Her Naughty Holiday

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the upstairs. You know, for the fixtures,” he said.

“Right. The fixtures.”

Clover took him up the steps—which he also admired for the fine grain of the cedar—and showed him her bathroom. He approved. She showed him the guest room. He also approved of that.

“And here’s my room,” she said. “Kind of a small bed. Hope that’s okay. I can sleep in the guest—”

Erick had walked to the bed while she was chatting away nervously and before she could get any more words out he’d turned around and fallen onto the bed on his back.

Her full-size bed suddenly looked like a twin with Erick on it. He wallowed a little on the quilt, rolled left and rolled right, bounced once or twice, then sat up on his elbows and looked at her. She liked the look he gave her.

“Comfy,” he said.

“Good. As I was saying...you’re sort of, you know, big—”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“Stop. You know what I mean. You are tall and this is a small bed.”

“I like small beds. You can’t hide from me in this bed.”

She tucked a strand of hair that didn’t actually exist behind her ear.

“What makes you think I want to hide from you?”

“You’re wearing a bathrobe over a nightgown that’s got so much material to it I could make a schooner sail out of it. And you’re doing that grandma thing where you’re holding the lapels of your robe together like you’re afraid I’ll see your neck or some other unmentionable part of your body. It’s very cute, this shyness.”

“I really want to be sexy and flirty with you, but if I ever knew how to do that, I’ve forgotten how.”

“You are sexy.”

“Not like you are.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“How am I sexy?” he asked. “And please, be specific.”

“You’re very comfortable with yourself. I like that. I’m not as comfortable with myself.”

“You’re comfortable with yourself at work.”

“I am, but this isn’t work. And I don’t know you very well. Even though I know you really well. That made more sense in my head, I promise.”

“You know me as Ruthie’s dad. That’s how you know me, and as dear old dad, you do know me well. Ruthie’s in LA right now and it’s just you and me. Now you get to know the other side of me that has absolutely nothing to do with my daughter even though it’s the reason she exists.”

“I want to get to know that side of you. I want to get to know that side of me, too. But you know how it is, running your own business.”

“Mine’s nothing like yours. I can pick my jobs, tell people no if they try to book me on a day I need to be at Ruthie’s school or something. Your place is open seven days a week, eight to eight, and I’ve never once gone there to drop off Ruthie or pick her up and not seen you there with your nose in a stack of invoices or with a trowel, a hose and a pair of hedge clippers in your hand. You work your ass off.”

“It’s still there. I think.” She patted her backside. “Yup. I don’t work that hard.”

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“Um, two years and six months,” she said.

“Where is everything?”

“What?”

“Where is everything? You have furniture and you have plants. I saw two books downstairs and those were on gardening. No art on the walls, no pets, no souvenirs from vacations anywhere. This place looks like a bed-and-breakfast. A nice bed-and-breakfast but not a home.”

“I’m not here very often.”

“Your office looks more like home than your home.”

“It is my home.”

“And that’s my point.” He sat up on the edge of the bed. “Your office is lived-in. It’s homey. You have pictures of your family on your desk and a stuffed puppy or something—”

“That is a sock monkey. A pink sock monkey and his name is Alejandro. Your daughter gave him to me.”

“Of course she did. You have a messy office. It looks like someone’s home. This house looks like you bought it yesterday turnkey and just brought a suitcase of clothes with you. Do you even have anything in your nightstand? A book? Chapstick? Vibrator?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He narrowed his eyes at her. Then he reached out and opened the nightstand drawer.

“I knew it,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing. There’s something in there, right?”

“Yeah. A packet of silica gel that the manufacturer put in here that you never took out. Oh, and this is the receipt for your lamp.”

She snatched both of them out of his hand and tossed them into the white wicker trash can.

“Okay, so I’m not home much,” she said. “Don’t you start in on me, too. I get this from my parents.”

“Whoa there.” He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m not telling you that you need to get married and have kids. I’ve been married. I’ve had a kid. Trust me, neither one is a requirement for happiness. I would die for my daughter. I’ve also come close to killing her a few times. Marriage and kids is another kind of work. What I’m saying is it looks to me like you need to work less, not more. At least for this week. Maybe be a homebody. Maybe be...my body?”

She put her hands on her hips and stared him down.

“You’re sexy when you glare at me like that,” he said.

“I am not. You just said I’m wearing a robe over a schooner sail.”

“You’re still sexy.”

“I don’t feel sexy,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest again.

“How do you feel?”