“You don’t look a bit like Cary Grant,” Lulu said with a nervous giggle.

Crossing his arms, the burly mover ignored her comment. Kill me now, she thought. The big man scrutinized all of Lulu’s worldly belongings piled in her parents’ driveway. Frantically Lulu had been calling movers all afternoon. Finally, she found someone to help. Then this Adonis showed up in a muscle car.

“All this?” Burnsy said.

“Not that you’re not handsome. You’re fine, more than fine. Not that looks matter when it comes to moving heavy stuff. I mean, Walter Burns, like from His Girl Friday. You know screwball comedy,” Lulu babbled. “Editor Walter Burns?”

“My father is Walter,” Burnsy hefted up two cartons of textbooks. “Where to?”

Grateful not to talk, Lulu pointed up the sketchy exterior staircase to her apartment over her folks’ garage.

“That’s the problem, the stairs apparently. The movers refused to finish the last part of the job. My dad and my brother said they were coming to help. But my dad had to work. My brother was a no show, natch. My brother don’t get me started on Peter. Those movers were his referral. His!”

Burnsy walked while his client talked. He hated last-minute jobs. Those clients were always wackadoodle. But his sister was a softy for every sob story. Now instead of hiking up Chester Creek, Burnsy was negotiating uneven steps on his Saturday. For the love of all that was holy, this one couldn’t stop talking about her ne’r do well brother. Finally at the top of death stairs, Burnsy stared at the apartment door.

“Pardon me, miss.”

He watched his client’s plump lips close for the first time.

“The door.”

Burnsy gestured with his head and mimed putting down the cartons. Blushing, the client squeezed her shapely form past him. She opened the door and propped it open. Well at least she was a cute wackadoodle. Burnsy walked into the carriage house apartment with a hint of a smile.