Читать книгу Daddy, He Wrote - Jill Limber, Jill Limber - Страница 14

A scraping noise drew Ian out of his manuscript. Annoyed at the interruption, he glanced at the computer and was amazed to find he was well into the middle third of the draft.

He hadn’t had a creative streak like this for months. He’d been sure he wouldn’t be able to write until his housekeeper moved back to her house, but he’d been wrong.

He stood and stretched, then looked at the time display in the upper corner of the screen to discover it was well past lunchtime.

No wonder his stomach was growling for food. He’d been working since early this morning on nothing but coffee.

He opened his office door and found out where the scraping noise was coming from. Trish was on the landing on her hands and knees, totally absorbed in hand sanding the floor. Her blond curls bounced as she ran the block wrapped with sandpaper over the boards.

He could see how red and chapped her hands were from where he stood. “What the hell are you doing?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. Her head jerked up, and a look of panic crossed her face, then was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

She scrambled to her feet. “Is it bothering you? I don’t have to do this now,” she said in a rush of words.

She was wearing another of those ratty flannel shirts. He wondered how many she had, then chided himself. His housekeeper’s wardrobe was none of his business.

“I’m hungry.” He rubbed his hand over his growling stomach.

She looked relieved at his statement. “I made soup. And sandwiches. Is that okay?”

“Fine.” Now that she mentioned it, he could smell the soup. He started down the steps, then stopped. “Is it okay to walk on these?”

She nodded and her curls bounced. “Oh, yes. I’m going to do a half at a time, so you can still use the stairs.” She spoke quickly and gestured nervously to the steps.

He looked down at the steps. “What exactly are you doing?”

With a shrug she said, “They were getting scratched, so I’m refinishing them.”

Refinishing? They looked fine to him, but she seemed so nervous he wasn’t going to mention it.

He followed her down the steps. She stopped at the bottom to pick up a wastebasket covered by a thin towel.

He watched her balance the basket carefully in her two hands. “Is the baby in there?”

Her expression softened. “Yes. She’s sleeping. I put the towel over her to keep the dust off while I sanded.”

“Do you ever let her out?” He was amused by the way she carted the baby around like a load of laundry.