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“Don’t be.” My back muscles going tight, I made a dismissive gesture. I’d shared my story for accuracy, not sympathy. “My place at least had a big head start on renovation. I’m no DIY champ like you. The Holiday House needs a ton of work, not that the Morrisons agree.”
Seeing the sorry state the house had fallen into was a constant burr in my side. I could live with a happy family filling the place, but an ill-tempered Scrooge who lacked any sort of appreciation for its distinctive features soured my stomach every time I jogged by.
“Yep. It needs work. Paint, windows, landscaping, and that’s only the exterior.” Paul ticked off the items on his long, blunt fingers. Their purposeful movements were enough to make a few sparks zip up my spine. I wanted to see what else they could do. Danger. Back to your story, Romeo.
“I used to dream about how I’d renovate when I grew up and had money, but my dad convinced Grandma to sell in my teens, and I put aside those drawings.”
Paul nodded solemnly, more of that unexpected and not entirely welcome empathy. “I used to draw too. Had the crazy idea I might be an architect.”
“That’s not absurd.” The glimpse at his childhood self made my chest hurt.
“Yeah, it is. My family didn’t have college funds to start with, then Brandon came along, a huge surprise for my parents. Plans changed.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but when he met my gaze, an entire weather system of emotions filled his eyes.
And lord how I understood plans changing. My childhood was littered with broken promises, canceled weekend visits, postponed vacations, and forgotten plans. Even my current life was largely a reaction to the way my divorce had upended all the plans I’d had with Lori. Sometimes hoping hurt and rolling with the punches was the only way to avoid hitting the floor.
“Yeah,” I said softly, not breaking away from his gaze, air thickening and energy gathering. I flexed my fingers, the urge to reach out overwhelming, but then he abruptly strode away to the first door off the hallway.
“Anyway, this is the guest room.” His tone was curt, putting an end to our emotional show and tell. The room was small, but the dormer windows, refinished hardwoods, and built-in dresser gave it character. The walls were a light blue, a pretty shade that would be fun to coordinate with.
“Run out of cream paint?” I joked.
“Brandon always did like blue.” If there was a certain yearning to Paul’s voice, I knew better than to offer my understanding.
“Well, then, we’ll go for blue-and-white bedding.” I kept my tone bright even as my chest clenched again. “And yes, the saw and sawhorses are going to have to leave.”
“Yeah. I can buy a bed. I keep debating upgrading my own to a king, but it’s only Jim and me. Seems ridiculous to get new simply because my bones are getting creaky and memory foam sounds good.”
“Well, here’s your chance.” I tried to convey practicality and not reveal how my brain was now besieged by images of him in a too-small bed, big muscular frame spread out. And certain parts of me were only too ready to volunteer to help him test a new mattress. “Move the smaller one in here, and treat yourself to something appropriate for your advanced years.”
“Hey.” He laughed, and damn, I liked being able to make him chuckle. He didn’t do it often, but he had a warm, rich laugh that could fill a space, instantly changing the mood.
“I’m just saying.” I gave him an arch look. “My orthopedic mattress is one of my favorite investments. And it’s only me as well, but I’ve totally got a king now.”
“How is it you don’t have a boyfriend?” Paul frowned, then shook his head. “Never mind. That was rude.”
“I don’t mind,” I assured him. “And hey, I’m flattered you think I should have one. But I have terrible luck with dating. I’ve seen a few people since Lori and I split, but nothing stuck.”
Calling it luck was kinder than admitting my bossy ways tended to chase potential partners off. I ran a hand over the built-in dresser, picturing a few accent pieces for the room.
“How about you? Now that you’ve got your breathing room, I would think you’d have a line of prospects.”
“Ha.” Paul snorted. “I’m cranky, set in my ways, and lack the necessary skills for modern dating. Missing most of my twenties and thirties means I never got good at that sort of thing. Bar scene sucks, and I’m a slow typist on my phone. The apps baffle me.”
“I’m not big on bars myself, but trust me, you could pull any number of guys willing to help you make up for lost time.” It spoke to my stellar restraint that I neither volunteered myself nor pointed out that being slightly less prickly might improve his chances.
“Thanks, but the scene seems to skew toward young dudes.” He shuddered. “And I don’t care how old the mirror says I am now, I’m not looking to play Daddy games.”
I laughed because he was such hot silver-fox Daddy, but I got what he meant. “I feel you. Most of the guys our age around here are either into that dynamic—more power to them—or already coupled up.”
“Yup. Trust me, I know. My client list is full of happy husbands. Like you said, more power to them, but I’m just not cut out for the domestic.”
Far be it from me to argue with his resolute tone, but all evidence pointed to the contrary. Hell, forget shirtless pics. All he’d need to do is share snaps of his gleaming hardwoods and DIY prowess, and he’d have an inbox full of dudes ready to play house. But I didn’t want to cross the line into flirting.
Okay, that was a lie. I was dying to cross that line, but I wanted to help him more, and every instinct I had said he’d shut me down cold if I made a pass.
“Speaking of domestic, you want to show me your existing decorations? We won’t want to duplicate anything you already own, and setting out your familiar pieces will be welcoming for Brandon.”
“Doubt he cares. He’s always got his head in the clouds, worrying about some equation or model.” Paul’s tone was fond as he headed back into the hallway, where he pulled down an attic ladder from the ceiling. “I’ll grab the box.”
