Move Me

Belle took twenty minutes to convince herself she was overstressed and imagining things. The shed was in the Back Yard, the same back yard where her little brother Danny had disappeared. Maybe its roof was wet and the light from the house’s windows created the impression that it was glowing.

Avoiding looking at it again, she ate two Oreos to calm her nerves, a practice she disapproved of but indulged in occasionally anyway.

Steadier but in need of diversion, she returned to the upstairs bedroom she’d decided to sleep in. Though Uncle Lucky’s room had been cleaned, staying there was out of the question. In her chosen room for the night, she wriggled into the vintage dress she’d rescued from the attic. It certainly fit her different now. Belle didn’t think she’d ever looked so sirenlike. She stood in front of the free-standing mirror, adjusting the feathered straps, when the downstairs doorknocker rapped out a sharp rhythm.

The fact that she jumped a foot said she wasn’t so calm really.

Chances were, her visitor was Susi. When they’d been kids, Belle’s best friend hadn’t been good at hearing no. Belle rolled her eyes at her reflection in the clingy plunge-cut dress. If she’d had an inch more up top, her cleavage would have been outrageous. Because she was relatively flat, she only looked overdressed. She wondered if she could convince Susi she always primped for pie eating.

In case Susi wasn’t her caller, she grabbed the Louisville Slugger her uncle kept in the hall closet. Thankfully, Mr. Tickner’s staff hadn’t cleared out the bat.

“Coming!” she said as the knocker dropped again.

Holding her weapon slightly behind her, Belle opened the front door.

Every thought she’d ever had flew out of her head.

The stranger who stood on her porch was well over six feet tall. His hair and eyes were dark, his shoulders as broad as a quarterback’s. He’d tucked the well washed cotton of a plaid flannel shirt into loden green work pants. Though his trousers weren’t snug, she could tell the legs that filled them were fit. A battered leather tool belt hung low on narrow hips. His large feet were clad in work boots with different colors of paint on them. A sheer but noticeable stubble darkened his jaw.

All these observations, though they sprang from within Belle’s own head, might as well have been in Latin.

Oh. My. God, said a deeper and less rational part of her. This man was too delectable to be real. Her mouth was literally watering at the sight of him. She wanted to plant a kiss on his shapely lips - or maybe lick him all over. The zipper that curved gently around his package seemed a good place to start. Lower portions of her body grew wet at that idea. He was perfect without being perfect at all. His nose was a little long, and some might have objected to the ungroomed shagginess of his brows. His beard shadow made him look rough and masculine. He had weary circles under his eyes.

Belle wanted to kiss them too.

“Uh,” was all her brain or her instincts agreed to let her say.

“I believe you’re expecting a handyman,” said her visitor, hooking long thumbs into his tool belt. He looked oddly like he was posing, but Belle wasn’t inclined to complain. His graceful fingers framed his crotch perfectly.

“Oh,” she said, scarcely an improvement on uh. She shook herself and swallowed. “You must be John Feeney. You came tonight after all.”