Читать книгу Expecting a Miracle - Jackie Braun - Страница 12

GAVIN noticed two things about his tenant: she went to bed early and she kept to herself.

She had been living in the little cottage for nearly a month. Her lights were always out by eleven and he’d only bumped into her twice, not including the day she’d moved in with only one small van full of belongings and a check to cover the rent for an entire year. He’d requested only the first month’s amount, but she’d insisted on paying the remainder up front and signing a lease, which he’d hastily drawn up on his computer.

In truth, he hadn’t expected her to return at all. He’d figured her trip to the country had been a fluke and she would reconsider her decision to move here. For all he knew, she’d had a spat with her husband and once they’d kissed and made up she would regret her impulsiveness. He knew he was regretting his. But two days after shaking his hand while standing in the dusty cottage, she had come back with her spine straight, her gaze direct and determined.

She’d been all business that day, although he thought he’d detected exhaustion and maybe a little desperation behind her polite smile and firm handshake. Both had him wondering, but he’d managed to keep his curiosity in check. Not my business, he told himself.

On their two subsequent meetings, both of which had occurred at the mailbox out by the road, they’d exchanged greetings and the expected pleasantries, but they hadn’t lingered as they had that first day on his porch. Nor had they spoken at any length.

Gavin found that he wanted to.

He was only human, and the enigmatic Lauren Seville inspired a lot of questions. What was the real story? The bits and pieces he knew certainly didn’t add up.

For starters, women who looked and dressed like Lauren didn’t rent tiny cottages in the country. Gabriel’s Crossing was quaint and its four-star inn and three bed-and-breakfasts attracted their fair share of tourists year-round, but the town was hardly a mecca for New York’s wealthy. It had shops and restaurants, but it lacked the upscale boutiques, trendy eateries, day spas and high-end salons that a woman from Manhattan’s Upper East Side would not only expect but require.

And then there was the not-so-little matter of a wedding ring. The gold band and Rock of Gibraltar he’d noticed that first day had been on her finger when Lauren had handed Gavin her check for the rent.

Seeing it had prompted him to ask, “Will anyone be joining you in the cottage?”

She’d answered with a cryptic “Eventually.”

Gavin assumed that someone would be her husband. But a month later the man had yet to put in an appearance. Spat, he wondered again? Or something bigger and more permanent?

“Not my business,” he muttered again and got back to work.

He’d long finished with the crown molding in the living room and had trimmed out the tall windows that faced the road. Per Lauren’s suggestion, he’d opted to stain both them and the mantel a rich mahogany. The room was coming along nicely, needing only a few patches in the plaster, fresh paint and a refinished floor to complete its transformation. Those could wait. He still had plenty of other projects to keep him busy. Indeed, every room in the house except the master suite had something that still required his attention. If this were a company site, a bevy of contractors would be working off a master list with the various jobs prioritized and deadlines for completion penciled in. But this project was personal and, well, cathartic, so Gavin worked at his own pace and on whatever suited his mood.

Today, it was laying the floor in the secondary downstairs bathroom. He’d chosen a tumbled travertine marble imported from Mexico. The sandy color complemented the richer-hued tiles he’d used on the walls. He planned to grout that later in the day—assuming he hadn’t succumbed to heatstroke by then.

He reached for his water bottle and, after taking a swig, used the hem of his T-shirt to mop the perspiration from his brow. It was not quite noon but it was already pushing eighty degrees in the shade. The house didn’t have working air-conditioning yet. The guys from Howard’s Heating and Cooling had assured him a crew would be out later in the week. In the meantime, Gavin had to make do with a box fan and the meager breeze that could be coaxed through the home’s opened windows. He put in the earpieces of his MP3 player and got back to tile laying. He liked to listen to music while he worked. He preferred up-tempo rock, the heavier on the bass the better.

“Hello?” Lauren’s voice echoed down the hall, somehow managing to be heard over the music blaring in his ears.

He was on his hands and knees, having just laid another square, when he heard her. He tugged out the earpieces and levered backward so he could peer out the door.

“In here,” he called.

She’d pulled her hair back into a tidy ponytail and was dressed in a sleeveless white linen blouse that she’d left untucked over a pair of pink linen shorts. On another woman the outfit would not have been all that sexy, but on Lauren…Gavin swallowed, and the heat that blasted through his system had nothing to do with the temperature outside. He didn’t remember her being quite so curvy.

Tenant, he reminded himself. Married tenant.

Even so his mouth went dry. The woman had a classy set of legs. He’d caught a glimpse of them that first day when she’d been wearing a sundress, but this outfit did a much better job of showcasing them. They were as long as a model’s, and slim without being skinny. She had smooth knees, nicely turned calves and those ankles…He made a little humming noise as he reached for his water, not sure whether he wanted to drink the stuff or dump it over his head. God help him. He had a thing about ankles. He downed the last of the water and forced himself to look elsewhere.

