The Hero's Redemption
His grin faded at whatever he saw on her face.
No, no.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, pretending deep suspicion.
Another curve of his mouth betrayed him. “You look like you have chicken pox.”
“I can hardly wait to see myself in the mirror.”
He laughed, a low, rusty sound that seemed to startle him as much as it did her.
To keep him from retreating, she said hastily, “You’ve sprayed yourself, too, you know. Except around your eyes. You have the raccoon thing going.”
He shrugged. “It’s latex paint. It ought to wash off.”
“But not from our clothes.” Dismayed, she said, “I should’ve bought you coveralls.” He couldn’t possibly have had more than one change in that duffel bag.
Seeming unconcerned, Cole glanced down at himself. “I’ll keep these for messy jobs. The jeans have about had it, anyway, and T-shirts are easy to replace. I picked up some more clothes the other day.”
She nodded. “What do you think? Is this color not perfect?”
“I don’t know. I would have liked a nice cream…” He smiled again at her expression. “Yeah, it looks better than I thought it would. Kind of different, in a gingerbread-house way.”
She sniffed. “And I’m the wicked witch.”
“Well, you said it, not me.”
Erin grabbed her paintbrush and brandished it. “I’ll polka-dot you.”
Another rusty chuckle, and he backed away.
“I put a roast in the Crock-Pot.” Now or never. “Will you have dinner with me?” He’d taken care of his own meals since those first few days.
He went still, in that way he could, his blue eyes unreadable. The moment stretched. Erin suddenly realized that the brush was dripping down her front and she hastily moved it over the can.
Pride had her shrugging and turning back to the window. “Or not.”
“No.” Cole cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah, that’d be great. I’m…not much of a cook.”
Having seen the frozen meals he bought each time they’d gone to the grocery store together, she wasn’t surprised.
Without looking at him, she said, “Give me half an hour or so after we knock off for the day. I want to shower and put some biscuits in the oven.”
“Thanks.” He sounded hoarse.
Erin didn’t look back, even though she knew he was walking away. Usually, she couldn’t resist any chance to watch him when he wouldn’t notice. He was just so damn beautiful, whether in motion or at rest.
By the time she tapped the lid back on the can a couple of hours later, she expected to be exhausted. To her astonishment, there was still some spring to her step. Maybe she was regaining her strength.
She’d brought some plastic bags out to the garage, and now used one of them to wrap the brush. This seemed to work, saving her from having to clean it every evening. She’d seen Cole using the hose to do something to the spraying assembly, which they’d rented. She’d learned some creative new profanities from him every time the nozzle plugged up. Thank goodness he growled them almost under his breath, or he might have shocked a few neighbors.
Erin could tell that a young family lived three doors down, judging by the small bike with pink streamers on the handles and the big plastic tricycle often left lying on the lawn. Kids seemed to live in the house on the corner, too. Presumably, there were other neighbors younger than eighty, but she hadn’t seen them. She’d bet the folks within a four-block radius could fill a good-sized retirement home, if they were all willing to give up mowing their lawns and walking arthritic pets. Nanna had been happy here partly because she had lifelong friends. Even the neighbors she disliked were part of the landscape of her life. She could tell stories about every one of them. Erin knew all the older folks, but hadn’t yet tried to make herself part of the neighborhood.
Yesterday afternoon, she’d heard a mower fire up and looked over to see Mr. Zatloka across the street wrap his knobby hands around the handle of his mower and totter forward. She’d heard him mow before but hadn’t seen him. Would he let her do it for him? She knew the answer. A young lady—no, that would offend his masculine pride.