Almost as if to illustrate his words, a crash came from upstairs, followed by what might have been a muffled curse. Sharon glanced up at the stained ceiling and smiled. “Point taken.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About an hour. I’ve already taken photos of the kitchen and the parlor. I was just finishing up in here.”
“What else do you need?”
“I was going to take a few pictures in the downstairs bedroom. I don’t suppose I can go upstairs yet?”
He shook his head. “Not today. The crew’s up there testing the floors and patching holes. I’m reasonably sure the structure is safe, but I don’t want you wandering around up there until I’m sure.”
“And when will that be?”
He shrugged. “They’ll be finished later this afternoon. They haven’t found any problems so far.”
Although she understood his caution—after all, he was the owner of the house now and therefore liable in the case of accidents—she was still impatient to get upstairs and explore. “I’d be very careful.”
His smile was pleasant but unyielding. “Next time.”
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you can be awfully bossy?” she asked him a little too sweetly.
He chuckled. “Around here, I am the boss.”
“I’ll just finish up downstairs, then—boss.” She turned to snap one more shot of the window, then moved toward the bedroom.
He fell into step beside her. “Getting any great ideas?”
“A few.” Unfortunately, the only ideas that struck her as she entered the bedroom with Mac had nothing to do with decorating. Never mind that the room closely resembled a shadowy cave filled with dust and cobwebs. Or that one windowpane was broken, letting a warm breeze whistle through it. Or that there wasn’t a stick of furniture. It was still obviously a bedroom, and she and Mac were alone in it.
What was it about this man that he could affect her just by looking at her in that smoldering manner? She hadn’t blushed since high school, but she was dangerously close to it when he put a hand at the small of her back to guide her around a nail sticking up from a floorboard. The heat of his skin penetrated the thin, scoop-neck T-shirt she’d worn with jeans and sneakers for her exploratory visit here.
“The architect recommended taking out this fireplace and replacing it with doors leading out to a garden,” Mac said. But even that strictly-business comment sounded oddly intimate because he had murmured it into her ear.
Grateful for an excuse to move away from him, she crossed over to the stone fireplace in question and made a pretense of studying it. “It would bring more light into the room, of course, and easier access to the outside. But I wouldn’t do it.”
“You’d keep the fireplace?”
She turned to look at the center of the room, picturing a big white-painted iron bed there, covered in eyelet and mounded with pillows. A rocking chair in one corner. Fresh flowers on an old chest. A fire burning in this wonderful stone fireplace. Two people cuddled in the bed—she refused to picture faces. “I would definitely keep the fireplace.”
He nodded. “I had already decided to do that. I’ll convert the small window in the west corner to a glass-paned door leading outside. That should provide enough natural light to brighten the room a little during the day, but I didn’t want to sacrifice the fireplace.”
“I’m glad. It’s really lovely.” She rested a hand on the heavy oak mantelpiece. “I’ve always wanted a fireplace in my bedroom,” she mused almost to herself.
“The romantic type, are you?”
She dropped her hand and squared her shoulders. “Not particularly. I’ve always considered myself the practical type. A fire is a nice way to take away a chill on cold winter evenings.”
“Mmm.” He made it clear he didn’t quite accept her self-description. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”
She swallowed before asking, “Do you want to talk about my ideas for the decorating? I’m afraid I don’t have much to discuss with you yet, since I just—”
“No,” he cut in quietly. “This has nothing to do with business.”
He was asking her for a date. She hadn’t dated anyone but Jerry in months—primarily from lack of interest in going out with anyone else who had asked during that time.
She couldn’t claim a lack of interest in Mac; the opposite was actually her pr
oblem. She was, perhaps, too interested in him. She supposed some people—her assistant, for example—would consider that an odd reason to hesitate about accepting his invitation. But Sharon had always considered herself a shrewd judge of people, and something told her Mac wasn’t exactly what he seemed to be.