Читать книгу Final Score - Nancy Warren - Страница 14

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 been right. The woman had never been right. Or maybe he’d never been ready.

“People change,” he said. “Adam and Max were as bad as me six months ago. Now they’re both headed for the wedding chapel.”

“You don’t sound envious.”

“I think Serena’s a great gal. And Claire seems like she suits Max. But no, I’m not envious. Except that I figure they’ll both have a lot less time to spend playing hockey and hanging out with the guys once they’re hitched and start having kids.”

“You’ll have to find some younger guys to hang out with.”

She said it perfectly seriously, but he got the idea that she might be suggesting he was immature. Which was probably true.

“How about you? Do you feel like buying a house is permanent?”

“I think I do. Even though I understand that people change houses on average every five to ten years, my folks are still in the same house they bought when they got married. I bought a place I could grow into.”

“You planning to fill it with a husband and babies?” He didn’t mean to sound sarcastic but he thought it might have slipped out.

“Sure. I hope I meet the right guy. But if I don’t, I’ve got a good career, and I’ll have a nice home as soon as you finish renovating it for me.”

It was weird that it sounded a little lonely when she described what was essentially his own existence: a house he was fixing up, a great career and no plans to outfit a nursery any time soon.

He climbed down off the ladder, picking it up to move it to the next quadrant of the ceiling. He heard the swish of the bucket, not registering that the swishing sound was much closer than before until he collided with a warm back. Dylan always moved fast. He was one hundred and eighty-five pounds of impatient, so when he struck an object it tended to fly.

Cassie was no exception. With a startled cry, she tumbled. He grabbed her, all his training and instincts kicking in before conscious thought, and he tossed her to the bed, his own momentum carrying him in the same direction.

They fell to the bed. She somehow ended up underneath him, the sponge still in her up-flung hand so a fan of water sprayed out onto the plastic-covered canvas drop sheet.

He glanced down into her face, surprise and shock registering. Then he noticed that she was warm and soft beneath him on the bed and all the attraction he’d been pretending he didn’t feel roared to the surface. He didn’t even think, because if he thought before he acted he wouldn’t do half the things in his life that he did.

He leaned down. Not too fast, not wanting to take his mouth where it wasn’t wanted. But he’d felt the answering attraction and he felt it now. She didn’t roll away or push him off. She opened her lips in a kind of breathless sigh. When he kissed her he felt the moment their lips touched that it had been inevitable from the second he’d walked into her house.

She was gorgeous, sweet, single, and they were together a lot in a small house. He kissed her, going deeper than he’d intended until she moaned deep in her throat. When she started to move against him, he felt his arousal shoot up.