Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Even better, she wasn’t the least bit scared of him. Even though she should be.
She clapped her hands together. “Okay, well. Let’s get started.”
He smothered his grin. He could see her working with kids and getting them focused on whatever she got them focused on. He was sure working with children like Daisy was similar to herding cats.
Time and technique were necessary to be successful. Probably a lot of patience, too.
She began taping the edges of the windows while he taped the molding. He was right, every second of it sucked. But the music was good, the company even better, even when she just chattered away about nothing.
Sometimes sang along with the song.
A few times he had to stop what he was doing because she’d fuck up his concentration when she’d move to the music, rocking her hips and tossing her head around. A couple times she picked up a paintbrush to use it as a microphone.
Fuck yeah, just like he thought. It wasn’t a good idea that he’d agreed to help her. The more time he spent with her, the more tempting she became.
When they were finally done with the endless taping, she smiled as she circled in place and inspected their prep work. “I think we’re ready.”
Hell yeah, they were. But what he was ready for had nothing to do with painting.
“After we’re done edging, we can break for lunch. I hope you like chili. I have it heating in the crockpot.”
Damn, this woman was organized.
Better yet, she made lunch. It’d been a long fucking time since someone else made him a meal. Other than a cook at a restaurant, like Dino’s Diner. Or the sweet butts setting up a spread after a club run. That shit didn’t count.
“Chili’s good.” He wasn’t picky, especially with a home-cooked meal.
She brushed by him and he caught the scent of her shampoo or her soap, or whatever it was. He wanted to inspect it closer by sliding his nose along her skin or pressing it into her hair. He didn’t.
Instead, he stood there as she strode out of the room, a woman on a mission, calling out, “The paint is in the laundry room, which is right off the kitchen. While I grab us a couple bottles of water, can you grab the Antique Rose? I figured that would work well in here. Warm, but not too dark.”
Without a word, he followed her and she pointed toward the laundry room to the right as she headed over to the fridge.
He wanted to watch her as she bent over to grab bottles from the bottom refrigerator drawer, but forced himself into the small room off the kitchen instead. He froze when he spotted it.
Six cans of paint.
Six.
He went over to the cans where they were stacked on the floor along the wall and he sorted through them. Each had a dab of paint on the lid to identify what the color was, but he had no fucking clue which one was Antique Rose.
“Which one?” he called out.
“It should say it on the top.”
Fuck. He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale through his nostrils. “Don’t got my glasses on.” It was a lie that had slipped off his tongue a thousand times and would a thousand more.
“Do you need to borrow mine?” he heard come from the kitchen.
He stood staring at the cans, ground his teeth, then squatted down to look carefully at the lids.
Antique Rose.
Antique Rose.
Antique fuckin’ Rose.
He guessed the word antique could start with an A. He knew the shape of an A. He knew the shapes of all letters of the alphabet. Though, sometimes he got them backwards and he always struggled to put the letters together to form words.
Maybe it was the only paint she bought which started with an A. He ran his finger over the lids of two cans where words were scribbled in black marker. Neither started with an A.
Goddamn it.
If none of them started with an A then he was screwed because that meant he was wrong on what letter the word “antique” started with.
He checked the other four cans. He needed to narrow it down. “How many cans did you get of Antique Rose?”
For fuck’s sake, say four.
“Two.”
He ground his back teeth again, his fingers tightening on the metal wire handle of one of the cans. He was fucked. Totally fucking fucked.
“I got two of that color, two Apple Core and two of the Baby Artichoke.”
What color was a baby artichoke? “Sure you don’t want the Baby Artichoke for that room?” he asked carefully. He recognized the shape of the B on the first two cans he had checked.
He jerked when her voice came from right behind him in the laundry room doorway. “No, I’m saving that for in here and maybe the hallway. I don’t know yet. I figured I can test a spot first once we’re ready to tackle those areas.”