Room...but Not Bored!

“I mean it,” Trudy insisted. “Rethink your life. I’ve started doing watercolors again.”

Ariel held her tongue.

“I’m sure you can work something out with Jake. He’s very easygoing.”

Ariel shot a glance at him. Easygoing and hard-bodied. He exuded that lazily confident air that most women went for. She got a little internal zing herself. Biology was undeniable, she guessed, no matter how inconvenient.

“Look at it this way,” Trudy continued. “If you don’t like the paint colors or tile I chose, you can change them—on my dime. If you want, add a few things while he’s available.”

“I can’t afford anything more. I don’t want anything more. I…oh, hell, this is just too much to think about.”

“You’ll do great, Ariel. Soliciting clients is not that hard. Your work speaks for itself.”

Not if she couldn’t speak for her work.

“Start with my leads, use my software and call me if you need a consult. If I’m anywhere I can be reached by phone, of course.” She gave that laugh again. More a trill than a tinkle, now that Ariel thought about it. “Seriously. You have everything you need to be successful.”

Everything except clients. “I appreciate your faith in me,” Ariel said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye-ee.”

Bye-ee? What had the twit on the other end of the line done with levelheaded Trudy? Was she wrapped in duct tape in a trunk somewhere? Ariel clicked off, thrust the phone back in her purse, and looked up at the nearly naked man wearing a bemused expression.

“So I guess you’re the house painter,” she said, trying to smile.

He bowed. “And the framer and the carpenter and the plasterer and, possibly, the electrician, judging from the shorts we’re getting in the bathroom.”

“Shorts in the bathroom?” she repeated weakly. Her already fuzzy brain throbbed with this new quandary. She didn’t deal well with change. Someone had definitely moved her cheese. “I need to sit down,” she said, bending to grab her suitcase handles, intending to head inside.

Jake took the bags from her, hefting them as though they weighed nothing, and held the door. She moved inside, sand grinding in her shoes, anxiety burning in her stomach. She caught more of Jake’s scent as she passed—warm sunshine, sweet musk and coconut—pleasant in a beachy kind of way.

She looked around the tiny living room and her heart sank. There wasn’t even a place to sit. Drop cloths covered what few pieces of furniture fit in the small space. Pieces of Sheetrock were propped against a canvas-covered lump—the sofa. Boards lay on the floor along with boxes of nails, tools, masking tape and a few cans of paint. More drop cloths covered two side chairs and the cocktail table.

There were two fancy bicycles leaning on one wall—one disassembled—and a colorful, battered surfboard braced against the half wall that led to the kitchen.

Jake set down her bags, shoved some of the sofa’s canvas away, and motioned gallantly for her to sit in the space he’d cleared. She dropped there with an unladylike plunk.

“Better?” he said.

“A little.”

Jake lowered himself onto a drop-cloth–covered chair very close to her, the muscles of his legs and chest rolling with his movement. How she managed to fixate on his body at a time like this was beyond her. It must be raw exhaustion. Like a hypnosis subject transfixed by a shiny object, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. You’re getting sleepier and sleepier…warmer and warmer…more and more aroused…

“Things are a little confusing,” she said, trying to clear her head. “Trudy sold me this house while we were in London and now…”

“And now I’m fixing it up for you. No problemo.” He had the bluest eyes and an expressive mouth—very broad, like it spent most of its time smiling.

“Yes, problemo,” she corrected. “I have to live here, you see. And work here. And—”

“Not to worry. I’m a great roommate.”

“I’m sure you are, but, I don’t really want a roommate.” Or a construction site. Jake obviously wasn’t one of those craftsmen who prided themselves on working neatly. Supplies were scattered from one end of the room to the other. God knows what the rest of the house looked like.

“I don’t either, but I’m flexible.” He shrugged. “You can have the master bedroom, since it’s your house.”

She stared at him. “As I just said, I would prefer the place to myself.”

He looked at her, blinked, smiled.

“I’m a business consultant,” she explained. It was difficult work that requires concentration, quiet and order and—at the minimum—a room for an office. She surveyed the living room and it looked the way her life felt—confused and chaotic. Despair welled up. She rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands.

“You’re freaked right now,” Jake said softly. “Give it a few days and see how it works out.”

She lifted her head and stared at him.

He grinned. “What, you want to kick me out today? Make me sleep on the beach?”

“I’m sure you have family or friends you can stay with.”

He just looked at her with those smoky blue eyes. She knew silence was a negotiating tool meant to put the opponent on the defensive, get him to blurt a concession, and she felt herself succumbing, maybe because Jake was disconcertingly handsome and so…naked. And his eyes seemed to see more than she intended to reveal. “You just get into town?” he asked gently.

“Yes. I just flew in from London.”

“And, boy, are your arms tired.”

“Funny.” Not.

“Just kidding. You look beat. Why don’t you get out of that monkey suit and get some rest? When you’re feeling better we can talk this all out, calm and easy.”

She stifled the urge to point out that they had talked it out. She would stay; he would go. She’d give him a bit to realize she was serious. She didn’t want to come across too harshly. It wasn’t his fault Trudy had double-booked them.

“Come on and I’ll show you your bedroom.” He took her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. She usually disliked men she’d barely met presuming to touch her, even casually, but this felt okay—friendly and helpful, not pushy—and he let go of her as soon as she was upright.

She walked beside him to the short, narrow hall that led to two bedrooms and a bath, her elbow still warm from his fingers.

“I’ll move into this room,” Jake said, indicating the guest room. What had been a tidy room, accented by lacy pillows and silk flowers when she’d stayed with Trudy, was packed with equipment—oxygen tanks and rubber scuba suits, big duffels, some with fins sticking out, a pole with rope hanging off it, possibly the boom of a sailboat, two more surfboards, one of which had a sail, and a stationary bike.

How could anybody even find the bed, let alone sleep in it?

Even worse, the room was missing most of one wall. Through the ragged edge of Sheetrock she could see straight into the second bedroom and the rumpled bed where Jake must sleep.

“There’s no wall!” she exclaimed, turning to him.

“Wood rot from a ceiling leak, so I had to knock it out.”

“How can we…you…? I mean…we can’t sleep like this!” They might as well be in the same room.

“I don’t snore, I swear,” he said, then read her face. “We’ll put a sheet up if you want. And, relax, I won’t bother you—no sleepwalking or…whatever.”