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“Shit,” he swore beneath his breath, pretty sure this wasn’t going to end well for anybody.
“Greyson, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. And I’m not just talking about the fucking plumbing.”
His brother’s face closed up.
“I’m not staying, I just came round for my tools.”
“Tools? What tools?”
“I bought a toolbox yesterday.”
Jesus. The world was going nuts. Greyson disappeared into his room and returned shortly carrying a huge, heavy red toolbox. One that appeared to have the bells and whistles a professional handyman would have wet dreams about.
Harris hoped to hell his less-than-handy brother didn’t hurt himself trying to impress Libby.
“Uh . . . don’t save any dinner for me. I probably won’t be back in time.”
“I never had any intention of cooking for you, bro.” Harris felt obligated to set his delusional twin straight.
“Regardless,” Greyson said, and Harris barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the word. No matter how he was dressed, Greyson always sounded like he had a stick up his ass. “I’ll see you later.”
He left without a backward glance, and Harris swore beneath his breath, still staring at the door through which his brother had exited. It swung inward while he watched, and Harris tensed, expecting to see Greyson again, but the wind completely left his sails when Tina stepped over the threshold.
She was comfortably dressed in black leggings and a long shell-pink loose top that tragically hid her sexy curves. Her long bouncy hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, and her skin was naked of any cosmetics, making her look like a teenager. She turned to face him, and her eyes widened comically when she saw the apron.
“That look suits you,” she said tartly, and he grinned, ridiculously happy to see her. She darted a furtive glance around the open-plan living room and kitchen before dropping her voice almost conspiratorially. “Was it my imagination, or was that Greyson? In jeans and a hoodie?”
“Definitely not your imagination,” he said, and she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes huge in her face. “Apparently he intends to be Libby’s handyman. Have you spoken with her yet?”
“Uh . . . no. I’ve been busy. Have you?” He wasn’t sure he believed her. She and Libby always had time to chat with each other. Something was definitely up.
“No. I didn’t want to contact her while Greyson was there.” And his mind had been fully occupied with thoughts of the woman standing in front of him. Tina was right: he was a fucking terrible self-appointed guardian to Libby.
“Anyway . . . I just wanted to find out what was up with Greyson’s new look,” she said, suddenly self-conscious again. “I should get home.”
“Stay.” He knew she probably wouldn’t but couldn’t stop himself from issuing the invitation anyway. Shockingly, she hesitated, her hand on the doorknob and her body half-turned away from him. “I’m cooking a couple of steaks and baked potatoes for lunch. I’d very much like it if you’d join me. Please?”
“I shouldn’t,” she said, sounding torn, which gave him hope.
“Why not?”
She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling.
“Oh God, so many reasons,” she said on a humorless laugh.
“How about I give you one great reason to stay?” he asked, and her shoulders slumped in defeat before she turned her head to look at him, curiosity gleaming in her green gaze.
“What?”
“My baked potatoes will change your life.” He was watching closely enough to see the smile flicker to life in her eyes, making them wrinkle at the corners, before it jumped to her mouth, tilting her lips up at the corners.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Harris. I take my baked potatoes very seriously,” she warned. And Harris lifted his right hand—still clutching the sponge—to his heart.
“I swear on my great-aunt Elsie’s life, Tina.” His words surprised a delightful little laugh from her.
“You forget I was at your great-aunt Elsie’s funeral fifteen years ago, Harris.”
“Well, on her soul, then. Trust me,” he cajoled.
She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t . . . but he looked so damned appealing in that frilly pinafore, with bright-yellow rubber gloves on his hands and that wet sponge clutched to his chest. She couldn’t resist; she would have to have a heart of stone to have resisted.
“Fine,” she relented, and his smile widened into a huge grin, one that showcased the shallow dimple in his left cheek. “Should I come back later? After you’re done with whatever you’re doing over there?”
He glanced down at himself with a sheepish smile.
“I’ve been cleaning the kitchen. It was left in a pretty awful condition. I couldn’t cook in here the way it was before. I’m nearly done. Why don’t you grab a couple of glasses and pour us some wine?”
“It’s not even midday yet,” she pointed out, vaguely scandalized at the prospect of drinking alcohol so early in the day.
