“Sure, I guess now is fine.”
He nods. “Let me just grab the project board from my truck.”
I watch him go, dragging my eyes over the broad expanse of his back and the tight nipping in of his waist. It isn’t until I see him pull the large board with paint samples, pieces of tile, and pictures adhered to it that I come out of my daze.
“Come on in.” I turn and mount the steps, snapping for Clarence to join me, but when I reach the front door, I halt. I look back at him over my shoulder, chewing on my bottom lip.
“Something wrong?” he asks, those dark brows drawing together.
I nod, picturing the state of the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. The kitchen’s a mess from breakfast,” I explain in a rush. “Getting three kids and myself out the door in the morning isn’t always easy.”
Those brows relax, and I could be wrong, but I may see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Is he laughing at me? Judging me?
And so what if he is? If we actually decide to redo the kitchen, and this guy is in my house for months on end, what’s wrong with him thinking I’m a rude slob who wearsEau du Dog Anusand has an attack Great Pyrenees? He certainly won’t look at me the way he did last night.
“I’ve seen worse than a lived-in kitchen.” His tone is as dry as paper.
“You’re right,” I hear myself say. Why am I still talking? “A few dirty dishes and a bit of dried scrambled egg isn’t all that scary.”
“Especially since I don’t have to clean it up.” As he says this, his mouth quirks and a dimple dances on one cheek.
It takes me a good three seconds to realize I’m staring at the dastardly dimple, and then I turn on my heel and practically sprint toward the kitchen.
I could take him past the stairs and through the so-called dining room, but old habits die hard. We never used the formal dining room, opting instead for the farmhouse table in the kitchen. In fact, in recent years the dining room was where my parents kept the treadmill and a spare TV. So instead, I lead him from the foyer past the entrance to the master suite and Dad’s study on our left and through the family room.
“This is a great house,” he says, and I turn to find him taking in the fireplace, the French windows, and the original wide-plank flooring. “Folk Victorian. When was it built?”
I stop moving because he’s standing still, head craned back, taking in the bones of the house. “In 1901.”
He lifts a hand and points to the wall right where the family room ends and the kitchen begins. “There used to be a wall here,” he says, sounding certain. I’m surprised. My parents tore the wall down even before we moved in, making a clear view from the kitchen table to the family room fireplace. I barely remember the wall’s existence.
“That’s right,” I say. “Mom said she didn’t understand why the two rooms were ever separated.”
“To make heating and cooling easier,” he says, almost absently as he eyes the ceiling. “Back before central air, it was easier to heat small rooms in the winter, and in the summer, you wanted to keep the heat in the kitchen from the rest of the house. Whoever took down that wall did a really good job leaving a smooth transition.”
I smile. “That was Mom. She worked in interiors, and she did a lot of projects, updating the house over the years.” He may not be able to hear the pride in my voice, but I can. God, I miss her. “She always said she was going to hire someone to deliver her dream kitchen. She said she couldn’t be responsible for that kind of disruption to the household day-to-day.”
Valencia gives me a wincing grin. “Kitchen renovations are pretty disruptive.”
Stifling a sigh, I wonder just exactly how much more disruption the Delacroix clan can handle. And would it even be worth it?
Oblivious to my doubts, Luc moves past me to the middle of the kitchen before executing a slow three-sixty. Finally, his eyes land on mine.
“Dios mío.It’s like the set of every John Hughes’ movie ever made.”
His accented Spanish and my breathy laugh catch me off guard. “Something like that.”
Don’t start flirting, Delacroix.
He sets down the plans and the board on the kitchen table, which still bears Emmett’s cereal bowl featuring a few soggy Frosted Flakes. I pick up the bowl and his near empty orange juice glass and quickly ferry them to the sink.
I hear Valencia’s footsteps behind me. “That stove looks older than me,” he mutters.
“You’d think it would know how to behave by now,” I say, giving the bowl and glass a quick rinse. I’d set them in the dishwasher if it were empty, but that was another chore I didn’t have time for this morning.
He chuckles under his breath, and I turn to find him peering beneath the burners. “Having trouble lighting it?”
I dry my hands on a dishtowel. “Yeah, mostly that front burner on the right.”
