The House on Blackberry Hill (Jewell Cove 1)

He nodded. “Yeah. That.”

Of course she needed a shower. She felt a little weird about it, knowing Tom would be wandering through her house while she was getting naked, but she shook it off. “Suit yourself. I won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

She unlocked the front door and led the way in. “Why don’t you start with the downstairs? And there should be coffee on in the kitchen. I set it up to brew before I left. Milk’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She scooted up the stairs before he could say anything more. Once in her room she grabbed some clothes and scurried to the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind her. She turned on the shower and stripped while waiting for the water to get hot, feeling an odd sort of awareness about her nakedness. Wondering what it might be like if he walked into the bathroom while she was under the hot spray. As her pulse quickened she wondered what he’d look like if he stripped off his clothing. He would be big and brawny and beautiful. And he’d say her name in that deep voice of his …

Inside the shower stall she applied the puff with enough force to peel off her top layer of skin. It was utterly inappropriate for her to be having these sorts of thoughts about Tom Arseneault, a man she wasn’t even sure she liked!

And who she was pretty sure didn’t like her. She had to remember that part, too.

She huffed out a laugh to herself as she rinsed off the lather and reached for the shampoo. The sad truth was that despite any fantasizing, she probably wouldn’t know what to do with a naked Tom Arseneault if she had him. It had been so long since she’d had sex she wasn’t sure the old analogy of riding a bike would even hold true. Plus, if she were inclined to give it a try, Abby was pretty sure she should stick with someone a little … less potent. Maybe a banker or an accountant. She chuckled to herself. Someone with training wheels.

But the truth of the matter was, even if Tom wore a tie and glasses, Abby knew herself well enough to know that casual relationships weren’t her thing. For her, sex was about trust. It was intimate, on a physical and emotional level. If and when she chose to be with someone again, she would be absolutely sure it was right.

She shut off the water and reached for the towel. She supposed that made her terribly old-fashioned but preferred to think of it as gun-shy. And one thing was certain. Tom Arseneault might be the greatest thing since sliced bread, but it was a long leap from where they were now to sleeping together. No matter how delicious he looked in his work shirt and jeans.

She gave a short laugh and reached for her underwear. Bes

ides, it wasn’t like he was exactly offering himself up for sex anyway.

CHAPTER 7

Tom wandered through the downstairs, coffee cup in hand. The house did look much better now that it had been given a good cleaning. Abby must have worked her ass off to accomplish so much in such a short time. The woodwork and banisters were gleaming and the furniture polished. It made the good stuff look great and the bad stuff even worse. Like the floors and rugs. Despite a vacuuming, they really needed to be professionally cleaned. As did the draperies—if they could even be saved. The woodwork definitely needed some love—trying to match it was going to take some research.

On initial inspection, however, Tom was delighted to find the place was sound. The wiring and plumbing were good and there didn’t appear to be any moisture in the walls. What they were dealing with here was aesthetics and not a lot of reconstruction, which was a pleasant surprise. The price and time factor would have gone way up if they’d had to start ripping out walls.

The veranda would have to be replaced, of course, and he’d have to check the roof and windows. The downstairs needed crack filling and painting throughout, and all the floors needed refinishing. The kitchen had a shocking lack of cupboard space, and he had some ideas how to improve on it, including replacing all the countertops with granite and adding a butcher block. He needed to inspect the fireplace flues as well, and ask if she wanted them opened and functional. The chimneys would likely have to be completely rebricked.

There was the issue of modernizing things, too. She could make the library into a den, add a wall unit for a television and stereo receiver, bring in cable, and surely she’d want Internet. Right now there wasn’t even any phone connection. She had to be using her cell phone, and it must be costing her a fortune.

He stopped and stared out the kitchen window as it occurred to him that she had a fortune to spend on phone calls if she wanted. Rumor had it Marian had been a very rich woman. Where she’d gotten her money, no one quite knew. Certainly a substantial portion had come from Elijah’s estate, but had it been that much?

The shower stopped running and Tom swallowed. Footsteps echoed dully on the ceiling above him and he imagined her running the towel over her long legs and full breasts. His coffee cup paused on the way to his mouth. The figure that had only been hinted at the last time they met had been in full relief this morning in the fitted running tee and snug yoga pants. Walking in the house behind her had been a revelation. The black material had showcased a fine, tight backside.

But he was her contractor, not her lover. She didn’t even like him, for heaven’s sake. She’d made it very clear that he was her last choice, not her first. Didn’t stop his mind from wandering, though. After all, he still appreciated a good view. And the view had been very nice, indeed.

The bathroom door opened and he raised the cup the rest of the way to his lips. The brew was lukewarm.

“Tom? You can come up now. If you’re ready to look at the upstairs, that is.”

He didn’t need a second invitation. He put his cup on a table and made his way up the grand staircase to the top. The scent of her soap drifted out of the bathroom and he forced his mind to focus on the state of the rooms. Abby came out of one bedroom and his mouth went dry. Her hair was darker now, still wet, and twisted up into a clip at the back so he could see the long, graceful column of her neck. She wore jeans and a top that was gathered just beneath her breasts, and then stayed gathered in some weird way that made her ribs and waist look tiny. Damn. Abby Foster had curves. Good ones. The kind a man would have to be blind not to notice.

Even a man like Tom, who had no interest in romance whatsoever. He was still getting over the last broken heart and it had been hellish enough. It was certainly not an experience he wanted to repeat.

“I’ve taken this room as my own while I’m here,” she explained. “The furniture is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

The bed was a walnut four-poster with a matching highboy against one wall and a vanity table and chair next to a commode stand, complete with an antique china pitcher and bowl sprinkled with light blue rosebuds. The walls were the color of a robin’s egg, and the duvet cover was pure white. It was airy and fresh with a hint of elegance. Sort of like her, he realized.

“It’s very nice.”

“The windows are a little drafty, but I like it. I don’t even mind the floors. They aren’t as scratched as the others. I think the scars on the wide planking add character.”

“If you want to keep all the rugs, we should look into finding someone who can professionally clean them for you. Or you can purchase new.”