He could stop her, all right, by kissing her until her brain emptied altogether. Tempted again to try just that, even though it would probably earn him a slap in the face, he made himself step away from her. “Let’s get to work.”
“Don’t you need a cap?”
He pulled a battered Georgia Bulldogs cap from the back pocket of his jeans and tugged it onto his head, pulling the brim low to protect the lenses of his glasses as much as possible.
Trent wouldn’t have expected that painting a room would actually be a fun way to spend an afternoon. It had been so long since he’d actually had fun that he almost didn’t remember how. But Annie approached the job with such eagerness and enthusiasm that he couldn’t help but enjoy working with her. He even found himself using his somewhat rusty laugh again, more than once as the hours passed.
Being with Annie was fun, he concluded, even if they were doing nothing more than spreading paint on her walls.
It wasn’t easy concentrating on the work when she was so close. It wasn’t easy keeping his eyes on the walls when they wanted to wander in her direction. It certainly wasn’t easy keeping his hands on the paint roller and off her delectable legs.
He managed, somehow, even when he ended up steadying the ladder while she stood on it, stretching high to reach the places above her head. He’d tried to convince her to let him do that part, but she’d insisted she wanted to. She’d never painted before, she reminded him, and she was enjoying it. And even though he suspected her real motivation was to protect him from putting too much strain on his back—a direct hit to his ego—he couldn’t resist her request to let her have her fun. So, he stood beside the ladder, one hand braced on the side, and focused his attention firmly on the wall instead of on the enticing curves at eye level.
She stretched a bit farther than he considered safe, and he put out his hand to keep her from tumbling off the ladder. “Be careful, Annie. You want to end up headfirst in the paint can?”
That made her giggle again. “I’m not going to fall. But it’s really sweet of you to be so concerned.” She stressed the word deliberately.
He gave her a warning look from beneath the brim of his cap. “You know that word irritates me, don’t you?”
Her grin was downright cocky as she leaned against the top of the ladder and gazed down at him. “Yeah? So what are you going to do about it?”
He looked at the wet paintbrush in the pan at his feet. “I could always prove once and for all that there’s nothing sweet about me.”
She hefted her own brush. “Is that a threat, pal?”
He slid his hand up her leg, something he’d been wanting to do
ever since he’d first seen her in these shorts. He made himself stop just above her knee. “Just take my word for it,” he said huskily.
He felt a quiver run through her, saw her eyes darken and her cheeks flush. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or dismayed to realize that he wasn’t the only one fighting attraction here. Despite the monk’s life he had lived during the past months, he remembered how to recognize the signs that a woman was interested in him.
Annie was definitely interested, he decided. But she seemed to be resisting every bit as hard as he was—and for good reason, he reminded himself, reluctantly removing his hand from her leg.
“Ready to come down?” He helped her off the ladder, carefully keeping his touch light and impersonal.
She moved a bit too quickly away from him, then made a production of studying their handiwork. “It looks fabulous, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, still gazing at her.
“Goodness, look at the time. You must be starving.”
He hadn’t realized it until that moment, but he was hungry, actually. “I’ll stop for takeout on the way home. Let me help you clean up here first.”
She shook her head, her ponytail swishing beneath the baseball cap she had so carefully kept clean while they painted. “You start the cleanup. I’ll start dinner.”
“Don’t bother. I—”
“It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today. What would you rather have? Pasta or omelets? Carbs or proteins?”
“You cook, you choose.”
“Pasta, then. I always take pasta when it’s my choice.”
He made a mental note of that weakness as he gathered together the brushes for cleaning. He never knew when it might come in handy.
They ate with the scent of fresh paint surrounding them. Annie had scrubbed her face and hands, but hadn’t yet showered or shampooed her hair. She’d removed the cap, but still wore the scraggly ponytail and grubby clothes—and Trent still thought she looked beautiful. So beautiful that he hardly tasted the excellent pasta dish she had prepared in an amazingly short time.
Funny how he had once thought she was merely pretty. Had he been blind—or just too stubborn to acknowledge his reaction to her?