Paul turned the corner and caught one last glimpse of the neat neighborhood. A neighborhood where all the corners were squared, all the houses in a straight line, all the lawns trimmed and the trees big. Someone with a ruler had probably plotted out the whole thing, including the flower beds filled with yellow mums.
It suited Bette Wharton right down to the ground.
A vague vision of his apartment rose in his mind as he accelerated onto the tollway and headed north. Although he’d lived there several years he couldn’t form a clear picture of it. The walls were light, maybe white, and the windows good-sized so a good bit of tree-dappled sunlight made it into the rooms. He had an old couch his mother gave him when she redecorated the room over the garage. But he could envision it better in that hideaway of his teen years than in his own living room. Books, a TV and stereo equipment rested on shelves of boards and bricks, smacking a bit of college days. But he’d been reluctant to put up shelves. That seemed too permanent, too attached.
He rolled into the exact-change lane for the tollbooth, flipping coins in left-handed with practiced ease. Merging into the traffic, which couldn’t be considered light even at this hour, he found his mind repeated his earlier thought:
That seemed too permanent, too attached.
Maybe that was what bothered him about the museum deal.
Jobs he’d done for several museums around the country as one-shot deals had worked out fine. In fact, he’d enjoyed them. The people sure weren’t in the business for money, and he liked that about them. Plus, he appreciated that museums these days were acknowledging the lighter side of everyday life, the toys, the games, the hobbies. And he enjoyed visits to Washington, especially since they gave him a chance to visit Tris.
But now, with the Smithsonian talking about a regular arrangement...He just didn’t know.
Someone like Bette Wharton would probably jump at this kind of opportunity. He suspected that, to her, it would be a building block in some great life plan.
He checked the rearview mirror as he steered toward the exit, caught sight of his half smile and turned it into a grimace. All right, so he was attracted to Bette, despite the suspicion she actually had one of those god-awful five-year plans the yuppie magazines always wrote about. Why? What was so great about Bette Wharton?
She wasn’t classically beautiful or a sex goddess knockout. And he found himself absurdly glad she wasn’t either one. Anybody could spot a woman like that, but he’d made a discovery not every man would be astute enough to make.
He’d listened to the crisp coolness of her voice and heard that hint of spiciness beneath. He’d touched the no-nonsense wool of her suit and felt the softness of her skin. He’d acknowledged the common sense coming from her mouth and recognized the uncommon sensuality of that maddening upper lip. He’d looked into the forthright navy blue of her eyes and seen that she had secrets there.
Secrets. Maybe that was it. Maybe that defined the whole thing. This feeling that she’d hidden her teasing and laughter beneath a life ruled by an appointment calendar, and the challenge of luring that teasing and laughter out of hiding.
So, maybe what he felt came more from the challenge of making her see that other side of herself, the free spirit. He could handle that.
A challenge...Yeah, he could enjoy that.
Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1) Page 5
