ROOM...BUT NOT BORED

by Dawn Atkins

  Of course, lately, with Business Advantage consuming her attention, there hadn't been much time for sex. Which was probably why she kept getting snagged by the sight of Jake's body. Once her career was in order, she would open herself to a relationship. The timing would be perfect.

  Now, she'd unpack, then write up business and personal to-do lists. Lists would put a fence around her whirlwind of worries. She had to make progress before she went to bed for the night or she'd never fall asleep.

  She glanced around the jam-packed room. She'd have to pry Jake away from the Playmate of the Day and get him to clear out his junk before she could even unpack. Then she'd pin him down on the time frame on the cottage renovation.

  That meant looking decent enough to appear in the living room. Ariel ran a brush through her hair, changed into a linen short set and slipped into the bathroom to repair her makeup. She wasn't primping exactly. She just didn't want to look as bedraggled as she felt. At the last minute, she dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck.

  Peeking around the hall corner, she saw that Jake and his friend, who wore a bikini that consisted of three bandage-sized triangles held together by dental floss, were dancing swing style to some nouveau jitterbug. The dog jumped up now and then as if to cut in—to dance with Jake, not the woman, who laughed in that lush way that meant business, sexually.

  Jake smiled, but there was distance in his expression. Don't get too close. She wondered fleetingly what it would take to get past Jake Renner's affable sexuality to what made him tick.

  Not that that was any of her concern. The dancing made her smile, though, and set her thoughts wandering. She'd needed an aerobic exercise in college and selected ballroom dance since she'd be learning a skill and getting exercise at the same time. The grace and freedom of it had enchanted her. She'd met Grayson in that class and they'd begun their affair. She missed dancing. How long had it been since she'd moved to music, alone or with a partner? Once the business was stable she would have fun, too, she told herself. All in good time. And according to plan. Planning gave you freedom.

  Jake caught sight of Ariel and stopped dancing. "Sleeping Beauty awakes," he said. "Heather, meet my landlord, Ariel Adams. Ariel, this is Heather."

  "Hi," Heather said. Her expression was direct—are you after him?

  No, thanks, she tried to communicate with her eyes. "Nice to meet you, Heather."

  "You get some rest?" Jake asked her.

  "Some." Except for the blender and the visiting kid and the giggling girl and the music and the snorting dog. But there was no point getting technical. "Sorry to interrupt," she continued, "but I was hoping you would clear your things out of my room…?"

  "I guess I should go," Heather said to Jake. "See you later tonight?" she asked, establishing ownership, presumably for Ariel's benefit. "For the volleyball game at Ollie's?"

  "If I'm up for it," he said, his tone clearly saying Don't push.

  Poor Heather. She probably hadn't figured out this guy was as elusive as he was handsome.

  "We'll have fun. I promise."

  "You don't need me to have fun," he said.

  A tiny frown appeared between the woman's sharply plucked brows, and she looked from Ariel to Jake, assessing the danger of them getting together. In the end, she sighed, picked up a sarong and a beach bag from a drop-cloth-draped chair, said, "Ciao," and left. Jake watched her go, admiring her casually—like someone appreciating a work of art, knowing there was a museum's worth beyond it.

  The dog watched Heather leave, then honed in on Jake, ready for action. When Jake made no move to follow the girl, the dog plopped onto its substantial belly, spread-legged, scattering sand.

  "Is this your dog?" Ariel asked, praying it wasn't. The last thing she wanted was to be snuffled awake again by a sandy-pawed canine. Even one with eyes as big and brown as a bear's.

  "Lucky? Nah, his owners live down the beach, but he hangs with me a lot. We're buds, aren't we, Luck Man?"

  The dog looked up at him with pure worship on his doggie mug. Sure are, boss.

  "Time to head home, pal," Jake said, "before your owners start worrying." He held the door for Lucky, who seemed to droop, like a kid called home for supper, and slowly walked out the door, his back end swaying regretfully.

  Ariel couldn't help smiling at the sight.

  Jake caught the look. "Great dog, huh?"

  "He sheds a lot of sand."

  "Be glad he didn't bring in another starfish. Hid one under the bed once. Talk about stink."

  Great.

  "So, I bet you're hungry," Jake said.

  "Starving," she blurted. Her stomach rumbled in agreement. The last thing she'd had was a sad Salisbury steak on the plane.

  "Good. I was just about to fix some huevos whateveros."

  "Huevos what?"

  "Eggs with whatever I find in the refrigerator. Topped with salsa—I make my own."

  "I don't want to put you out," she said. She should get unpacked first, but eating would give her the boost she'd need to look over Trudy's contact tracking software and gear up for making calls tomorrow.

  "So I throw in a couple extra eggs. Easy." He started for the kitchen. "We're roommates, right?" he said over his shoulder.

  Not for long, she wanted to say, but she'd give it a rest until they'd eaten. She could hardly expect Jake to drag that weight bench out of her room on an empty stomach.

  She headed into the kitchen to help.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  "What can I do?" Ariel said when she reached the kitchen.

  "Just keep me company," Jake said. He opened the refrigerator and reached inside, demonstrating what a marvel of biological engineering his body was. Smoothly swelling muscles fanned out, tightened and released in delightful synchronicity as he shifted things around. And his skin was a golden brown…

  Stop. What was she doing? Her travel-fogged brain kept honing in on Jake's anatomy. She should be worrying about the "whatever was in the refrigerator." If Jake was like most guys, it would be leftover Chinese, ketchup and maybe wilted lettuce.

  She was relieved when he stood with an armload of fresh items—an avocado, some mushrooms, Muenster cheese and a plastic-wrapped container of what looked like fresh spinach.

  "Are you sure I can't do anything?" she asked. To keep from ogling you?

  "Not a thing," he said. The way he snapped on the gas stove, deftly whacked off a hunk of butter and flipped it onto a serious omelet pan seemed to indicate he knew his way around a kitchen—or at least an egg dish.

  The kitchen was small—no, cozy, she corrected, thinking like a real estate agent. The counter space was modest, but charming—tiny blue-and-white tiles with decent grout. The sink, however, was battered and rust-stained and the faucet appeared corroded. She'd have to replace it. Kitchens and bathrooms were big selling features, she knew, and a good place to spend renovation dollars. The stove was an older model, but clean and it seemed to work.

  The wallpaper was outdated, but high shelves held decorative plates with ocean themes, attractive driftwood pieces, and several plants—curly bamboo and an orchid—that gave the room character and life.

  "I can at least set the table," she said, going to the cupboard beside him, where she assumed the plates were. She found flower vases, mixing bowls and sports bottles instead.

  "Up there," Jake raised his chin at the cupboard directly above him, his hands busy cutting mushrooms.

  "Excuse me," she said, reaching past him.

  "Take your time," he said, not moving an inch. She felt his eyes on her, sensed his lazy grin, and prickled from the abrupt intimacy of it all. Snatching two plates, even though they didn't match, she decided to wait until Jake left the counter to get the water glasses from the higher shelf.

  The silverware was in the first drawer she opened, thank goodness. Unwilling to hunt for napkins, probably in the drawer at Jake's groin, she ripped two paper towels from the under-cupboard hanging roll, t
hen moved to the table, which held more Jake accoutrements—a bike repair manual, a set of wrenches and a stack of magazines named for S sports: Sail, Scuba, Surf.

  "So, you seem to do a lot of water things," she said to make conversation while she set the table.

  "Why else live at the beach? Being in water feels good."

  Pool water, maybe, which was clear and clean, not mucky like the ocean and full of creepy weeds and mysterious creatures you couldn't see. Plus, saltwater burned her eyes.

  Finished setting the table, she watched Jake efficiently chop a hunk of red onion into tiny squares that he sprinkled into the bubbling butter. Great hands.

  Ariel forced herself to look away. Her gaze snagged on the kitchen linoleum. Bleached, scarred and cracked, it should be replaced. She hoped that was part of Jake's job. If not, she'd have to pay for it herself.

  Now was a good time to find out what Trudy had asked him to do. She'd be gentle, not her usual blunt self. The man was cooking for her, after all. "I guess the construction company you work for gives you a lot of free time for your sports?"

  Jake gave a short laugh. "Construction company?" He glanced at her as he picked up an avocado. Cupping it, he deftly coaxed it out of its hull with such easy grace she found it hard to swallow. "I work for myself."

  "So, how, um, did you get into construction?"

  "I'm not really into it," he said, fanning the slices in a gourmet-worthy display onto the cutting board. "I have buddies in the business." He began cubing the Muenster.

  He'd learned construction from buddies? Drinking buddies, no doubt, who swapped construction feats of derring-do over pitchers of margs. The guy was a beach bum, pure and simple. A charming bum, but still a bum. Maybe Trudy's good sense had run amok long before she headed for London.

  "So Trudy says you worked on her neighbor's place?" she asked, wanting some credentials.

  "Yeah. It was fun. And then Trudy offered me this gig."

  Gig? This was a gig? "So, you're not a builder, per se?"

  "Nah. I teach scuba, sailing, surfing, repair bikes, this and that."

  At least he had other income—he'd be able to afford rent when he moved out. "So, tell me what Trudy's asked you to do."

  "This and that," he said, snapping eggs one-handed and lightning-quick into a bowl.

  "Specify, please."

  "Okay. Let's see … patch the roof … repair the wall between the bedrooms … deal with the electrical, replace the wallpaper in the living room and kitchen … paint inside and out … replace the kitchen linoleum with tile…" He looked up, considering. "That's it, I think."

  "That's a lot," she said, grateful that Trudy had arranged to have so much done, but worried about living through the chaos of a messy worker. On the other hand, if she cancelled some of the work, when would she be able to afford it? "And how long do you expect it to take?"

  "Two-three months. Depends."

  "Depends on what?" What time he got up in the morning? Whether he needed to consult a manual? "That seems too long."

  "You can't rush quality," he said, dumping the egg mixture into the omelet pan, pausing to deliver a wicked smile.

  "Oh, yes, you can. I would think a month would be plenty. Let's aim for that. Speed is crucial since this will be my office, too, until I can afford to lease space."

  "You won't get in my way," Jake said, sprinkling cheese on the omelet.

  "But you'll get in mine," she said as gently as she could. "I'll try to meet clients in their offices—more convenient for them—but I'm sure I'll need to see a few people here, and I'll need peace and order for that. The second bedroom will be my office, but until you move out, the living room will have to do. That means the painting stuff must be organized."

  "The sunporch would make a great office," Jake said, pointing a spatula in the direction of the door out back.

  Through the window in the door, she could see tattered window screens, plastic patio furniture, another surfboard and lots of sand. "Hardly. I'll have business equipment—a computer, a printer, a fax machine. Wind and sand would ruin them. Not to mention how easy it would be to break in."

  Jake jerked the pan so that the food-packed omelet neatly folded in half, and brought it to the table. "I can put up some Plexiglas and a solid door. The awning gives nice shade. Most people would kill for an office overlooking the ocean." He cut the steaming egg dish in two and slid one side deftly onto her plate, the other onto his, then sat across from her.

  "But I can't incur additional expenses."

  "Don't worry about the money. It'll work out."

  "Money never works out without careful attention…" She was momentarily distracted by the omelet, which smelled so heavenly her stomach convulsed with joyful anticipation. "Anyway, I'd like you to finish the living room first. The electrical seems critical, as well. I'd prefer you do the noisy things when I'm not working—early mornings and early evenings—or at least coordinate with my schedule. When you're ready to start on the kitchen, I can plan for takeout meals."

  "I'll handle the food," Jake said. "If you like my cooking, of course." He plopped a dollop of fragrant salsa—finely chopped tomatoes, onions and fresh cilantro—onto her portion of the omelet. "Give it a try," he said, pushing the plate closer.

  She wanted to finish her plan first, but to satisfy him, she took a bite.

