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He gave a precise nod. “Who was your baby’s father, and why isn’t he with you?” He arched his brows and looked at her expectantly. “What? You’re allowed to ask fair questions, but I’m not?”
“I just don’t want some woman I’ve never even met coming at me and accusing—”
“Ain’t gonna happen. Not unless you tell.”
“I have no intention of telling anyone.”
“Me neither. So we’ve got no problem.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Well, I disagree. It’s a problem for me if you’re cheating on—”
“Cheating?” he repeated with incredulity. “It was only a kiss.”
In the face of such a blatant distortion of fact, they held each other’s stare longer than they should have, and, at some point during it, she lowered her hands from her hips. In the end, he couldn’t say for sure who looked away first, but it was awkward.
She turned to face the drafting table and neatly stacked the drawings. “You have a great eye for design, and, even though it irritated you for me to say so, your talent is being wasted. But…” She took a breath. “I won’t be going with your ideas.”
It crushed him to hear that, for so many reasons, most of which he couldn’t rationalize. But rather than show his disappointment, he made a gesture of dismissal. “I guessed as much.”
“I will, however, be using your services. If you’re still available.”
“Doing what? Rehanging your closet doors?”
“Removing them. You see, I’ve changed my mind about restoring the house. I want you to take it apart. Piece by piece. Board by board. Nail by nail. Tear it down. To the ground.”
Chapter 16
Ledge stood there looking at her for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Then he turned, saying over his shoulder, “I haven’t eaten all day,” and walked out of the workshop.
Arden didn’t know what to make of his exit, but she couldn’t leave things up in the air, so she followed. As an afterthought, she went back for the bottle of bourbon.
He entered the house, and lights came on inside, illuminating the steps leading up to the back door. He’d left it standing open. Not quite an invitation, but not a lockout.
She went inside. His kitchen was surprisingly modern. It certainly showed hers up.
He was standing in the open door of the refrigerator and didn’t turn when she closed the back door to let him know she had followed him in. He sailed a deli package from the fridge onto the granite countertop, then a second landed there with a plop. After taking some items from the shelves in the door, he bumped it closed with his hip.
As he set a butter dish and jar of mayonnaise on the counter, he said. “Grilled cheese?”
“No thank you. But you drank my whiskey.” She lifted the bottle.
“Glasses are up there.”
She took a glass from the indicated cabinet and poured herself an inch of the liquor. “You?”
“No thanks.” He turned on the griddle section of the range and dropped a slab of butter on it. “Bad idea to drink straight bourbon on an empty stomach.” The butter began to sizzle. He came around to face her. “Makes your belly burn like hellfire. Makes your brain go to mush.”
He came toward her and, with the back of his hand at her waist, eased her out of his path. “For instance…” He went into a walk-in pantry and emerged seconds later with a loaf of bread in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He tossed the latter onto the dining table.
He hefted the loaf of bread in his hand as he came to within inches of her. “For instance, I thought I heard you say you wanted me to tear your house down.”
In defiance of his thunderous expression, she casually took a sip of the whiskey. As she lowered the glass, she said, “You look like you’re gauging the weight of that loaf of bread. Are you going to hurl it at me?”
He muttered something foul as, this time, he sidestepped to go around her without touching.
He kept his back to her and said nothing more as he slathered a slice of bread w
ith mayo, then piled on slices of cheese he took from the two deli packages. He laid the stack carefully on the griddle in a pond of melted butter, which had filled the kitchen with a mouthwatering aroma that made her stomach growl.
