Rosie dug through her purse, pulled out her phone. Grace saw her touch the screen from the corner of her eye.
“Noah Jansen of the New York Jansens, thirty-three, is an American real estate developer, socialite, and the son of business magnate Nathaniel Jansen. Jansen’s grandfather is best remembered for his contributions to a variety of New York City neighborhoods including the Wells Street Community Center in Harlem. Noah works for his father’s corporation along with his two brothers. He’s been linked to several well-known women but remains single.”
“Pfft. Probably because of his attitude. He might have money but he thinks women can’t fix fences and that he can buy whatever he wants.”
“Dude is rich. And hot. You failed to mention that.”
“Did not,” Grace said, whipping her chin in her friend’s direction. “My first description of him was sexy, hot surfer dude.”
“Okay. That’s fair but you failed to follow up on that after saying he lived next door.”
“It’s not something I want to dwell on.”
Rosie put her phone away. “He’s likely not used to having anyone stand up to him.”
Grace agreed but only nodded. She couldn’t figure him out. He had a multitude of personalities, not all of which she liked, but there were hints of something underneath. Like a bedraggled cabinet, stuck in a corner, waiting for someone to put in thetime and effort to peel back the layers, see what it once was or could be.
“Want me to come help paint this week?”
“I’d love some help but you have the same projects I do. I don’t want to take up your time. I appreciate you coming today. Especially once I got there. I thought those kids were going to take me out.”
Rosie’s laugh was interrupted by another yawn. “They were pretty excited to see the paint lady. I don’t mind. I want to see the house now that you’re in it. I want my stamp on it, too.”
Grace’s chest warmed. “You’re the best.”
“I’ve mentioned that before,” Rosie said.
Once she dropped her friend off at her apartment, Grace was itching to get home. She pulled into her driveway, surprised to see Noah outside, at the fence, on his knees. The sun was halfway to setting, casting gorgeous colors through the sky. Was he painting?
She got out of her vehicle, leaving her supplies in the back but grabbing her purse.
“Hey,” she said, approaching him. As soon as he looked up, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. He had white paint across his probably very expensive T-shirt, on the underside of his jaw, all over his hands, and a bit on his jeans. She glanced at the fence. “Looks like you got some of that paint in the right place.”
His gaze narrowed and he set the brush he was holding down with a splat. More paint spattered onto the handle. “Laugh if you want. I thought I’d be done in a half hour. Instead, I’ve been at it for hours, I painted part of my backyard white, and I’ve already changed once.”
She bit her lip again. He was about halfway on his side. She crouched, picked up the wet rag he hadn’t used, and used two fingers to pick up the brush and clean it with the cloth.
“Is it your first time painting something outdoors?” He’d need to wash his hands or the handle would get covered again. Sheglanced at him when he remained silent, his lips pressed firmly together.
She set the brush down on the edge of the paint tray gently. “Wait. Is this your first time painting?”
“So?” The one word was filled with heat, and she would have gotten up and walked off, left him to his fence finger painting, but it was also easy to hear the fatigue and frustration.
She settled on her knees. “So, nothing. It was a question, not an accusation. Painting is harder than people think. It takes practice and something awkward like this isn’t the best start. Usually, people start with a big wall or something.”
He stared at her, and even though it made her heart jump around like an ADHD bunny, she held his gaze. “You fixed those slats in less time than it took me to reply to some emails.”
She offered a smile. “My mom wasn’t the best at household chores. We didn’t have money to get things fixed. I learned to… tinker.” And make do.
“I still own four properties in New York. I have several holdings here in California, including this house. I’m a little pissed off to learn I can’t paint a fence without looking like I poured a can of it over me.”
“I only own that house and my car. Both were gifted to me. Everyone has their skills.”
One half of his mouth tipped up. “Nice spin on it. I should clean up. Start over.”
“I could help you if you want.” The words popped out of her mouth before she remembered the shower, the wine, and the home-reno show. Plus her homework.
“Why would you?”
