style="font-size:15px;"> She’d simply have to let him believe she was as immune to him as she wished she were.
It wasn’t that she was in a hurry to settle down or anything, but there was something wrong with considering getting involved in even the most casual way with a man who prided himself on being the last bachelor standing.
* * *
OVER THE FIRST week they fell into a routine. He’d arrive in the morning before she left for work, and when she returned, he’d show her the day’s progress, suggest her next task and often stay working with her.
When she protested that he was working too many hours, he shrugged. “I like to keep busy.” She thought maybe working on her house prevented him from brooding over his job woes, and since she enjoyed working with him in the house—and the sooner her house was done, the better—she didn’t argue.
When Saturday arrived, she wasn’t a bit surprised to see him show up, his hair damp as though he’d just stepped out of the shower. Obviously misinterpreting the way she was staring at him, he said, “Sorry I’m a little late today. I always do a longer workout at the gym on the weekends.”
Which told her that not only was he working out on top of the exhausting physical labor of a home renovation, but that he considered every day a workday. “I wish I had your energy,” she said.
“I’ve gotta stay in shape for the championship hockey game,” he told her, helping himself from the pot of coffee she’d made.
“Oh, right. Adam said something about an emergency-services league.”
“Right. Play-offs in a few weeks. Our team, the Hunter Hurricanes, gets so close every year to winning, but this year that trophy is ours.”
“Isn’t this a charity event? To raise money for a good cause?”
“Sure it is. Doesn’t mean we don’t all go out there and play to win.” Then he glanced up. “You should come and watch one of our games sometime.”
It was the first time he’d suggested anything remotely unrelated to their project, and she was startled. And pleased. “Oh, thanks. I’d love to.”
The kitten appeared, scampering on her little kitten legs to meow at Dylan’s feet. He scooped the cat up so they were nose to nose. “How are you doing, Twinkletoes?”
A purr was the answer. He put the cat over his shoulder in a practiced way that she suspected happened a lot when she wasn’t home. The cat hung there, purring with content, while Dylan drank more coffee.
He didn’t mention that she still had the cat almost a week after they’d found it, so she felt she should explain. “I put a poster up around the neighborhood. I’m hoping someone claims her.” She did not refer to the cat as Twinkletoes, feeling that naming a stray was a straight path to cat ownership. And right now she was still struggling with the home-ownership thing. She couldn’t take on more responsibility. As cute as the kitten was.
“Any bites?”
“Nothing. I’ll keep the cat a few more days and try and fatten her up a bit before taking her to the shelter.”
He didn’t answer. Merely walked back to the kitchen and placed the now empty mug in the sink.
“I’m filling the cracks and holes in my bedroom walls today, then I’ll try my hand at painting.” She figured if she screwed up on her bedroom, it wasn’t too serious. Hopefully by the time she got to the downstairs main rooms she’d be a pro.
“I’m back in the bathroom. For the smallest room in the house, it’s going to be one of the biggest time sucks.”
She understood, and also knew how fantastic it was going to look when that bathroom was done. She’d chosen the fixtures with care. The tile, even the wall paint. He walked toward the bathroom, the cat hanging off him like a funky stole, and she headed for the stairs.
She got to work with her scraper, getting rid of some of the loose old paint and then filling in the nail holes and a few shallow cracks with filler. She kind of liked the mindless work. She put on NPR for a while and then found she wasn’t listening, so she flipped to a music station.
“Cassie! Come here,” Dylan yelled from the direction of the bathroom.
She dropped her paint scraper and ran to the bathroom, picturing him trapped under a heavy object or something, but when she got there she found him with hands on hips, admiring the latest layer of decorative wall covering he’d bared.
“This must be the original,” he said.
She walked into the bathroom, immediately feeling the closeness of their two bodies brushing as they contemplated what had to have been the ultimate in bathroom decor back in the 1950s.
He put a friendly arm on her shoulder. “It’s you.”
The wallpaper was in blue and turquoise tones with splashes of gold. It showed a mermaid riding a dolphin. Or maybe a whale. Whoever had designed the paper wasn’t a marine biologist. But she loved the whimsy of the busty mermaid with her long, flowing hair and rounded hips ending in a green tail that looked a lot like a slinky gown. She rode sidesaddle on her willing aquatic ride. “She’s one sexy mermaid.”
“You see? This was meant to be. You’re a woman of the sea and this wallpaper is a sign that this is supposed to be your house.”
She looked at him. “You really believe that?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Too bad we can’t save more of it.”
“She looks like you, too,” he said, glancing at the buxom mermaid and back at Cassie. There was a warm, teasing light in his eyes that was hard to resist.
“You think I’d look good in scales?”
“I think you’d look good in anything.” There was no denying, the man had some serious charm going on. Also, this space was small and he was so hot and it had been so long and... The moment lingered, his gaze on hers, a ripple of energy between them not unlike the ripple of the water’s surface when a fin has fluttered by.
Oh, this was such a bad idea, she thought as her heart began to pound and he moved infinitesimally closer.
The shrill ringing of the phone brought her back to reality faster than a plunge into cold water. She backed away fast. “I should get that.” She tucked her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture she’d had since grade school.
His eyes tilted at the corners in wry amusement, maybe some disappointment. “You should.” Then he turned back to his task of removing whimsical ’50s mermaids from her walls and she ran to answer her landline.
“Hey, Dylan?” she yelled to him from the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
“The floor tile’s in. I’m going to pick it up.”
“Okay. Need a hand?”
Well, she did and she didn’t. She figured the guys at the warehouse could schlep the tiles into her car and Dylan could help her unload them when she got back. Which gave her an hour