  Oh. Wow. The buttery, cheesy eggs melted on her tongue. The mushrooms were a sweet musk, the onions tangy pearls of flavor, the salsa a spicy tomato garden. "This is sooo good," she said, barely pausing to swallow before taking another bite.

  "I'm glad you like it." Their eyes locked and Ariel felt an alarming sizzle that made her stop chewing. Jake took in her face, then strayed to her chest in an involuntary carnal appraisal. He lifted his eyes to hers, looking pleased with what he'd seen. "Any dietary restrictions? Particular foods you like or dislike?" he asked, making it sound like he was asking after her sexual preferences.

  "I like, um, everything." That sounded bad.

  "I could resurface the wood floors, too, you know," he murmured, equally suggestively. "If I had enough time…"

  He seemed to be trying to seduce her … with smooth omelets and gleaming wood floors. And it was working. Freshly surfaced floors would really make the place attractive to buyers…

  Stop it. Jake was flirting with her, bribing her. "I can't afford the floors," she said, deliberately breaking the gaze.

  Jake shrugged. We'll see, he seemed to be saying.

  Ariel went after the omelet again.

  Jake chuckled and she looked up, still chewing. "I like it that you're not afraid to enjoy food. I hate when women nibble and pretend not to be hungry."

  "I'm not much on pretense," she said, swallowing her last bite. Jake still had half of his omelet.

  "No, you get right to the point, all right," he said. "Like I know you want me to move out of here right away."

  "I think that would be best," she said, putting down her fork with reluctance, glancing again at all the eggs Jake wasn't eating. She should have savored hers more… "I've got a lot to handle and this place is too small for two people and a construction zone." She felt guilty ogling his omelet while she was talking about booting him onto the beach.

  "Here," he said, cutting her a bite of his eggs and holding it out—an intimate gesture that he made seem perfectly natural.

  "No, no. I'm fine." She shook her head. "I had plenty."

  He moved the fork closer, tempting her.

  She took the bite quickly, avoiding eye contact, feeling shaky inside. Then the fabulous taste overcame her. "Mmm," she said. "This is amazing."

  "People love my mixed grill, too. I stuff the meat with chorizo—do you eat meat?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. My enchiladas aren't bad, either."

  "I can imagine," she said, loving the sound of that. She'd have to get an aerobic exercise plan immediately if she was going to eat any more of Jake's cooking … which she wouldn't be for any more than two
days. At the most.

  "And I make great coffee." He was hitting her where she was vulnerable, which, right now, was her stomach. "And I'm good company," he continued, leaning forward, very companionable, very warm… She had the odd feeling he was tempted to kiss her. And, worse, she kind of liked the idea. She licked her lips, which made Jake take in a little breath before he continued speaking. "How do you feel about…?"

  Kissing? Love it. Live for it. She felt herself sway toward him, transfixed by his great lips and teasing smile.

  "Poker," he finished.

  Poker? Was poker code for what she thought they were talking about?

  "Yeah. I like to have people over for all-night games."

  "All night?"

  "Yeah. Five-card draw. There's an ante limit."

  The daze cleared abruptly. What was wrong with her? Jake was talking about poker, not poker. She was obviously feeling overwhelmed by all the changes and the work she faced and was using this physical attraction as an escape valve. Talk about self-defeating. She had to focus on her goal, not on kissing or poker and any of its double meanings.

  "So, you've only been here three weeks and you've got friends hanging out for poker and enchiladas?"

  "I know people in Playa Linda, and I've lived up and down the coast. The marina where I work a lot is close. And I make friends pretty easy."

  Friends like Heather, no doubt. Friends she didn't want sleeping over.

  "I'm sure you're good company and you're a great cook, Jake, but the problem still stands."

  He spoke in a John Wayne drawl, "This town ain't big enough for the both of us, Pilgrim. That what you mean?"

  "Exactly."

  "Do I make you uncomfortable? Is that it?" he asked, his blue eyes digging in.

  There was no point in fibbing. "Yes, actually, you do."

  "I don't mean to. You don't have to worry. I don't believe in fooling around with roommates."

  "Excuse me?" She felt her cheeks go red.