Her sister always had cushions and they never looked as if someone had sprawled all over them, marking children’s work while drinking wine at the end of a long day.
“I hate cushions. Cushions were invented to give men something to throw across the room.”
“They were invented to make the house look cozy and comfortable. Dressed is the word I saw used in a fancy house magazine.”
“That explains it. I like my houses the way I like my women—undressed.”
Jenna dropped to her knees so she could check under the sofa. “Don’t ever say things like that in public. It makes you sound—”
“How does it make me sound?”
“I don’t know—” Jenna sat up and strands of hair tumbled over her face, half obscuring her vision “—unreconstructed.” She shoved her hair back, wishing it was smooth like her sister’s.
“Me Tarzan. You Jenna.” Greg gave her a suggestive smile. “And if you want me to behave like a modern man, don’t throw yourself at my feet, woman.”
“I’m not at your feet. I’m looking for my thong. Remember that night we had sex on the sofa?”
“No.” Greg was deadpan. “No recollection.”
She hauled herself upright and flung a cushion at his head.
He caught it one-handed. “Thank you for proving my point. Cushions are for throwing. They’re the soft furnishing equivalent of a stress ball. And of course I remember your thong. I was the one who removed it.”
“And now I can’t find it.” She stuffed her hand down the back of the sofa cushions. “If my mother finds that thong, my life is over.”
“If she finds that thong it shows you have a life. A sex life. And I thought you were getting along better with your mother.”
“I am, but I’m not at the stage where I want to discuss my sex life. Do you have a paintbrush?”
Greg blinked. “Before I answer that I have to ask what you want to do with it. My mind is working overtime.”
“There’s a mark on the kitchen wall where I tripped carrying that glass of wine.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “So use a cloth to clean it off.”
“I tried that! It stained the wall.”
“Let me get this straight—your mother is coming to dinner and you want me to repaint the house. You don’t think you might be taking this whole thing a little too seriously? Anyway, you’re the one who does the painting in this family.”
Jenna arranged the cushions the way she’d seen Lauren do it, but somehow her house still lacked the “put together” air that her sister seemed to achieve effortlessly. Maybe she had to accept she wasn’t a very “put together” sort of person. “When did my mother and sister last come to us for dinner?”
“I don’t remember.” Greg shook his head as she threw another cushion onto the sofa.
“I want the place to look good.”
Greg sighed. “This is crazy. This is our home. Don’t you love our home?”
“Of course.” And she did. It was theirs. A comfortable nest they’d built over the years, packed with things they’d chosen together. “But Lauren is an interior designer. She told me her house was like her showroom.”
“You’re a first-grade teacher.” Greg picked up one of the paintings a child in her class had made for her. “Your home is your showroom, too, but we’re showing different things.”
She snatched it from him and tucked it in with the magazines. “We don’t even have kids, and our home is covered in kids’ drawings.”
“I like it. We could stick some of these paintings over the stain in the kitchen.”
“Or you could paint the wall. There’s still time.”
He pulled her against him and kissed her. “I am not painting the wall.”