Her head popped back out of the car. She licked a smear of brownie from her finger as she straightened. “Maybe not. In any case, I appreciate the help.” Her grin flashed as she opened the car door. “And the chocolate.”
“Anytime,” he heard himself say, and wanted to regret it.
She settled behind the steering wheel, tossed him a quick, saucy smile. “Like hell.” Then she laughed and turned the ignition, revving the engine in a way that made Mac wince. “You should drop in on rehearsals now and again, Mac, instead of waiting out in the parking lot. You might learn something.”
He wasn’t certain he wanted to. “Put on your seat belt,” he ordered.
“Oh, yeah.” Obligingly, she buckled up. “Just not used to it yet. Say bye to the twins.” She zoomed off at a speed just this side of reckless, waving a careless and glittering hand out the window.
Mac watched her until she rounded the bend, then slowly rubbed his stomach where the muscles were knotted. Something about that woman, he thought. Something about the way she was put together made him feel like he was defrosting after a very long freeze.
Chapter 3
Another half hour, Mac figured, and he could finish taping the drywall in the master bedroom. Maybe get the first coat of mud on. He glanced at his watch, calculated that the kids were home from school. But it was Mrs. Hollis’s day, and she’d stay until five. That would give him plenty of time to hit the drywall, clean up and get home.
Maybe he’d give himself and the kids a treat and pick up pizza.
He’d learned not to mind cooking, but he still resented the time it took—the thinking, the preparation, the cleaning up afterward. Six years as a single parent had given him a whole new perspective on how hard his mother—that rare and old-fashioned homemaker—had worked.
Pausing a moment, he took a look around the master suite. He’d taken walls out, built others, replaced the old single-pane windows with double-glazed. Twin skylights let in the fading sunlight of early October.
Now there were three spacious bedrooms on the second floor of the old house, rather than the four choppy rooms and oversize hallway he’d started with. The master suite would boast a bathroom large enough for a tub and a separate shower stall. He was toying with using glass block for that. He’d been wanting to work with it for some time.
If he stayed on schedule, the place would be put together by Christmas, and on the sale or rental market by the first of the year.
He really should sell it, Mac thought, running a hand over the drywall he’d nailed up that afternoon. He had to get over this sense of possession whenever he worked on a house.
In the blood, he supposed. His father had made a good living buying up damaged or depressed property, rehabbing and renting. Mac had discovered just how satisfying it was to own something you’d made fine with your own hands.
Like the old brick house Nell lived in now. He wondered if she knew it was more than a hundred and fifty years old, that she was living in a piece of history.
He wondered if she’d run out of gas again.
He wondered quite a bit about Nell Davis.
And he shouldn’t, Mac reminded himself, and turned away for his tools and tape. Women were trouble. One way or the other, they were trouble. One look at Nell and a smart man could see she was no exception.
He hadn’t taken her up on her suggestion that he drop by the auditorium and catch part of a rehearsal. He’d started to a couple of times, but good sense had stopped him. She was the first woman in a very, very long time who had stirred him up. He didn’t want to be stirred up, Mac thought with a scowl as he taped a seam. Couldn’t afford to be, he reminded himself. He had too many obligations, too little free time, and, most important, two sons who were the focus of his life.
Daydreaming about a woman was bad enough. It made a man sloppy in his work, forgetful and … itchy. But doing something about it was worse. Doing something meant you had to find conversation and ways to entertain. A woman expected to be taken places, and pampered. And once you started to fall for her—really fall for her—she had the power to cut out your heart.
Mac wasn’t willing to risk his heart again, and he certainly wasn’t willing to risk his sons’.
He didn’t subscribe to that nonsense about children needing a woman’s touch, a mother’s love. The twins’ mother had felt less connection with the children she’d borne than a cat felt toward a litter of kittens. Being female didn’t give you a leg up on maternal feelings. It meant you were physically able to carry a child inside you, but it didn’t mean that you’d care once that child was in your arms.
Mac stopped taping and swore. He hadn’t thought about Angie in years. Not deeply. When he did, he realized the spot was still sore, like an old wound that had healed poorly. That was what he got, he supposed, for letting some little blonde stir him up.
Annoyed with himself, he stripped the last piece of tape off the roll. He needed to concentrate on his work, not on a woman. Determined to finish what he’d started, he marched down the stairs. He had more drywall tape in his truck.
The light outside was softening with the approach of dusk. Shorter days, he thought. Less time.
He was down the steps and onto the walk before he saw her. She was standing just at the edge of the yard, looking up at the house, smiling a little. She wore a suede jacket in a deep burnished orange over faded jeans. Some glittery stones dangled from her ears. Over her shoulder hung a soft-sided briefcase that looked well used.
“Oh. Hi.” Surprise lit her eyes when she glanced over, and that immediately made him suspicious. “Is this one of your places?”
“That’s right.” He moved past her toward the truck and wished he’d held his breath. That scent she wore was subtle and sneaky.
“I was just admiring it. Beautiful stonework. It looks so sturdy and safe, tucked in with all the trees.” She took a deep breath. There was the slap of fall in the air. “It’s going to be a beautiful night.”
