just the same, though the hallway wasn’t as well kept. The floor looked okay. The boards were bare, but it looked solid enough. The walls weren’t treated either. It didn’t seem there was a lick of paint or wallpaper in sight. There were chips and holes in the plaster, revealing the concrete beneath.
The sound of the music coming from the radio was quiet. Poppy didn’t really think about the fact that she was listening to it as she crept down the hallway, wondering why the décor had been so neglected. It was the abrupt ring of some kind of power tool razing the air that startled her to a halt. The power tool. Right. The radio.
Remembering why she was there, Poppy sidelined her curiosity and followed the sound. It was coming from what had to be one of the apartments. While turning to go through the open door, she was full of confidence. The view inside stole both her poise and her ability to think.
The flip of her stomach at the main door paled in comparison to what it was doing while she gawked at the figure standing fifteen feet away. The guy, and it had to be a guy, was bent over, giving her a saliva-inducing glimpse of quite the ass wrapped in blue jeans. It took a second for her to absorb anything more than that. The jeans were grubby, soft… well-worn. Damn, the man wore them well.
Men didn’t wear jeans where she was from, not as anything other than a novelty. It was all slacks and chinos. Formalwear was more common. Once in a while, if the occasion particularly called for it, a pair of khakis or shorts might sneak in, but they had to be event specific. She couldn’t even remember seeing her father in any kind of sweatpants or denim. He went to the gym, so had to have something appropriate for working out in his closet, but she never saw him like that.
Her mind was still wandering when the sound of the tool stopped. Music. It was the music that snapped her out of her trance. He wasn’t bending over anymore, he was at full, dominating height. His arm moved, the light scrape of his fingers on wood put a smile on her face.
Her eyes actually closed. Was it nuts? The sound reminded her of what her grandmother used to say about her grandfather’s hands being rough. Nothing like her father’s. Marigold always said rough hands were the sign of a man who worked for a living.
The rich scent of sawdust filled her nostrils. It was enchanting. So… unusual. Poppy got lost in it and forgot herself again.
“Where you packing the candy?”
The gruff, unimpressed masculine voice pulled her from her basking. Her eyes popped open to see he was twisted around, examining her. Doing the same in return, she registered the short pencil behind his ear and safety glasses on his head. The scowl pulling at his brow was impossible to miss.
Since she was little, Poppy had been taught about introductions, about first impressions, about always smiling. Girls, women, they should always smile, especially at a first meeting. Unfortunately for her, although the thoughts were darting through her mind, none managed to manifest.
“I… I have no candy,” Poppy said, glancing at the small clutch in her hand. There was barely room in there for her cellphone, let alone anything superfluous like confectionery. “Why would you—”
“I can smell it.”
“Oh,” she said. Thoughts of smiling did encroach again, but they didn’t get further than her brain. Poppy needed all of her available energy to take another step. “My perfume smells sweet, so maybe—”
“Take that and the neat little body back down the stairs,” he said. “I’d think by the look of you that you can read. Guess appearances really can be deceiving.”
He turned away to bend over a little again, snagging something from the tool belt that she only just noticed he was wearing. Another coarse sound vibrated through the air, though Poppy didn’t have any idea what it was.
“Actually, I need to talk to…” He straightened up without going to the trouble of looking at her again. “Whomever is in charge, I suppose. Uh… your boss.”
He tossed something light down onto the workbench and turned around slowly, stopping to fold his arms across the broad chest that was testing the limits of his once-white tee-shirt.
“My boss, huh? What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” she said, fearing he might think she intended to complain about something that might