“I can’t believe you’re working today,” she said.

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.” His gaze veered to her ankles again. “H-how are you holding up?”

The cottage had no air-conditioning, either, and unlike the house, where Gavin’s bedroom was on the main floor, the only sleeping quarters there were on the upper level.

“I’m fine.”

It wasn’t the answer he expected. He figured she had come to complain. If he were renting the cottage, he would.

“I’m having the air-conditioning here fixed and I’ll also have a unit installed in the cottage if you’d like.”

“Yes. I’ll gladly pay for it.”

“No need. Unfortunately, it won’t be today. It probably won’t be till the end of the week,” he said.

“That’s okay. I’m fine,” she said again.

“Do you always say that?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”

“Fine. It seems to be your stock response.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“That’s another one.”

She frowned again, clearly not knowing what to say. For one bizarre moment, Gavin found himself wishing she’d lose her temper. He’d bet she’d look incredible angry.

“The tile looks terrific.” More politeness, but he let it pass. He wasn’t sure why he’d goaded her in the first place. Most landlords would kill for such an easy-going tenant.

“Thanks.”

“You’ve obviously done this before.”

“A time or two.” Although not recently.

For the past decade, Gavin had been in charge of the big picture. He and his brother paid other people to see to the details. Theirs was a rags-to-riches success story, or so the New York Times claimed in a feature story they’d done on him and Garrett a couple years back.

The article had made it seem as if Gavin O’Donnell, businessman and self-made millionaire, had it all. But even prior to his divorce, he’d felt something was missing, that some vital part of himself had been lost. Little by little he was getting it back.

Lauren’s voice pulled him out of his introspection. “You must enjoy working with your hands.”

Indeed he did and not just on houses. Though Gavin fought the urge, his gaze trailed to her trim ankles again. He’d bet he could encircle one with his hand. He rubbed his damp palms on his jean-clad thighs. “Yeah. I haven’t done it for a while, though. I forgot how, um, satisfying it can be.”

“I thought you were a builder.”

“I’m more of a give-the-orders, sign-the-check sort these days.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “The boss.”

That was true enough, but he’d never been the type to go around proclaiming himself as such. He knew too many people who’d gotten wrapped up in their own importance. If a year in self-prescribed exile had taught him nothing else, Gavin had conclusive proof that the world didn’t stop turning just because he’d opted out as a cog.

He decided to change the subject. “So, what can I help you with?”

“Oh. Sorry,” she said. He grimaced. There was that word again. “I…I was wondering if it would be all right if I made some changes to the cottage.”

“Changes?”

She cleared her throat. “Nothing major. I’d like to paint the walls in the bedroom.”

The entire place was done in a serviceable white that was little more than a primer coat.

“Got a color in mind?” he asked.

“I’m leaning toward sage green or something along those lines,” she said.

He nodded and scratched his chin, thinking of his already lengthy to-do list. “It might be a little while yet before I can get to that. The new cabinets for the kitchen are due to arrive next week. I talked a friend of mine into coming out from the city to help me install them.” He grinned. “He said he’d work for a prime rib dinner and beer. Obviously, that’s not union scale.”

“I’m an even better deal. I’ll do the work for free.”

“You want to paint it yourself?” His tone held enough incredulity that she looked insulted.

“Do I look helpless?” Her brows arched and she crossed her arms.

So, the woman had a spine after all. Gavin nearly smiled. “Ever done any painting?”

“Some.”

“Really?”

Her answer surprised him until she added, “Okay, no. Unless my toenails count.”

Gavin’s gaze dipped to her feet. The flat sandals she wore offered an unrestricted view of ten cotton-candy-pink-tipped digits. His ankle fetish now had stiff competition.

“You do good work.”

Her shoulders lifted slightly. “It’s all in the wrist.”

“That so?”

“I could teach you,” she offered. “I’m sure it’s a skill that would come in handy on your next job site.”

The beginnings of a grin lurked around the corners of her mouth. He liked seeing it. He liked knowing he’d helped put it there.

“I think I’ll pass. Maybe I could just watch you paint your own instead.” The prospect was a bigger turn-on than Gavin wanted it to be.

Hell, she was a turn-on, standing in front of him in pastel linen and looking sexier than most women could manage in skimpy black lace.

They studied each other. For Gavin, awareness sizzled like the business end of a firecracker. The way Lauren fidgeted with her wedding ring had him half hoping, half worrying, that she felt it, too.

“I’ve been watching the home improvement channel,” she told him after a moment. “I think I’ve picked up some decent pointers.”

It took a second for Gavin to remember what they had been talking about. Paint. Painting. The cottage. “Oh. Good. Some of it’s common sense. A lot of it is elbow grease. Technique only counts if you’re being paid by the hour.”

