All I Want Is You by Toni Blake Page B

one thing about her that still silently said: Keep away! “So . . . you still on the quest to find a rich dude?”
    Although—­shit—­it was a pretty inappropriate, not to mention harsh, response to what she’d last said, and he regretted the question as soon as it spilled out of his mouth.
    When she turned back toward him, her eyes had taken on the look of a kicked puppy. Or hell, maybe it was shame he saw there. His chest tightened. But don’t beat yourself up. She’s the one who admitted what she was doing.
    â€œUm . . . yes,” she said softly, the sound a gentle hiss. “I mean, I guess. Because I don’t know what else to do right now. The thing is, my grandpa is going to get kicked out of his rest home in six months if he can’t come up with the money to stay there. And he has health issues and they take good care of him there. It’s important.”
    Aw hell. “Um, what happened to you not explaining this to me because it’s none of my business?”
    â€œI felt criticized by your question,” she answered bluntly.
    And he sighed. Fair enough. It had been a lousy thing to ask. And he wasn’t even sure why he had. Knee-­jerk reaction maybe. Old wounds. But he shook it off.
    None of this matters. You can be friendly with her, be her helpful neighbor, without getting anymore involved here.
    It was a damn shame, though, in ways. Because as he stood there scrambling for a reply, he found himself even more aware than usual of her simple beauty—­straight silky blond hair fell to the middle of her back, those hazel eyes lit up her face, and he finally understood what the term heart-­shaped lips meant. But shit. Stop thinking about her like that. “Sorry,” he finally managed. “I, uh, hope you figure out a way to help your grandpa.” And then he looked away, to the painting on the mantel, just to make sure she couldn’t see the attraction that might be lurking in his eyes. “As for how you do it, like I said the other night, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
    â€œI’m not a bad person,” she insisted quietly. And that tugged at his heart, made him feel as if he’d been mean. But he shoved the spark of emotion away.
    â€œI’m sure you’re not. But for what it’s worth,” he added, still focusing on the painting, “I think you could do something with that jewelry of yours. I think you could sell it if you tried.”
    â€œMaybe eventually,” she said, her tone rife with doubt. “But not enough of it, not fast enough. And I could never make the kind of money I need to help my grandpa.”
    He only shrugged, drank his tea. It was actually the first sip he’d taken and it was cool and sweet in his throat, a pleasant distraction from the awkward conversation.
    â€œMind if I ask,” she said when he didn’t respond, “what you do for a living that makes my dating choices an issue for you?”
    He couldn’t help being happy about the change in topic—­though in another way, not so much. “It’s not an issue for me at all,” he assured her, then answered, “and you’re looking at it.” He opened his arms slightly to draw attention to his thin flannel shirt and the tool belt fastened around his hips. “Just your general handyman and fix-­it guy.”
    But he still didn’t let his gaze connect with hers. Since it was probably the biggest lie he’d ever told.

 
    â€œWhere do you come from?” said the
    Red Queen. “And where are you going?”
    Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
    Chapter 4
    â€œW ELL, THEN guess that makes it extra nice of you to help me out for free,” she said.
    â€œAnd I flip houses on the side,” he heard himself add. Maybe because that part was a lot truer and saying it made him feel better.
    â€œYeah?”