Her face lights up. “Just making sure you were paying attention.”
I lean forward against the cart, resting my chin in my hand. “And I’ll tell you what I said the first time. That’s an excellent choice.”
Her brows come together and her lips pucker into a pout. “But you said that for all of them.”
Grinning, I reply, “I meant that for all of them. It’s paint. If you don’t like what you get, we can just repaint it.”
“But which one do you like the most?”
I stand and step toward her, draping my arm across her shoulders. “It’s your kitchen.”
“Fine,” she huffs, going with the pale mango shade.
“Did you still want to paint the cabinets too?”
She shakes her head. “I want to see how the walls look done first.”
Passing over the paint color to the store employee to mix it, she waits while I go and fill our cart with the supplies we’ll need. It’s been two weeks since she came over for dinner and we’ve fallen into an easy friendship. She likes to cook and has talked me into coming over a couple nights every week so she can try stuff on me. Apparently, my palate is too countrified. I grew up eating simple meals we made based on what the farm produced. I have nothing against other types of food, just haven’t had them.
She’s been paying me in meals for the help I’ve been giving her around the place. The first thing she asked for my help with was installing a new rain showerhead in the master bathroom. Standing in her tub, guessing by her still damp hair, that she was naked in there earlier was hard. Not hard to do, as in made me hard.
That reaction was repeated the next day thanks to the mental picture I got when she went on and on, telling me how wonderful her shower felt. Luckily, since then I’ve been mainly assembling bookshelves and rescreening her porch.
I’m still trying to figure out whether it’s expanding my culinary horizons or my company she likes more. I’m hoping it’s the latter. If she still lives here in eight months, I am asking her out.
The paint is ready by the time I have everything we’ll need. Once everything is paid for, I push the cart out to the parking lot. A gentle breeze carries the scent of Bethany’s honeysuckle conditioner past me. It hits me then, that so far, there isn’t one thing that I don’t like about her. Windows down, we drive back to her house, I add another thing I like about her to my mental list; she looks seriously hot in my truck.
She runs upstairs to change while I tape off the room. I work on a farm, I’m not worried about paint getting on my clothes. When Bethany comes back down, I have to fight to not stare at her. She’s changed into a tight tank top and a pair of rolled-at-the-waist plaid boxer shorts. I can only hope she bought them; that’s easier to swallow than them belonging to an old boyfriend.
“You mentioned starting your own business before, but you never said what,” I ask as she climbs a stepladder to start edging.
“I’m a freelance editor.”
Dipping the roller into the tray, I glance up at her. “What kind of stuff do you edit?”
She sets down her brush and straightens her shoulders. “Novels, mainly fiction, though I did edit one autobiography.”
“I’ve never met an editor before. Would I know any of the books you’ve edited? I don’t read as much as I’d like to, but I still follow new releases.”
She giggles, her eyes mischievously holding mine. “That depends, do you read any romance?”
I shake my head and start painting the wall in front of me. “I mainly read mysteries, but Bess inhales those romance novels. She loves that Sparks guy. He’s the only one I know of for romance. Oh, and those grey books, something shades of grey.”
“Everyone knows those. I’m afraid I don’t edit for Nicholas Sparks or E.L. James. If I did, I might’ve bought an island, not a farmhouse.”
“Fair enough.”
“Would you like to read something I’ve edited?” she asks with a hopeful lilt in her tone.
There is only one right answer to this question. “I would love to.”
“Really?” she beams.
Yep, that was the right answer.
She climbs down the stepladder and motions for me to follow her. Leading me into her den, she immediately starts rummaging through a box on the floor.
“I have an old eReader you can borrow. I just have to find it.”