Free All Shook Up by Susan Andersen

to any sick wisecracks on top of it.”
    Because he could see she was genuinely upset and he would’ve killed for a mother with half her concernwhen he was Tate’s age, he said, “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry. Go do your sales thing. We’ll be fine.”
    “Don’t screw up,” she commanded and, turning on her heel, crossed the yard with long-legged strides. A moment later she’d disappeared down the switchback trail.
    He slowly unclenched, muscle by muscle. He’d never met anyone who could turn him into one big nerve ending with so little effort the way that woman could. Blowing out a breath, he turned to see Sophie observing him. “I guess I’d better not screw up.” Somehow he managed to keep his tone light.
    She rewarded him with an approving smile. “She might sound a tad overprotective—”
    He snorted. “She sounds downright hostile.”
    “Perhaps. But you must understand that Tate’s the light of her life.”
    “Yeah, I’d have to be an idiot not to have figured that out.” He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. “I guess I’d better go collect the kid and let you get ready for your appointment.” Squaring his shoulders, he sternly slapped down the consternation that nudged him at the thought of having sole responsibility for Tate for the next couple of hours. What the hell did he know about ten-year-olds? It’d been a long time since he’d been one.
    As if she’d read his mind, Sophie said briskly, “I’ve been in the inn business for nearly thirty years, and it’s taught me to be a pretty good judge of character. You’ll do fine, dear.”
    J.D. found Tate stretched out on his stomach on the floor in front of the television set. “Time to go, sport.”
    “Ten more minutes, okay? The show’s still on.”
    “Didn’t I hear you promise your mom you wouldn’t use that excuse if she let you watch TV?”
    Tate shot him a toothy grin over his shoulder. “Yeah, but that was her. I didn’t promise you—”
    “Turn off the tube, kid. We’ve got a porch roof to build.”
    “No foolin’?” Tate hit the remote and the screen went dark. He jumped to his feet. “Let’s go!”
    They stopped by the garage and J.D. selected a number of tools, including a Skil saw, which sent Tate into a paroxysm of delight.
    “Can I saw something?” he demanded, dancing around J.D. as they made their way back to his cabin. “When do we get to cut something?”
    “Later,” J.D. said. “First we have to get rid of the damaged portions. Then we’ll build a framework.”
    It felt good, getting back to doing what he did best. He’d always found building satisfying, whether it was starting from scratch or taking something old and defunct and transforming it into a thing of function and beauty. As birds called to each other from the trees and the sun rose higher over the clearing in front of the cabin, he tore off the destroyed sections of the roof and tossed them down into the yard. Tate collected them and carted them to the spot J.D. had designated, stacking them in a pile.
    By the time he swung down from the roof, sweat had spread wet patches under his arms, across his chest and stomach, and pooled in the small of his back. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Amusement tipped up the corners of his mouth whenTate immediately followed suit, exposing a narrow, perfectly dry little chest.
    “You’re doing excellent work,” he said, wiping a trickle of sweat out of his eyes with the back of his forearm. “Let’s take a break, whaddaya say?”
    Tate swiped his arm across his eyes. “You bet.”
    J.D. opened the refrigerator a few moments later and looked inside. He glanced over at Tate. “So what d’ya think, kid—a beer?”
    Tate’s eyes lit up and he offered that big-toothed, megakilowatt smile. “Sure!”
    J.D. fished out a couple of Thomas Kemper root beers and popped the tops. He handed one to Tate and clinked the neck of his own bottle against it. “Here’s mud in