Male Call. HEATHER MACALLISTER

types, and the foreman was more the “hunka hunka burnin’ luv” type.

      As Marnie stood there thinking that maybe the cerebral types she knew could use a testosterone transfusion, the door to the Victorian opened and two tiny, long-haired dogs—the kind that barked in annoying little yips—led a tall, thin man down the steps. The doorman.

      “Slow down or you’ll strangle yourselves, you irritating little twits.”

      The dogs ignored him and struggled to descend the stairs. Once down on the sidewalk, they sniffed at Marnie’s shoes.

      The doorman pulled at the leash. “I’d say heel, but they’d only think I was suggesting another part of your foot.” He looked up at her. “Oh, it’s you. Have you decided about the apartment?”

      “Uh…” Marnie stepped back and the dogs yipped in protest. “I was just…” She trailed off.

      Wait a minute. She was just having a pity party because Barry had rejected her and she’d been thrown for a loop by the construction guy.

      She needed to make some changes and here was an opportunity being handed to her. Just because it was attached to a couple of high-strung dogs shouldn’t distract her.

      The bottom line was that she wanted a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. A potential husband boyfriend. There was even a technical name for that—fiancé. With her commute, it was hard to date either in the city or in Pleasant Hill. Renting this apartment would give her a temporary base in the city.

      She’d just about decided when the sound of gears grinding announced the imminent departure of the flatbed truck. The construction foreman was still there sweeping leftover debris off the sidewalk.

      Oh, yes. And as an added perk, she’d wake up to him outside her window.

      Marnie looked back at the doorman, who’d been remarkably patient when she sensed that he wasn’t the patient type.

      “Yes, I’d like to rent the apartment for two days a week.” It was the first impulsive thing she’d ever done.

      He pulled on the dogs’ leashes. “Monday and Tuesday is all that I have left.”

      Those weren’t date nights. “Monday and Tuesday will be fine.” She’d make them date nights.

      “Fabulous! But as you see, I am otherwise engaged. When can you come by to do the paperwork?”

      “Tomorrow morning?” Marnie still couldn’t believe what she’d done.

      “How do you take your coffee?”

      Marnie blinked at the question. “Large and strong.” Kinda like the construction guy. She almost giggled.

      “Understood. Until tomorrow then. Onward, dogs!” The doorman proceeded up the street, fortunately in the opposite direction.

      Okay. She’d done it. Now how was she going to tell her mother that she’d rented an apartment in the city for two days a week? Marnie started walking when a whistle pierced the air. Not from the man with the dogs, but from the crew in the truck.

      Instinctively, Marnie knew it was a different whistle than the ones the construction workers used to signal each other. Glancing across the street, she saw two women walking, heads bowed against the wind just as hers was when she walked.

      That was the only similarity. Where Marnie was dressed in clunky hiking boots, jeans and appropriately warm clothing for a San Francisco spring evening, these stupid females were wearing heels and skirts which blew every which way as their long blond hair whipped about their faces.

      What was this? Blonde Day? And why were they all dressed alike?

      The wind carried the murmur of appreciative males. The construction workers, clearly unrepentant, had whistled at the women and now watched as they walked past the truck. Ah yes, the call of the male hominus jerkus.

      They hadn’t whistled at her, not that she’d ever had a construction worker whistle at her or wanted one to. Or was supposed to want one to.

      And yet, and yet… No. If that was what she had to wear to get whistled at, then forget it.

      She stood and watched the men watching the women.

      “Hey! Haul that stuff off to the dump!” The foreman glanced at the women then tossed a bag of sweepings into the back of the truck. It drove away and the foreman walked into the yard where he set up two sawhorses and a work light clipped to the open door of the Bronco.

      He was still in his T-shirt, impervious to the cold. The muscles in his back stretched, the muscles in his arms bunched and his torso was probably a work of art.

      Marnie sighed. If she were going to have a man whistle at her, that was the one she wanted doing the whistling.

      But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence.

      She should get going or she’d miss her usual train. Except something drew her to the man in the yard. Marnie stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What would she do if he did notice her?

      Put out some vibes, that’s what.

      The whine of an electric saw shrieked into the evening. Marnie made the brilliant deduction that he was cutting a piece of wood. He wore safety goggles and looked solid and competent and was concentrating as fiercely on the movements of the saw as Marnie usually did staring at a computer screen. Of course if Marnie made a mistake, she wasn’t likely to lose a finger.

      A man at work was a thing of beauty. If that wasn’t a famous quote, it should be. Yeah, if nothing else, seeing more of this guy made renting the apartment worth it.

      Knowing that he couldn’t hear her, Marnie shouted, “You’re a thing of beauty! And I just rented the apartment across the street. What do you think of that?”

      The saw reached the end of the board. The whine stopped and a chunk of wood fell to the ground. Setting the saw aside, the man picked up the part he’d cut and held it to the light. As he examined his work and blew bits of shaving and sawdust off the design, a huge smile creased his face.

      ZACH RENFRO liked nothing more than restoring San Francisco’s grand Victorians. He did excellent work, if he did say so himself. No one could afford him, but since he didn’t charge what he was worth, it all evened out.

      People lacked patience these days. People like the actor type who lived in the Victorian across the street. The day Zach and his crew had started ripping off the disgusting dress this pretty lady had worn for the past seventy-five years, the guy had swished across the street to complain about the noise. He’d blathered on about a script and how Zach was committing auditory assault.

      “What the hell are you talking about?” Zach had climbed down a ladder to talk with the guy and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.

      “I have work to do. How can I concentrate with all this commotion?”

      “Earplugs?”

      “I, Franco Rossi, should not have to wear earplugs in the privacy of my own home.” He gave Zach a haughty look.

      Great. One of those. “Well, Frank.” Zach couldn’t believe anyone would admit to being named Franco and shortened it out of courtesy. “This is my work.”

      “But my work is art.”

      Zach gestured to the house. “So is mine. Once upon a time, my lady, here, was just as pretty as your house. But she wasn’t treated right and now I’m going to give her a little nip and tuck, get her a new dress and make her a pretty necklace.” Zach reached into the front seat of his truck and grabbed the piece of wood that he planned to use as a pattern to cut gingerbread trim. “Now look at that. It’s a custom design and I’m going to cut it out by hand. Are you going to tell me that’s not art?”

      Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach