by Ava Miles
The door to Don’t Soy With Me opened, and Rhett sauntered over to the counter wearing a T-Shirt that read, “I’m A Good Ol’ Boy—Sometimes.” She found it hard to contain her smile.
“Howdy, darlin’,” he said in his signature drawl.
“Hi, Rhett,” she said, walking over to the cash register to ring him up herself. “What can I get you?”
“How about a banana cream iced latte? I have to hide treats like this from Abbie these days. I’m giving up alcohol while she’s pregnant since she can’t have a glass of wine, but I can’t give up coffee.”
“How is she?” she asked, nodding to her barista to go ahead and start Rhett’s drink.
“Doing great. She’s finally starting to show, and she’s so beautiful I almost tear up every time I see her. I still pinch myself sometimes. Me! A papa. I mean we have Dustin, and he’s like my son in every way, but this one… Well, it’s like I planted him myself.”
She elected not to point out the basics of biology to Rhett by telling him that he had…ahem…planted the seed. “You’re going to be a great dad.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Man, I hope so. I’ve been reading every book I can find about how to be a good father. Mine sucked the big one. But that’s another tale, and not a happy one. So…I heard Evan is painting your bakery for you.”
There was something strange in his tone, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Yes. I’m so glad you shared your thoughts about him with me when I asked. I rented him the room yesterday, and when he asked if I knew anyone in need of work, I offered him the chance to paint Hot Cross Buns.”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual sing-song cadence.
“He has some experience, being an artist and all, and I need the help. I figured I wouldn’t need to pay him what a regular painter would run.” Which was out of her budget. She’d gotten quotes. But she was still feeling a little guilty about only paying Evan fifteen dollars an hour, which was why she’d offered him more. And what he’d said to her when he refused…
“I’m glad he can help you,” Rhett said, shuffling his feet. “Just…well…”
“What?” she asked, eyeing the line of customers snaking behind him. Her other barista was on a break, so she was in this alone for the moment. “Spit it out.”
“Keep your head on your shoulders, is all.” Rhett scrubbed his face. “Some women think he’s pretty…hot. And I cannot believe I am having this conversation.”
Was he worried about her? His concern was too sweet for words. Growing up, no one had looked out for her. “I guess it’s getting you ready for fatherhood in case you have a daughter.”
He gulped. “A girl? Maybe Abbie and I had better find out the baby’s sex, after all.”
“Go on now and get your drink,” she said with a laugh. “There are people behind you.”
Swiveling, he winced and held out his hands. “Sorry, folks. I was shooting the breeze and lost track. Margie. Just remember what I said.”
“I will,” she responded and signaled to the next person in line to approach.
She dealt with the new customers, and when the other barista returned, she detoured to the office to check on Rebecca’s progress in learning the software they used to track inventory. The woman was doing great, and Margie had no doubt she would do a terrific job for Jill. She’d worked in a coffee shop in Aspen before deciding she wanted a change of scenery.
When Margie was finally able to pull herself away from Don’t Soy With Me, she headed down the block to Hot Cross Buns. The very thought of visiting her new bakery—her dream shop—gave her a thrill. And with a fresh coat of paint, it would look much closer to how she envisioned it.
She had trouble hiding her shock when she opened the door. Four hours had passed since she’d left the shop, but Evan hadn’t started painting. Instead, he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, muttering over a roll of painter’s tape and what looked like an old adding machine with a paper rollout.
“Ah…Evan?” she asked, coming forward.
He didn’t even look up.
“What are you doing?” Since he still hadn’t noticed her, she crouched down and touched his shoulder. “Evan?”
His face tilted up, and his eyes popped open as he finally noticed her. Then he smiled what Rhett would have called a shit-eating grin. “Hey! So, you’re probably wondering why nothing has changed since you left.”
She nodded. “I was. Yes.”
“Something amazing happened.” He held up a level, and the yellow fluid swayed in the air. “I got to thinking about the whole level thing. I don’t know why someone hasn’t thought of it before. What we need is a machine to measure the wall and dispense the tape as the angle changes. That way we can make it look level.”
Huh?
Her face must have conveyed her confusion since he immediately added, “I went to the hardware store to find some things I could cobble together into a prototype. The guy at Smith’s Hardware Store—Wayne—didn’t have everything I needed, but he dug out his dad’s old adding machine, and that’s when my idea snapped into focus. If I program the adding machine to dispense the painter’s tape and then add a level, we’re in business. Now, I’m trying to reprogram a microchip I bought at the electronics store to communicate from the level to the adding machine so it knows when to roll out. Isn’t that terrific?”
She didn’t understand much of what he was saying, but what did come through was his excitement. “Evan, I told you before. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
“Sure it does! It’s your dream, Margie. There shouldn’t be a crooked line in this whole place.”
A sigh was building in her chest. “I really appreciate your earnestness, but I had hoped you would have at least started painting by now.”
The way his whole face fell made her feel like she’d kicked a puppy.
