He’d made one small slip.
“My, uh, department, kept track of what our potential competitors were doing.”
“What company did you work for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Why did you leave? Why aren’t you doing that job anymore?”
Because by Xeno standards, he’d been born defective—he’d grown a conscience. He lacked ruthlessness. “I didn’t like the person I was. I hated myself,” he said.
She flinched.
It had disturbed him to play with sentient creatures as if they were toys, a discomfort that over time had become untenable. He’d risked his life voting against the bombardment—and it hadn’t done any good. He’d been outnumbered, and the planet had been destroyed. It had also forced him to reveal his true leanings.
“I couldn’t be that person anymore,” he said. “I had to discover myself, change myself, and find a way to right the wrongs I’d been a party to.”
Kevanne’s knuckles tightened on her coffee cup. “Have you changed? Did you right the wrongs?” she whispered.
“I like to think I’m a different person now. I did as much as I could, but time ran out. I live with the guilt of not doing enough and doing it too late, but I’m not done yet. I’m not presently in a position where I can do anything, but I hope that will change.”
“In the meantime, you need a job.”
“Yes.”
“Most of the important work is outside, but until the rain lets up, we can’t do it. However, I could use help around the house. I bought some replacement faucets, but they have to be installed. The house is drafty; I’m spending a fortune on heating. Windows need to be caulked. Doors need weather stripping. I can’t offer more than a couple of weeks’ work though. I need more help, but I can’t afford to pay for more.”
He held his breath. “Does that mean I have the job?”
“You said you didn’t have any handyman experience, but I’m willing to give you a try. If I can patch a roof when I have no roofing experience, you can figure stuff out, too.”
“Thank you!” He broke into a big smile. It wasn’t just about money anymore. This human intrigued him, and he wanted to learn more about her.
“Why don’t you come back the day after tomorrow? I have a few things to do before I can go into Coeur d’Alene for supplies. The bait shop in Argent doesn’t carry much.”
He’d been hoping he could start today, but at least he’d landed a job, and this would give him time to study home repair. Both Wingman and Tigre said the Internet offered a wealth of information. He needed to research caulking, weather stripping, faucet installation, and the other chores she’d mentioned. He didn’t know how to do them now, but by the day after tomorrow he would.
Chapter Nine
Scoop. Shovel. Tie. Toss.
On a folding table in the living room, Kevanne worked the assembly line.
Using a coffee scooper, she shoveled a spoonful of lavender potpourri into a pastel bag, tied it closed with a purple ribbon, and tossed it into a big basket. Next time I’ll spring for drawstring bags! They cost a little more, but oh, the time she would have saved. She’d forgotten how long it took to fill and tie potpourri bags. Two days, 180 bags later, she was almost done. Actually, it had taken a day and a half. Half of yesterday had been spent at the big-box hardware store in Spokane because the one in Coeur d’Alene was out of what she’d wanted.
Scoop. Shovel. Tie. Toss.
“Herian! Fithic!” She didn’t understand the language, but there was no mistaking the panic.
What now? She dashed into the kitchen.
A geyser arced into the air from the open pipe as Cam Leon tried to plug it up with his hands. Water bounced off the ceiling and puddled on the floor.
“Shit!” She rushed to the sink and ducked under the cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Turning off the water!” Like you were supposed to do! She’d told him to switch off the main valve before removing the faucet.
She was getting drenched as she fought with the rusted spigot. The plumbing was as old as the house, and the valve refused to budge. “It’s stuck, I can’t get it!” What was she going to do? The house would be flooded before she could get a plumber.
“Let me.” Cam dropped down beside her to peer under the sink.
He grasped the valve lever.
“Turn it clockwise,” she said.
She got a blank stare.
“To the right!”
He turned it easily, and the water shut off.
Okay, he was strong. And he smelled good. But he had to be the worst handyman in the world.
“I’m sorry.” Water dripped off him. “I screwed up again.”
His face was so close, if she leaned in, their lips would meet. Her stomach fluttered the way it always did when she got too close to him. He only had to walk into the room, and her stupid body reacted. Stop it!
“Why didn’t you turn off the water like I told you?” she snapped, more irritated at herself than him.
“I thought you meant up top—at the faucet.”
She sighed. “It’s all right. Honest mistake. I’m sorry I shouted at you.” If she’d ever used that tone with Dayton…
Cam seemed to have a general idea what he should be doing, but there were significant gaps in his knowledge. He’d planed the swollen doors okay, but he’d sprayed so much oil on the squeaky hinges, it had dripped all over the floor. He’d misunderstood her directions, and instead of caulking the windows and applying weather stripping to the exterior doors, he’d caulked the doors and had begun sticking the weather stripping to the window frame when she’d caught him. Giving him a task was like teaching a child—it would have been easier to do the work herself.
She’d sensed he was down on his luck, and, having been there herself, she’d hired him to help him out. But she needed a professional handyman—someone who knew more about home repairs than she did. If she had any sense, she’d fire him. Pay him for his time and send him on his way.
Except he seemed so earnest, so genuine in his desire to help.
“I didn’t like the person I was. I hated myself,” he’d told her two days ago. She couldn’t imagine what the company he’d worked for had demanded of him, but his confession had resonated down to the dark, secret places inside of her. She hadn’t liked herself, the person she’d allowed Dayton to shape her into becoming. He’d had her convinced every problem in their marriage was her fault. Then he’d died, and the necrosis of guilt had spread like a flesh-eating bacteria.
I’m so sorry for your loss. People meant well, but every sincere condolence had worsened her shame. Therapy had walked her back from the brink of despair, allowed her to accept and own her emotions. It was okay to feel what she felt. But some days, dormant doubts reawakened to undermine the progress.
So she’d hired Cam, not out of sympathy—but empathy.
And she kept him on for the same reason, but she crossed her fingers he wouldn’t destroy her house before he fixed it.
Rising to her feet, she bumped into him. He steadied her with a hand to her elbow. Heat sizzled at the point of contact. “Let’s get the kitchen mopped up.” The floor was one giant puddle.