Switched, Bothered and Bewildered (4 page)

"What Christmas present?" Jana Lee had lost all ability to sort the situation out. She wasn't ready for actual office contact yet! She'd moved backward enough to hit the wall. She felt it with her fingers to be sure it was there.

"This one."

Man Zinger took three big steps forward and pinned her against the wall like a moth to a collector's board, his hands pressed on the wall next to each side of her head, his body so close it created a heat wave. He looked into her eyes for a moment, then went straight for her lips. She heard herself make a squeaking sound as he pressed in for the hottest kiss she had ever, ever tasted.

Ohhh!
Oh
man. The electricity ran a shock-line through her entire body—from the lips to the toes then back again. By the time the wave hit her brain, she started to regain her senses.

She pulled out of his kiss and gasped. Jillian had obviously left some major details out of her notes.

Without the slightest hesitation, her hand, which must be working off some primal instinct disconnected from the rest of her body, flew up and slapped her handsome visitor right in the kisser. He looked surprised. His hand flew to his face. Then he grinned.

"I'll pick you up here at six for dinner." He then, much to her shock and dismay, turned on his heel and vanished out the office door, not waiting for her reply.

Jackson Hawks could hardly believe that was the same Jillian Tompkins who'd thrown herself and her cleavage at him during the company Christmas party last December. He'd been avoiding her like the proverbial plague since then.

She seemed so different now. She sure must have needed a rest. Her whole face looked softer. Her usual hard-edged black eyeliner and red
power lips
deal had been replaced by a much softer, earthy look. Even that cleavage looked . . . earthier. And she'd acted positively demure in the coffee room instead of oh, assaulting the vending machine, for instance.

Maybe he'd misjudged Jillian Tompkins. People did change. Why, he actually felt seriously turned on by her, slap and all. Her bright blue eyes and her short swingy brown hair had him hot around the collar and it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning.

His love life was abysmal at the present time anyway so why not give Miss Jillian another chance? Besides, he couldn't get her off his mind after seeing her in the coffee room this morning. He'd found that so odd. Odd enough to think up an excuse to visit her end of the hallway. Like maybe he'd needed even more sales figures for his afternoon meeting with Cavanau. But he'd come away without sales figures. He'd come away with a taste of Jillian instead. He smiled as he walked down the bright hallway.

Cavanau was such a wank; he loved pie charts. Jackson would have Oliver send them over on the computer and pile them on because Cavanau was their biggest account at present, and their last line of toys hadn't performed as well as they'd hoped, so today he'd have to convince Cavanau to keep the faith in Pitman Toys.

Which reminded
Jackson of some details he had to attend to, like making sure the conference room was ready and that Olga had Cavanau's favorite lunch ordered. Check, double-check, and check again. Ever since he'd accepted the vice presidency he'd felt a heavy responsibility to keep Pitman Toys in the game.

Of course being VP of Pitman meant wearing many hats, but that was fine with him. That translated to keeping his own butt employed, and the rest of the motley crew around here, too. It was chilling out there in the job-hunt line. San Fran-

Cisco had been hit hard by the economic roller coaster of the last ten years.

But at present, the thought of connecting with Jillian Tompkins seemed to be overshadowing a whole lot of other things. He'd asked her out to dinner, and she hadn't said no. Well, to be more correct, he hadn't let her. He could spend the evening staring at her new, softer look across a nice meal and see if she really had changed so much or whether it was his sex-starved imagination.

³

Trading Paces

Jillian stood out on the small back porch breathing in the fresh, salty sea air. Memories of sitting here having awkward conversations with middle-school boyfriends came back to her. It was the only place to get a little privacy in the small beach house her parents had bought when they'd moved up from L. A.

Seabridge
Bay
was calm and quiet. The lapping waves made a rhythmic gesture against the smooth rocks that brought back many pictures in her mind, like a scrapbook made from scents and sounds of the past that were still the same today.

But right now she was actually trying to get away from the fumes she'd created in the laundry room. Apparently two cups of bleach and half a

box of powdered laundry detergent did more than get the mildew smell out of the stinking, rotting clothes she'd dealt with yesterday upon her arrival; it also made the washing machine explode. "I promised to rescue the wash, now I'm rescuing the washer," Jillian muttered to herself.

She went to the garage, found Bill's old red toolbox, dragged it inside and opened the lid.

She had to admit, she had no idea what to do about the washer, but she was going to find out. She could do anything any man could do, and in her experience, if you took something apart and put it back together, you usually figured out what was wrong with it.

It was seven in the morning, and she had hours before the munchkins arrived after school. Hours. She'd hoped to sleep in, but the sound of some freakin' happy morning birds had disrupted her enough to make it impossible. She'd just wanted to
fry
those damn birds for breakfast. Them and their seagull friends.

Now, where was the manual for this thing? Jillian dug in the upper cupboard in the laundry room looking for the book to the
Kenmore washer. Hot glue gun, a box of old sunglasses, random batteries, a rubber-stamping kit: oh no, it would be too logical for Jana Lee to keep the books right next to the units. Jillian stepped back and wiped her dusty hands on the front of the old apron she'd

found hanging on a hook in the laundry room. It looked like one of Mom's. It probably was.

It was a good thing she'd grown up in this house and knew every inch of it. That would make her useless hunts for everything slightly easier.

Jillian stepped in the kitchen and washed her hands, then poured herself a cup of coffee. Where the sugar and creamer were, she had no idea. Wait, the copper and tin canisters were still on the counter, just like when they were kids, and lo and behold . . . Jillian popped the lid off the old sugar can. Sugar. She'd have to use real milk, if there was any in the house. After the washer incident there was no doubt she'd have to go grocery shopping. Oy-Arse Domesticus.

