self-conscious.
“Hello.” Too formal. “Hi.” Yeah, that was better. “Hi.” Except that now she’d greeted him three times and was probably coming off as manic. On the plus side, anything she said from here on out was bound to be an improvement as long as she didn’t say it in triplicate. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess.” He ran a hand through that thick hair—light brown with touches of burnished gold. “I consider myself an educated man, but hell if I can tell you the difference between ‘apricot’ and ‘tangerine.’ Or ‘cranberry’ and ‘pomegranate.’”
She laughed, a combination of nerves and genuine amusement. “Are you wanting to paint something, or make a fruit salad?”
“Exactly!” Moving closer, he extended a strip with various shades of green. “Kiwi? Honeydew? They can’t just call it yellow-green?”
“Maybe they thought they could charge more for honeydew.”
He nodded, studying the selection in front of him with befuddled exasperation. “I always thought choice was a good thing, but this is overwhelming. Where do I start? Now I know how my students feel when I tell them to pick a topic for their research paper each semester.”
“You could try flipping a coin. It’s what my brother Dev would do.” But she was secretly pleased that Jason approached decisions more thoughtfully.
“Better yet, I could get a second opinion. Help a guy out, Veronica?”
Something rippled through her, a foreign intimacy at hearing her name again from his lips. “Actually, it’s just Ronnie. Hardly anyone’s called me Veronica since my mom died.”
“Ronnie, then.” After a moment, he asked gently, “Do you still miss her?”
“Some days more than others.” Was he thinking of his grandmother? “Have I ever told you how sorry I was for your loss? Sophie was a lovely person.”
He smiled. “She was, wasn’t she? I like to think she’s with Grandpa Bert now. I don’t think she ever truly got over him.”
Ronnie thought back to the photo of her mom in her dad’s office. “Some people really do find that once-in-a-lifetime true love, don’t they?”
This time, his smile was tinged with the barest hint of bitterness. “I might be the wrong person to ask.”
Stupid, she chided herself. In light of his divorce, her babbling was probably insensitive. “So, um, paint samples?” Smooth segue. Yeah, it’s a real mystery why you never date.
He glanced down at the stick in his hand as if he’d forgotten he held it. “Right. I’ve been putting off drastic changes to Gran’s house because it seemed somehow disrespectful to her memory, but I can’t ignore the needed repairs. There’s one section of the roof I should reinforce so we don’t end up with a leak, and the whole place could use some updating. My bedroom definitely needs a change.”
Mine, too. It needs a man in it. Ronnie blinked, as horrified by the uncensored thought as if she’d said it aloud. She tried to squelch the idea, but when she glanced into Jason’s eyes her nebulous fantasies took on new clarity. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cursed her redhead’s fair complexion so thoroughly. He’d have to be blind not to notice she was blushing. There was a question in his eyes, but he didn’t voice it.
Doing her best to sound nonchalant, she asked, “Then you’re planning to paint your room?”
“Probably. The wallpaper that’s in there now has got to go. No offense to Gran’s taste, but I’m not really a roses kind of guy.”
She smiled. “When I was seven, my mother painted my room pink, hung frilly white curtains and got lacy pillow covers for my bed.”
“Sounds like my daughter’s idea of heaven,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I coveted the monster truck decor in Will’s room. So I empathize on not loving the roses.” It occurred to her that as lone occupant of her new house, she could fix up the entire place in a monster-truck motif. She chuckled at the image.
Jason raised an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”
“It’s silly.”
“Try me. I have a two-year-old, I’m fluent in silly.”
“I’m buying my first house this week,” she said. Just saying it out loud sent joy glowing through her. “I suddenly pictured all the rooms done in that truck theme I wanted when I was a kid.”
He grinned. “I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t ask your decorating advice.”
“Definitely not. I’m doing well just to pick out clothes each morning that don’t actively clash.”
“Looks like you do okay.” As he spoke, his eyes swept downward in automatic observation. Yet long before he’d reached her navy shirt and white shorts, his gaze slowed, became something less casual and more reflective.
Her skin tingled in the wake of his visual caress. She was unused to prolonged perusal from a man, was even less accustomed to the elemental admiration she saw dawning in those indescribable eyes. Her heart sped up in her chest, and she wondered if he could make out the rapid flutters beneath the thin cotton.
She swallowed. “Thank you.” It should have been a simple acknowledgment of a perfunctory compliment, but it was something more than that, husky and personal.
His eyes returned to hers, the expression in them dazed. A thrill of heady, feminine power shot through her—she’d put that look on Jason McDeere’s face. It was surreal, so unexpected that she found herself emboldened enough to blurt, “Would you like to go have lunch with me?”
He hesitated, and she felt sure he would say no. After all, he’d just finished telling her how much work he had to do revamping his—
“I’d love to.” His smile was boyish. “I’m as bad as my students. I always tell them not to procrastinate, but when faced with the prospect of slogging through more paint samples or a meal with a pretty girl…Well, it’s a no-brainer. You’ve rescued me from a kiwi-pomegranate-tangerine meltdown.”
In turn, he’d rescued her from going to bed tonight with the heavy feeling that she’d let one more day pass her by, full of quiet longings and missed opportunities.
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