

His twin brother, Daniel, might think Mom and Pop had scraped the bottom of the barrel asking Nathan to return to Forester Construction, but he would prove his brother wrong. He’d grown up in the five years since he’d been kicked out of the family company. Nathan wanted back in, permanently, not just while Pop went through chemo in Texas.

For a week every month, Pop and Mom traveled from Savannah to Houston. Pop was enrolled in a clinical trial to help him beat back the monster Myelodysplastic syndromes. MDS. Cancer.

The thought of not being good enough for the family business still stung. All his life, Nathan had wanted to be normal. Was that too much to hope for? To read without getting confused? To remember the names of people he’d known all his life? Hell, just reading street signs would be nice.

He shook it off. He’d done okay in Atlanta. He’d coped.

Locating the back door on the plans, he calculated where the first wall support would be and recited the numbers into his phone. Then he grabbed a tape measure and a roll of flagging ribbon. Time to translate the plan into the actual space.

He moved to the kitchen area and tucked the end of the tape measure into a crack between the floor and the wall. Checking his phone, he walked straight back. He needed thirty feet. He looked at the numbers on his phone and the ones on the tape measure. The numbers swam and twisted. He closed his eyes and looked again, but it didn’t help.

He ripped off a piece of flagging tape and placed it on the floor, not willing to commit. Then he worked his way through the plan.

After he’d taken a half dozen measurements, he stepped away, comparing the markings with the drawing. The architect’s plan was a rectangle. His mess of orange tags looked more like a star.

“Damn it!”

He kicked one of the pillars supporting the second story. Why couldn’t he do this? He kicked the pillar again and dust rained down.

He’d be here all night and even then he might not get it right. The crew would show up at seven thirty tomorrow and he’d still be doing effing measurements a ten-year-old could do.

He headed to his toolbox, yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a flask.

The door to the courtyard creaked open. He tucked the flask in his back pocket and spun to see who was spying on his stupidity.

“Ooh.” Cheryl filled the narrow doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Working,” he snapped.

She crossed her arms over her chest. Her plain gray T-shirt strained against the swell of her small breasts. Her faded cutoff jeans cupped her ass like a man’s hands would.

He fought to keep his eyes on her face. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. He’d only seen it brushing her shoulders a few times. It was straight and fine and would feel like silk in his fingers. Not that he would ever touch Cheryl’s hair.

“Abby told me the work wouldn’t start until tomorrow. It’s almost ten o’clock.” She hesitated before stepping inside. “Did you kick something?”

He swallowed. “The post.”

Her brown eyes grew as large as dinner plates. She stepped back. Yeah. Be afraid.

“What is that?” She moved into the room, pointing at the orange tape.

“A fucking mess.”

Her shoulders straightened. “I know you’re supervising this project. I’d appreciate you warning the crew that a six-year-old boy lives here. I don’t want him learning words like that.”

“Sure.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing off his cap. The same kid who called him butthead.

It landed at Cheryl’s feet. She picked it up, batted it against her leg to dust off the dirt and then handed it to him. “What are the orange tags supposed to be?”

He jammed his cap back on his head. “I was marking off the kitchen. We’re pouring footings tomorrow.”

Now he’d have to ask one of the crew to help. Apparently, he couldn’t measure and mark. The other option was to have his twin help. Perfect Daniel would give him the look. The one that said Nathan was an idiot. Besides, he’d lied and told Pop and Daniel he could do this.

Cheryl stared at the mess on the floor, frowned and then moved to the plans he hadn’t rolled up. She carried them to where he’d been measuring. “This is close.”

“Does it look like a rectangle to you?”

Her head snapped up at the snarl in his voice. Her brown eyes flashed. “Do you want help or not?”

She was willing to help him? Relief ran through him like a warm shower, easing the strain in his shoulders. “Yeah, I do.” Then he remembered her son. What the hell was his name? “What about your...kid?”

“Josh sleeps like a rock.” She turned. Clipped to her back pocket was some sort of monitor. “If he wakes, I’ll hear him.”

His eyes lingered on her lovely rounded butt. He wouldn’t mind wrapping his hands around those cheeks.

Too bad she had the kid. Josh. Josh always glared at him. Kids were a deal breaker.

“Let’s start over,” she said. “What’s the scale?”

He knew this. “It’s...” The words slipped away. His fingers formed fists.