Heather Macallister - Male Call

Yeah, now that she thought about it, that sounded like a vibeless existence. The thing was, she’d never expected that she’d end up single and still living with her mother at the age of twenty-eight. What person thinks as a kid, “I want to live at home when I grow up?” When she was young, she’d had this image of what her future would be. She couldn’t exactly remember what it was, but living with her mother and sleeping in the same bedroom she’d had all her life wasn’t it.

Marnie was ready to settle down, as they say. But unfortunately, she hadn’t found anybody to settle with. Or even settle for.

When was the last time she’d been anybody’s girlfriend?

Marnie stopped walking right in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a trendy boutique, one of a string of them in this block.

There had been Darren, but that hadn’t lasted long and it had been the same kind of cheapie meal and occasional movie relationship she’d always had with guys. That had been fine when they were all starting out, but lately Marnie wanted more.

And, darn it, she was going to get it. Somehow.

She’d been gazing into the distance, but now she focused on the display window of the boutique. Skirts. Skimpy sweaters. Purses too tiny to be useful. Girlfriend clothes.

Marnie wore jeans and sweaters or T-shirts just like everyone else in her department. How stupid would she look if she started wearing clothes like that to work? And why should she have to change the way she dressed and fool around with her hair and makeup? She used to wear makeup, but she liked the extra sleeping time. Anyway, San Francisco’s windy weather made her eyes water and the stupid mascara run, so she’d get to work and have to do everything over again. Waste of time.

And did it matter? Were men really that shallow?

Of course they were.

Grumbling to herself, Marnie rounded the corner and headed down Twenty-Third Street, her favorite part of the walk to and from the station. Her route took her past a row of Painted Ladies, the San Francisco Victorian houses. Their defiantly gaudy colors and ornate trim appealed to Marnie. Why, she didn’t know. She was more of a neutral, sleek, chrome and clean lines kind of person, when she thought about decor at all. These houses were about as far from that as something could be.

This had been her route for nearly six years, uneventful until recently. First, several days ago, Marnie had noticed a sign in one of the pretty town houses—the pink-and-green one with the cream trim and darling gingerbread balcony—offering two-day rentals.

She’d memorized the sign: Two-Day Sublet. Inquire Within. There was additional writing beneath. It is not up to me to supply reasons why you might need an apartment for two days a week. If you do, let’s talk. If you do not, please walk.

Marnie had been thinking about it—she’d even met the doorman who had insisted that she take a flyer and had talked a blue streak at her until she’d given him a politely noncommittal platitude just to get away from him. Still, it would be wonderful to avoid the tedious commute for a couple of days a week.

The other thing that had happened was that construction had begun on one of the more tawdry of the ladies across the street. The house was being completely renovated and would no doubt rent or sell to a gazillionaire, if it hadn’t already.

At some point during the years since the town houses had been built in the late 1800s, they’d been updated by having their gingerbread trim torn off and new facades built over the old so that they’d lost all their personality. Now they’d get it back.

Marnie slowed to check on the progress—okay, and to see if the hunky construction foreman was around. In her current mood, Marnie could use a good construction foreman sighting.

Oh, goody. His truck was there. The blue-and-white Bronco bearing the name Renfro Restoration was parked off the sidewalk in the patch of grass by the front steps, just where it had been this morning when she’d walked by.

The guy had been solely responsible for Marnie acquiring a very expensive coffee habit. Every morning, she passed by about the time he arrived on site.

He’d lean against his Bronco and sip coffee from a familiar tall paper cup with a brown cuff around it. Though it was nearly May, the mornings were still cool and he’d wrap both hands around the cup. She could practically taste the coffee he gingerly brought to his lips. She’d think about it all the way into work and then have to stop in at the Starbucks next to the Carnahan building.

Early this morning, the two-man construction crew had been stripping the house to the insulation. Now they were cleaning up for the day. A large flatbed truck was parked on the street and the men threw the old wood and debris in it. Marnie stopped and watched them work. Actually, she watched one of them work because the foreman was right in there with them. His denim jacket and clipboard were on the hood of the Bronco and only a T-shirt was between him and the cooling evening.

A nicely filled out T-shirt. And jeans. Mustn’t overlook the jeans that emphasized a flat, taut stomach that clearly didn’t have a cold meatball sub sitting in it.

A broken two-by-four hit the side of the truck, bounced off and landed near Marnie. Startled, she jumped.

“Watch it!” The foreman approached her and Marnie’s eyes widened.

He was so much…more up close. Muscles and sinews worked in perfect rhythm as he strode toward her. Sawdust and other bits of old house dusted his shoulders and clung to his hair. Testosterone clouded the air. Everything about him shouted I am man and I do manly things. And the subtext which was, of course, I demand a woman who does womanly things.

Marnie doubted writing computer code counted as a womanly thing, but was willing to try to convince him.

He came to a stop in front of her, his shortish sun-kissed hair ruffling attractively in the wind. He wore gloves and swiped the back of his wrist over his forehead before resting his hands at his waist. His stance indicated that he was used to being in charge.

Marnie sighed a little. He could be in charge of her any time.

“You okay?” he asked.

She managed to nod. This was a lot of man and she wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

Apparently she didn’t have to do anything. He picked up the board and tossed it into the truck bed. “It’s dangerous to stand this close.” Then he walked back to the pile and picked up more wood. He raised his eyebrows until Marnie realized he was waiting for her to move on.

Way to go, Marnie. Talk about vibeless.

Couldn’t she have managed to come up with something to say? One measly conversational opener? She worked with men all day long and she couldn’t figure out an approach?

Talk about seriously rusty. The fact that he was a completely different type for her was no excuse. So his in-your-face masculinity had rendered her mute. Clearly, she needed help.

Disgusted with herself, she hunched into her ski parka and buried her nose in her woolen scarf as the wind picked up. Where was spring already?

She crossed the street, which brought her right by the Victorian with the two-day rent sign in the window. But she wasn’t looking at the sign—she was using the window’s reflection to watch the construction guy some more.

That was one serious hunk of man.

And she hadn’t even pinged his radar.

But to be fair, guys like that had never pinged her radar, either. She’d always gone for cerebral types, and the foreman was more the “hunka hunka burnin’ luv” type.

As Marnie stood there thinking that maybe the cerebral types she knew could use a testosterone transfusion, the door to the Victorian opened and two tiny, long-haired dogs—the kind that barked in annoying little yips—led a tall, thin man down the steps. The doorman.