He wondered if he’d gone too long without a woman from the strong way he reacted when she gave him that look. The half-humorous one, as though she were laughing at herself and inviting him to share in her amusement. He had no idea why he found that so sexy, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “So you’re an experienced bedroom painter, then.”
“I might need a refresher course in the finer details.”
At least she was keen to get involved, which he liked to see. “Okay, put on some clothes you don’t mind getting paint all over and we’ll have a lesson in painting 101.”
“Okay.”
“Great.”
He cranked open the stepladder he’d brought upstairs with him. She was hovering in front of her dresser. He prepared to climb the ladder. “Aren’t you changing into your grubbies?”
“Uh, I was waiting for you to leave the room.”
She hadn’t seemed that shy. He felt as though he’d blundered into one of those female areas that always confused him. “Can’t you change in the bathroom?”
“I—um, my—” She glanced at the dresser, looking embarrassed, then back to him. “Could you give me five minutes?”
And suddenly he got it. She probably kept her sex toys in her dresser along with her clothes. Didn’t want him getting an eyeful. He hopped off the ladder, trying really hard not to imagine what kind of toys were in that secret drawer. And trying even harder not to picture the two of them playing with them on that big comfy bed underneath the chandelier he was about to install.
6
HE RAN DOWN the stairs and grabbed some paint cloths and plastic sheeting, a roll of painter’s tape and rollers, brushes and both the ceiling paint and the wall color. He took the time to give both cans of paint a good stir. When he’d allowed ten minutes to pass, he gathered the painting supplies into a box and pounded back up the stairs, giving her plenty of warning that he was on his way.
Still, he knocked before he walked into Cassie’s bedroom. She was fully dressed in jeans that weren’t even close to grubby and a long-sleeved T-shirt advertising fish food. She was already unscrewing the old beige plastic switch plate covers from the walls. Excellent. She didn’t turn around when he came in, just kept working.
He climbed back up his ladder and tackled taking down the cheap old fixture that had probably been hanging up here for the entire life of the house. Who looked at something that ugly every night for fifty years? Right before they went to sleep?
Which sent his mind skidding back to those images again. The atmosphere in the room was different. Charged. Heating up. He suspected it was him thinking about what secrets were hidden in her sex-toy drawer. He told himself to stop. He was working for her, not sleeping with her. But like the proverbial elephant, the more he tried to stop wondering what was in her secret stash, the more his imagination conjured up every toy he’d ever seen, heard of or dreamed up.
He took down the light fixture—dead flies, old cobwebs and all—and carried it downstairs in a large box to add to his growing trash pile.
Back in the bedroom, he found Cassie was unscrewing the last of the outlet covers. A neat pile of them sat in a corner, all the screws gathered together. He liked the orderly way she worked.
“Okay,” he said, “when you’re done with those, we’ll cover everything up and then I’ll paint the ceiling while you...?”
Together, they pulled her bed away from the wall. He didn’t have to tell her how to lift, he noted. She bent from the knees and lifted like a pro. They moved her dresser away from the wall and not for one second did he allow himself to think about what was inside that dresser. Nope. There definitely wasn’t a pink vibrator in there. Stop it. No fur-lined handcuffs. He wasn’t even thinking about the possibility. No blindfolds or massage oils. He was relieved when they finally had the room cleared of boxes and the bit of remaining furniture away from the walls. He left Cassie draping plastic over her bed while he prepped the ceiling for painting.
Since he was painting the ceiling the same white as before, he contented himself with giving it a good rub with a dry cloth, removing old cobwebs and any loose dirt or dust that might adhere to the wet paint. He moved the ladder around, doing a quadrant at a time.
He got Cassie washing the walls down so the paint job would look professional. He could hear the soft splash when she dipped her sponge into the water and the swishing sound as she washed the walls.
He worked fast, wanting to get to the painting. Not that he loved painting ceilings—it always gave him a crick in his neck—but he held on to the image of the completed room and that helped him get through the tedious parts.
She hadn’t put on music and he didn’t want to impose his choices on her, so they worked in silence. He said, “How’s it going down there?”
“I’m sick at how dirty this water is.”
“This whole room’s going to be clean and fresh by the time you go to bed tonight.”
“Good.”
“You might want to sleep in the other bedroom tonight, though. It will smell like paint in here.” What was the matter with him? Could he mention her and beds in the same sentence a few more times?
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll get the guest room made up.”
“I saw a bunch of diving stuff in your garage. You’re a diver?”
“I am. I’ve been diving since I was a kid. I grew up in Southern California, so the water was a lot warmer. I spent every second I could in the water. Surfing, diving, swimming. Still do.” He heard the slosh as she dunked her sponge and squeezed it out. “Though up here I’m in a wet suit most of the year. How about you? Do you dive?”
“I’ve tried it. But I’m more of an aboveground kind of guy. I play hockey, basketball, stuff like that.”
He imagined living in eternal sunshine. “Do you miss it? California?”
He heard the sponge stop moving, as though she were contemplating the question. “I do sometimes. I miss the weather and my family. I moved up here for the job, but once I got used to all the rain, I really came to appreciate the green. The forests and mountains. I still go back a few times a year, but this is home for me now. Especially now that I’ve bought a house.”
“A house is only as permanent as you make it. I buy and sell houses all the time. Fix them up and move on.”
“Why do I get the impression you don’t like feeling trapped?” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.
He thought about that. How could a woman who barely even knew him throw out a comment like that? Was he giving off some kind of vibe? So he asked her. “What makes you say that?”
Once more the sponge stopped moving. “I don’t know. I get the sense that you like to keep things loose. And Serena told me you won some kind of eternal-bachelor contest with your friends.”
“Not eternal,” he corrected her. “Last Bachelor Standing. I’ll get married.” Though even saying the word caused a constriction in his throat. “Someday.”
“So I was wrong?”
Was she? Now his rag stopped moving as he took a moment to think about whether or not he felt easily trapped. “I don’t know. I don’t spend a lot of time contemplating the lint in my navel. I’ve been in the same job for ten years.” Though he might not have it for much longer if he wasn’t careful. “I’ve got the same friends I’ve had since I was a kid. That’s commitment. Right?”
“Absolutely.” But she didn’t sound completely convinced. Sure, most of the guys he knew who were his age and even younger were married. Some had kids, and he always imagined he’d do it, too. The time had never