She pulled the old fridge open and located a carton of milk, opened the spout, sniffed, and about gagged. Instead of subjecting herself further, she put it back in the fridge. She'd purge later.

The sound of pounding footsteps down the stairs was followed by the blur of a teenage body with some sort of hip-hugger pants, a streak of belly flesh showing, and a tank top. The blur paused long enough to grab the five bucks Jillian had been instructed to place on the counter.

"Bye."

That was it. Carly's repeat performance; one showing at ten o'clock last night, one showing at seven in the morning. Last night it was "hi" fol-

lowed by a streak up the stairs to her room, and the slammed door, then the bumping beat of alternative rock and roll. Jana Lee had bet Jillian a box of chocolate-covered cherries it would take Carly at least a week to even notice her Aunt Jillian was standing in for her mother. Jillian was beginning to think she was going to lose that bet. At least she'd win the one where Oliver would spot Jana Lee in thirty seconds or less.

Not only was her niece a piece of work but this 1969 tract house was a piece of junk. It didn't even have that kitschy charm sixties houses sometimes get. Dropped plastic ceiling panels with fluorescent lights, mustard shag carpet, bad aluminum windows, and ugly, ugly brown vinyl fake brick on the kitchen floor. No wonder Jana Lee was depressed. It was a split-level nightmare.

Jillian leaned against the old white sparkle-vinyl countertop and slurped her sugary black coffee. And she was supposed to be unwinding. She sighed.

Speaking of depressed, Monty Python, the oldest golden retriever on the planet, was staring at her from his downtrodden position on the sofa in the family room. His big doggy eyes knew the truth.

"Monty, you know it's me, just get over yourself. She'll be back in a week," she told the dog.

Monty's floppy left ear made a tiny movement. She knew he'd heard her. He'd been in that exact

position since last night. The sofa was obviously dog domain, and that was that. He wasn't moving.

"Just don't pee on it. You know where the dog door is."

Monty rolled an eyeball at her.

Now, to the washer. She slammed through every cupboard in the kitchen and came up empty on the manual. Well, there was always the internet. She hadn't seen any computer hooked up on the main floor, or in Jana Lee's upstairs room, so if one existed, it was most likely in Carly's room.

Jillian took off her apron and stomped upstairs, thinking up ways to search for washer manuals on Google. Her pants slid down a bit, and she pulled them back up. Geez, Jana Lee's jeans were a little loose on her. She better find a belt before they fell off. She'd put on these jeans and her sister's clean but ugly pink T-shirt and a pair of old Keds tenny runners. That was the extent of the wardrobe hunt so far. It did feel rather good not to have to get all slicked up for work.

She should have packed more of her own stuff, but she hadn't really known she'd be coming here when she'd checked into Serenity Spa. What she did pack was dirty from her spa week, and of course to
wash
it she had to fix the washer. She was in a tragic sitcom loop.

The door to Carly's room was covered in stickers and Keep Out signs. When Jillian pushed, it creaked open like in a horror movie. Jillian stood

in the doorway for a moment, too stunned to move. This was obviously the gateway to hell.

There must be a bedroom here, but stinking piles of cast-off dirty clothes coated every square inch, except those inches that were covered in magazines, makeup, empty soda cans, pizza boxes and take-out drink containers with straws sticking out of them. The smell was bad, way bad. Jillian kicked through the piles and made a path.

In one corner was an old white-and-gold French provincial girly-style desk. On that desk was the flickering screen of a desktop computer. It looked like a fairly decent model. The screen saver was Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson in her famous bare-boob moment. Well, at least Justin was cute.

Jillian located a chair and scraped herself a space at the desk. She had a deep, abiding need for charts and lists and databases. She set her coffee cup down, hiked up Jana Lee's jeans, and got to work.

In one hour she'd downloaded an entire yearly household maintenance master plan off of one site, created a daily checklist on Excel from a site by a gal called Flylady, and pulled up and printed off the mechanical specifications for the Maytag top-load washer. Being capable was a good feeling. She three-hole-punched all those and created several notebooks from binders she found stuffed around the room. At least Carly had office supplies.

In two more hours,
 
she'd
 
taken the entire

washer apart but hadn't located the problem. That was sort of an understatement. She couldn't really grasp how to reassemble it. Perhaps she'd overestimated her own mechanical abilities. She'd have to call a repair guy. She needed this washer in running order because Carly's Hell Room was on her list of things to do, and so was teaching Carly to wash and dry her own damned clothes.

She'd tackle her on the reentry run tonight. She'd have to forfeit the bet, though. Would Carly really have taken a full week to realize her aunt was standing in the kitchen instead of her mother? They'd never know now, because Jillian had a plan to implement and she was enlisting her niece first thing off the bat.

Let's see. If she could get a repair guy by one, he might be able to be out of here before three, when the rugrats came. Jillian went back in the kitchen and looked at Jana Lee's scribbled notes in the spiral notebook with Tweety bird on the front. She and Jana Lee were so different. After-school snacks. Got it. She'd go to Central Market and stock up on stuff. But how would she do that while waiting for a repair guy? Logistics.

Jillian found the phone book exactly where her mother had kept it, in an open shelf by the kitchen wall phone along with five years of outdated phone books. She picked the most accessible local book, which was about five years old but showed the most use. Maybe there'd be notes.

She opened it, flipping to the back, and noticed Jana Lee had a list of phone numbers scribbled in the back: school, pizza, handyman. Handyman. That would work. Those guys did everything. Maybe.

Let's just hope she could get this guy on short notice. While she was dialing she grabbed the old phone books and walked them to the recycle bin outside on the back porch; thankfully the spiral phone cord attached to the ugly old wall phone reached a whole twenty feet.