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"She tried to sell me on that romance novel again.” He raised an eyebrow. “A small-town romance between a single dad builder and a younger female baker. And she mentioned something about a bet . . ."
I squirmed under his knowing gaze. "Probably just a coincidence. All the plots of those novels are basically the same. Single dads, bakers, bets. Pfft."
His eyebrow climbed higher.
I sighed. "Okay, fine, I might have mentioned something about . . . you know." I swear he loved to watch me squirm. "But I didn't tell her about your brother's bet!"
"She just guessed it?"
"I'm telling you the novels are all the same. Lily says there's almost always a bet. She's like a walking encyclopedia of romance. Honestly, there's nothing she doesn't know about romance. Well, you know, other than actually getting into a relationship."
"You'd think it'd be easy for her."
"It’s not that she doesn’t try. I think she falls in love a bit easy. Always thinks everyone’s Mr. Right. It kind of scares people off.”
"Probably because in romance novels heroes are always Mr. Right."
"Maybe," I mused.
"You’re lucky. I must be the only real-life Mr. Right out there."
"But we're not in a relationship, of course. So I guess you’re just Mr. Right Now."
There was an awkward moment. Cole cleared his throat. "Well, I've got a date with a sledgehammer. Good luck with the painting, and keep your fingers crossed. Not literally. I mean for the cement floor."
"Got it."
He gave a salute, then left me to it.
As the day wore on, I couldn't help but steal occasional glances at Cole, admiring the way his arms flexed as he swung the sledgehammer. That cement floor didn’t stand a chance.
The painting went well. The plaster on the wall was smooth, and the color went on evenly. Once I finished the office, I'd move on to the employee restrooms and then finally the bar area, but that would have to wait until the floors were done.
Eventually, the rhythmic thunk of Cole's hammer fell silent. Moments later, he appeared in the doorway, sweat-soaked and slightly breathless. The sight of him, worked up and glistening, had an instant effect on me.
"Good news and bad news," he said, expression heavy. His stubble was a touch longer than usual, and it suited him. I couldn't help but imagine how his rough cheeks might have felt rubbing against mine. Or rubbing up against my inner thighs. . . .
"All right, I can take it," I replied, setting down my paintbrush.
"Come take a look."
I followed Cole into the bar, eager to see what he had discovered. As we crossed the threshold, I gasped. The drab cement floor was gone, replaced by a stunning mosaic of antique tiles in cream, pale blue, and terracotta, arranged in an intricate geometric pattern.
"They're beautiful!"
"They are. And the good news is that I didn't discover any wiring or pipework. Not even any bodies."
"Bodies?"
"Kidding. No clue why anyone would bury something so beautiful under cement. Lucky for us, it came up easy. No extra issues means less time and money spent on the job."
"Fantastic! So, what's the bad news?" I asked, still admiring the tiles.
Cole sighed. "I know you want this place as neutral as possible for the sale. But I can't bring myself to rip these out. They're original, and I love them too damn much. If the buyer wants to remove them, that's on them, but I won't do it. In fact, I think we should restore them. There's still some cement stuck to a few, but I can get that off with a wire brush and some acid. It'll take longer than replacing them with floorboards, but it's the right thing to do."
I looked into his hazel eyes, seeing the passion and integrity behind his decision. "I understand. I wouldn't want to destroy something so beautiful, either."
He exhaled in relief. "Good. And who knows, maybe the new owner will turn it back into a bar and keep the tiles. They'd make a hell of a dance floor."