She smiled. “So, you’ll let me do it?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing against free labor. And if you mess it up—” he shrugged. “—it’s just paint. Another coat or two and the place will look as good as new.”

“I won’t mess it up,” she assured him.

“A bit of a perfectionist, are we?”

He didn’t get the feeling she was teasing when she replied, “If you’re going to do something, why not do it well?”

“Too bad everyone doesn’t share your philosophy. So, are you free around three o’ clock?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said slowly.

“Good. We’ll drive into town and swing by the hardware store. I need a few things, anyway, and while we’re there you can pick out a paint color.”

Lauren waited for Gavin under one of the big oaks, making use of the shade. She was just far enough along in her pregnancy that she could no longer button the waistband of most of her fitted clothes, but she hadn’t suffered from nausea in more than a week.

She was sleeping a lot, but she wasn’t sure if that was because of her pregnancy, the result of depression over her pending divorce or flat-out boredom. She wasn’t good at being idle. Back in the city she’d found a way to fill up her life, which of course was far different than being fulfilled. But here she had no luncheons to attend, no committees to help chair, no dinner parties to plan, shop for and execute. After staring at the blank white walls of the cottage for nearly a month, desperation had forced her hand and she’d decided to approach Gavin with her proposal to paint.

Somewhere in the midst of talking wall colors, though, she’d begun noticing the day’s growth of beard that shaded his angular jaw and a sweaty T-shirt that was pulled tight over some seriously toned shoulders. She fanned herself now, blaming her heated skin on the mercury. It wasn’t the man. No, it couldn’t be the man. She was pregnant, newly separated and several months from a divorce. Besides, she’d never been the sort to fantasize. Yet for a moment there…

She groped for a tidy explanation to this curious tangle of emotions. The best she could come up with was that she was confused, lonely and alone in a new town, staring down not just one major life change, but two. Gavin was nice, good-natured, easy-going and friendly. So, she’d flirted with him a little. No law against that. As for this unprecedented attraction? It was a figment of her imagination, a figment likely fueled by her hopped-up hormones.

When Gavin joined her, Lauren noticed that he’d shaved and had changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a fresh shirt. She thought she caught a whiff of soap, and his hair appeared to be damp from a shower. Because she wanted to keep looking at him, she turned her attention to the tree.

“This oak would be perfect for a swing,” she commented.

Gavin regarded the thick branches for a moment. “Or a fat tire on a rope.”

She shook her head. “No. A swing. Definitely a swing. And the seat should be painted red.”

“Reliving your childhood?”

Hardly, she thought. “I lived in Los Angeles, remember? But I worked on an advertising campaign for an airline once. The commercial started off with a little boy swinging and making airplane noises.”

“‘Our pilots have always been eager to soar.’” Gavin grinned as he supplied the text. “I remember that slogan. I didn’t realize it was yours. For that matter, I didn’t realize you’d worked…in advertising.”

She got the feeling he hadn’t thought she’d worked at all. “I don’t at the moment. I left my job at Danielson & Marx four years ago.”

“Danielson & Marx.” He whistled low. “That’s the big-time. Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” she replied. She hadn’t shared that truth with anyone, even her closest friend. When others asked the same question, she told them how content she was and how busy with committees and her crowded social calendar. It was easy to tell Gavin the truth, so she continued. “I especially miss the creative process. It’s not easy to sell consumers on an idea or product with only a few words or images.”

“I’m betting you were good at it.”

She smiled, thinking of the four Addys she’d racked up during her relatively brief career, and admitted, “I had my moments.”

He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his cargo shorts. “So, why did you quit?”

She bent down and plucked a blade of grass. As she tore it into small pieces, she said, “Well, I was getting married and…and…”

She released the last shred of grass and dusted her hands together without having completed the thought.

“Priorities changed,” he allowed.

Lauren nodded, although she could now admit she hadn’t been the one to change them. She’d gone along to get along. She wasn’t proud of that now.

“Maybe you’ll get back into it at some point,” he said. “With a big agency like that on your résumé not many places would turn you away.”

“I could do that.” Her portfolio was anything but mediocre. Lauren had been good at her job and had taken pride in her work.

“But?” He smiled, as if he knew she had something else on her mind.

Once again she found herself baring her soul. “What I’d really like to do is start my own agency, something that specializes in causes rather than goods and services.”

“There’s not a lot of money in that, but then you probably know that. It sounds like you’ve given the idea some thought.”

“I have. But it needs more,” she conceded. The idea had been back-burnered for a couple of years now, growing stale as Lauren had grown more complacent.

“This is a good place for thinking. And when you’re ready to start out, I’m sure you have enough contacts you could probably pull that off,” he replied.

She’d almost expected him to shoot down the idea. She had little doubt her parents and Holden would have, which perhaps explained why she’d never shared her dream with any of them.

“Thanks.”

Gavin’s brow crinkled. “For what?”

“For…for letting me paint the cottage.”