“Oh,” he said, looking down in his lap, his makeshift invention resting on a muscular thigh she couldn’t help but notice. “I don’t expect you to pay me for all this time. I…know this isn’t the conventional way to paint, but…trust me, this is going to make everything easier. And just think. Anytime you ever need to paint anything again, this machine is going to cut the prep work in half. I promise.”
Howie used to have big ideas too. He’d tried to convince her they should lead ghost tours of the Victorian and tell tourists the ghosts of small-time mobster Aaron the Kid and the card dealer from a local hotel who’d killed him—and vice versa—in a shoot-out inhabited their basement. And then there was his notion about making holiday candles and selling them at art shows around Colorado. Big ideas were all well and good…when they didn’t put a halt to progress.
As gently as she could, she said, “Why don’t you take a break? Did you have lunch? I can start taping, and depending on where I end up, you can take over tomorrow.”
His brow furrowed. “You hate my idea, don’t you?”
She put a hand on his forearm, and the defined musculature bunched at her touch. She almost yanked her hand away, feeling the electricity spark between them from even that simple contact. “No, I don’t hate it. I’m only suggesting you step back for a bit while I take over.” At this rate, she was going to be taping until midnight to make up for lost time.
“You don’t believe this will work, do you?” he asked, staring straight into her eyes.
She’d been wrong to think his eyes looked like lake water. Right now, they were a much clearer blue—the kind only seen at sunrise, a color so transparent, it was almost fathomless.
She made herself smile. “I’m no genius, Evan. I’m only a small business owner who wants to get my place painted in a reasonable timeframe so I’ll have enough time for installation and to decorate it before the opening when I get back from Paris.”
“It will work,” he said, his voice hard. “You’ll see. Give me…thirty minutes.”
Since his stubborn side had decided to make an appearance,
she allowed herself to heave a sigh. “I’m going to start now.”
“Thirty minutes.”
He was tempting her to lose her temper. “I said I’m starting now.”
“Fine,” he said, grabbing his laptop. “But you’re going to want to undo any tape you lay once you see what a straight line I can make with my machine.”
What was this? The World’s Fair? “I didn’t know you could make things.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he snapped. “Now, don’t talk to me. If you’re only going to give me thirty minutes, I need to concentrate.”
He needed to concentrate? Well, fine. Suddenly her new renter and contract painter seemed more like a pain in the butt than the charming artist who’d made her insides go beep-beep.
The sun was setting in the west, cascading soft golden rays through the front windows, when she went to work. Evan muttered in the background, cursing a few times. Thank God she’d bought two rolls of painter’s tape. The way Evan was acting, he’d likely bite off her hand if she asked him for the one he was jimmying through the adding machine between typing things into his laptop.
Halfway down just one wall, Margie wanted to curse herself. There was no way to make a straight line. It was a mystery to her why her contractor had not simply up and quit on her. She’d barely started, and she was ready to throw aside the painter’s tape and simply paint. What did it matter if she got a little paint on the baseboards or ceiling? If any of the customers wanted to make an issue of it, they could take their business elsewhere.
“Aha!” she heard Evan cry out. “I’ve got you, you sweet little bitch.”
“Don’t talk about me like that,” she said in a dry tone, knowing he was referring to the object in his hands.
His head popped up, and he blinked. “I didn’t mean…”
“I’m just kidding,” she said, trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. From now on, she’d have to remember he was sensitive—more so than she would have expected. Perhaps it suited his artistic temperament.
“Step aside,” he said, jumping up from where he sat and running over to her. “Now, watch and be amazed.”
She felt like a circus barker was trying to lure her into a tent of curiosities.
Evan laid his contraption against the wall. She watched as the yellow liquid in the center of the level grew even, and then all of the sudden, the adding machine tape started to crank out tape. Evan ran it along the baseboards, readjusting as needed to make it level, but sure enough, he’d soon lined the whole baseboard with painter’s tape. And it was straight—a veritable miracle.
“Did I say it would cut prep time in half?” he asked when he stood, puffing his chest out. “I’d say three-quarters more like. This machine could revolutionize the painting industry. Not just for professional painters, but for your home-improvement types.”
Had she said big ideas? “Yes, I can see the modified adding machine at Lowe’s now. I’m glad it worked, and I’m sorry I doubted you. How about you use that thing to get us prepped?”
She cast a glance toward the front windows. The sun was setting, which meant it was nearing nine o’clock. They might get lucky and paint a couple walls before they had to throw in the towel.
“This thing has a name—or rather I just gave her one. I’m calling her the Paint Prep Mistress.”
She scratched her head. Why were men always referring to objects as females? “Mistress, huh? Sounds like someone has a wild imagination.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked over at him. He was staring at her with an electric intensity she found deeply arousing.
“Imagination is the spice of life, and it’s something I’ve had to do without for a while.” He held his machine against his chest, almost the way a woman would hold a bouquet of flowers from a lover. “Don’t steal this moment from me.”
