P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“Morning,” a deep voice rumbled from beneath her, barely discernible over the god-awful grinding roar.

Her eyes locked with Jase’s sleepy, amused gaze. He lay in a sleeping bag positioned crosswise in front of the door.

Scrambling off his lap, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

He seemed to accept her retreat with equanimity, running a hand along his unshaven jaw. “Figured I’d camp out on your porch, just to make certain no one came back to bother you last night.” He pointed at the hand-lettered sign taped on the door above him. “I was probably more of a deterrent than that .”

She reached over him and ripped the paper off the beveled glass. “You slept outside ?”

He shrugged, yawning. “It’s summer—I was fine. Actually, this makes a nice sleeping porch during fair weather. The birds woke me up at dawn, serenading from your maple tree. It’s a nice change of pace.”

The grinding noise started up again, reminding her of why she’d tripped over him in the first place. “Shit! Don’t move,” she commanded. “This conversation isn’t finished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She jogged down the steps and around the side of the house. Tom stood high on the scaffolding, wielding a huge tool that had a long blade made of sharp, menacing teeth. Below him, Amanda was organizing a pile of debris, moving it onto the patio. A second pile of what looked to be dusty, broken pieces of lumber lay nearby on the grass. The air smelled faintly of a peculiarly sharp, musty mold.

The tool was shaking the entire house as it cut. Through her wall .

Tom spied Jordan. “Good morning!” he shouted over the whine, his expression businesslike. People didn’t act calm and businesslike while they destroyed a historic house, right? “Thought I’d get an early start on this,” he added.

“What are you doing?” she shouted.

He turned off the machine halfway through her question, causing her words to echo throughout the neighborhood in the sudden silence. “You’ve got dry rot in through here.” Setting the monster down, he dropped to sit with his legs hanging over the scaffolding, his arms propped on the metal supports as he smiled at her. “We can’t let it go any further without replacing the framing, or it will continue to travel through the structure, eventually causing the wall to collapse. And of course if it should reach the floor joists, that could weaken the supports for the second floor—”

“Stop! No caffeine.”

His smile turned to a grin. “You offering some up?”

“Maybe. I thought I was going to bid out this work.”

“You can bid a large portion of it,” Tom replied, “but this couldn’t wait. It’s never a good idea to wait when it comes to dry rot.”

That sounded ominous, but she decided not to ask for clarification. “What is that thing?” She pointed at the tool.

“It’s a sawsall.” Amanda swung around, her ponytail hitting her cheek, her expression surprised. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”

“Oddly enough, outside of my life experience up to now.”

“Really.” Amanda pursed her lips.

“Its real name is ‘reciprocating saw,’ ” Tom elaborated. “Kind of a cross between a Skilsaw and a chainsaw. Very handy for sawing in places other tools can’t get to. And it cuts right through nails, roofing, lumber, and the like.”

“Should I use it to remove the bookcase?”

His easygoing expression turned to alarm. “No! I mean, sawsalls can do a lot of damage if used by someone who doesn’t have much experience.” At her frown, he added hastily, “They really shouldn’t be used for delicate work like dismantling a bookcase made of quality finish wood.”

Jordan stepped back and craned her neck, looking at the large hole above the French doors that gaped almost to the roof. “So how big will that be once you’re finished?”

“Not sure yet,” he answered cheerfully.” Dry rot always travels farther than you would expect, so I’m finding more rotten supports than I originally thought I would. It’s probably moved down through the first floor on this side of the house.”

Of course it had. Honestly, she was quite proud of her composure.

“The boards look just fine to me,” she said, studying the wall structure he’d uncovered where he’d removed the siding. “Are you sure?”

“Believe me, once you’ve smelled dry rot, there’s no mistaking the odor,” he assured her. “If I took a screwdriver and tried to ram it through any of these two-by-sixes, it’d push straight through with almost no effort.”

“I’m kinda surprised, given that this wall had the weight of the wisteria on it, that it’s still upright,” Amanda added.

Jordan instantly envisioned a house of extremely old, dusty toothpicks. And she’d been sleeping on the second floor .

Her thoughts must have been reflected on her face. “Whoa,” Tom said hastily. “The rot is just right in through here, nowhere else that I’ve been able to find. The house is basically solid; don’t worry.”

“Right,” Jordan said faintly. “I’ll just go away now and leave you to it. If anyone asks me, I’ll deny that I saw anything.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be down in a bit to see about that bookcase, but I wanted to get this handled first.”

“You do that,” she said, backing away.

JASE was still inside his sleeping bag on the front porch, sitting upright, his back propped against the wooden panel at the base of the front door. Malachi lay beside him on his back, all four paws in the air, and Jase was rubbing his stomach.

The sleeping bag had pooled at Jase’s waist, revealing a nicely muscled chest with just the right amount of dark, soft-looking chest hair that arrowed down … She jerked her gaze up to his face and scowled. “I thought I told you last night I didn’t need you to stay.”

He shrugged. “A little extra insurance never hurts, particularly after the day you had yesterday. I don’t like the coincidence of you being attacked twice in one day, then a burglar last night.” One side of his mouth quirked. “I didn’t mind playing knight in shining armor for one night.”

She felt a pang of guilt at her ingratitude. And then a pang of irritation: She didn’t need a knight in shining armor.

“All right, thanks,” she said. “Actually, I don’t think I thanked you for coming over last night …”

“I saw your lights go on from down the block, then Darcy pull up,” he replied. “I was worried. And I’m willing to admit that I don’t like the thought of you being in danger. I wish you’d drop this one. Just let Darcy do her job.”

“I’ve backed off,” she assured him. “Believe me, I don’t like being attacked. I’ve got bruises that are going to keep me sore and aching for days.” She felt the back of her head. The bump was smaller this morning, but still there.

His gaze sharpened. “You hit your head?”

“I fell down the steps at Holt’s yesterday. Or, rather, I was shoved, and I hit my head on the cement stoop. I’m fine, though.” She quickly explained why she’d been out at Holt’s, ignoring that he didn’t seem any more convinced than Darcy had by the soundness of her reasoning.

Jordan’s gaze dropped south again, to that nice-looking chest. She gave brief thought to the FPP, then consigned it to the dust bin. “How far does that”—she waggled her index finger up and down at the portion of his anatomy she was trying so hard not to look at—“state of undress go?”

His frown turned into a sexy smile. “Want to find out?” he asked, his voice deeper than normal.

Far too tempted, she folded her arms and cocked her head. “You’ve decided to get sneaky, haven’t you?”