Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Go to Town

Martin Ferguson was a large, slightly overweight man, with the same mop of dark, straight hair as Dom. He had a heavy square jaw, unhealthy complexion, and the same large, half-lidded, brown eyes as Anya's ex. There was plenty of familial resemblance, but while Dom, even on his lowest days, tended to be easy-going and a comfortable presence, Martin immediately filled the kitchen with tension when he stomped in and threw Whitlaw an irritated glare.

"I need my lunch," he grumbled and gave Anya an expectant look.

"Good afternoon, Martin," Whitlaw greeted the man gleefully.

Ferguson didn't acknowledge it. Anya gave him a polite smile and muttered her own 'good afternoon,' but got no answer either. Beggars can't be choosers, Anya reminded herself, swallowing the words 'I'm not your housekeeper' and heading to the fridge to take out leftover containers.

Martin dropped in a chair and once again snarled at Whitlaw.

"How's my attic?" he asked the builder who was drinking his tea as if nothing was happening.

"I haven't gotten to it yet," Whitlaw said. "I got distracted."

Anya's back tensed. She plated a generous serving of spag bol, put it in the microwave, and turned to Martin.

"Where's your sprog?" he asked, looking her over.

It was a dark, unpleasant look, but mostly just derisive and hostile, not predatory. Dom had been right, she was safe here in his brother's house - but that's as much good as moving here did. She needed to find a job.

"She's playing with Henry," Anya answered.

"Can she be left alone with him? She's— what? Six?" he barked, picked up a ciabatta from the basket on the table, and tore off a large corner.

"She's ten, and she has babysitting experience," Anya answered, still keeping her temper under control.

Also, she'd like to point out, the children were just behind a wall from them, which he'd have known if he'd bothered checking on his son. Or just saying hello, maybe? At that moment, as if according to a script, they could hear Henry squee and laugh, and then Varya laughed as well.

"Make them be quiet, would you?" Martin growled, got up jerkily, and marched to the microwave.

Children aren't supposed to be quiet, Anya thought. They are children.

Martin put his plate on the table and threw Anya an expecting look. What? Was this an actual order? Is she supposed to gag the little'uns?

"They're just playing," she said, and the man snarled.

"And I worked all night, so they need to shut their gobs." He scooped a forkful of pasta and shoved it in his mouth. "So, go, make them–"

"Listen, mate," Whitlaw cut in. "You have a big house. You won't even hear them from upstairs."

Anya clenched her jaws. She knew he thought he was helping, but based on her experience with men, that would only make Martin angrier. She was right. The man threw the fork down, splattering the sauce on the table Anya had scrubbed in the morning, and spat out, "Why don't you just bugger off, mate?"

"I'll just take them for a walk. How about that?" Anya said hurriedly, wiping her hands on a towel. "Henry will fall asleep, and Varya will be super quiet when we come back."

"Yeah, you do that," Martin said, and then turned to Whitlaw, "And you can sod off. I changed my mind. Don't need any renovations."

Whitlaw narrowed his eyes at Ferguson, his right hand fisting, and Anya pressed her head down into her shoulders. Her heart beat painfully, and she took a step back, towards the door out of the kitchen. She'd seen enough of punch-ups in her life. And then Whitlaw looked at her, and his face relaxed.