Her chest grew tight. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Go on home. I’ll make up for the time I spent today on the Paint Prep Mistress. You look tuckered out.”
Did she? Well, no wonder. Closing down her position at Don’t Soy With Me while preparing to launch Hot Cross Buns meant she was burning the candle at both ends. “I can stay.”
“I’m a night owl,” he said, turning back to the wall and resuming his prep. “If I know anything about bakers, you’re one of those early riser types.”
Baking would require her to be up early—well before dawn. “Yes, I am, but this is my place.”
He swiveled on his haunches. “Do you not trust me after today?”
She glared at him. “No, I just think you’re more of a perfectionist than I am, and I’m going to stay.”
“You don’t have to. I have this.”
They were arguing like an old married couple, and they’d only known each other for less than forty-eight hours. “I’m staying.”
“Fine. Don’t touch my paint tray.”
She eyed the one he’d covered with plastic wrap. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They worked in silence after that. Sure enough, Evan had the whole restaurant prepped in no time. Margie took care of stirring the paint—a luscious periwinkle blue for the walls that would contrast beautifully with the teal she’d chosen for the baseboards. She poured it into her paint tray. He could keep his.
Why was she always attracted to temperamental artistic types?
***
Evan was trying to preserve the euphoria he’d been feeling most of the day after the Paint Prep Mistress’ prototype had formed in his mind. Sure, he’d had to make do with less-than-high-tech equipment, but he’d made it work. When he’d told Margie not to steal this moment from him, he’d meant it.
The signs that had led him to Dare Valley had delivered. A spark of his creative fire had returned.
The part of him that had always been innately curious about life, about how things ticked, about how things could tick if he invented something, was back. Before he’d lost himself through his hubris, it had been his whole purpose for living. He’d craved the euphoria—the highs and lows of the invention process. Today had been an abbreviated version of the excitement, the frustration, and finally the victory. He now understood that this ability to create and discover was worth more than his billions.
He couldn’t wait to tell Chase about his progress.
Margie was using a roller on the walls to cover them in a sharp periwinkle. The color was at once bold and welcoming—a perfect representation of Margie.
“I meant to tell you that I like the color,” he commented, setting his prize invention down on the counter so no one would accidentally step on it.
“I’m glad,” she responded, looking cute in the white paint smock she’d donned.
Since Evan wasn’t planning on keeping his off-the-rack clothes once he returned to Paris, he didn’t care if he got paint on them.
He carefully unwrapped the paint tray he’d prepared earlier. After giving the paint a stir, he moved his roller through it until it was evenly covered. Then he followed her lead and started to paint. “You know. The experts say we’re missing a few steps.”
He caught her eye roll when she looked over at him. “Really?”
“Really. First we’re supposed to use primer on the walls. Then paint with the color. Both times, we’re supposed to paint about a two to four inch barrier above the baseboard and below the ceiling before moving on to the rest.” Of course, some modern paint brands already contained primer, but he expected she couldn’t afford the higher-end product.
“That sounds excessive to me. First, we only need to do an extra coat of the paint to cover the wall. And second, the paint tape is supposed to keep us from getting anything on the baseboards or ceiling.” She rolled toward the ceiling as if to prove him wrong.
He could see it coming a mile away, but he forced himself to bite back a warning. She was going too fast. Sure enough, the roller nudged the ceiling and made a stain.
She turned and glared at him. “Don�
�t. Say. A. Word.”
He made a motion of zipping his lips. The perfectionist part of him wanted to paint the place the expert way, but he figured she’d only growl at him if he tried. So, she was a woman who liked to cut corners—totally the opposite of him. Then he noticed how pale her face was from fatigue. He well remembered how exhausted he’d been when he was starting out. Maybe she was cutting corners because she was tired. He opened his mouth to say something again and then closed it. She’d been very clear on her plans to stay, and he wouldn’t challenge her twice.
They painted until midnight, and he finally made a show of yawning like a sleepy lion sunning himself on the Serengeti. He darn well knew she’d stay as long as he did. The woman had pride, and he admired her for it.
“You’re probably still jet-lagged,” she said, setting her roller into the paint tray and stretching her back.
Her breasts thrust out with the motion, and even though he felt like a total pig, he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful line of her body. His mouth went dry, his palms grew damp, and all he wanted to do was throw aside his paint roller, cross the room to her, and kiss her. Wildly. Passionately. Ardently.
“Okay,” she said, straightening. “Let’s clean up and head back to the house.”
He cleared his thick throat, and she looked over. Her whole body stilled, and he made himself look away. He had twenty-nine more days of celibacy since he’d based it on a thirty-one day month like an idiot. Lusting after her now would do neither one of them any good, especially if he let her know how he felt.
“I’ll clean the rollers if you want to pour the paint back into the cans,” he said, picking them up and heading to the industrial kitchen.
When he returned, she was turning his invention from side to side like she was trying to decipher how her artist tenant had turned into MacGyver. The comparison was more apt than she knew, which made Evan pretty proud given that it was one of his favorite shows of all time.
