bare. He pulled a pair of black-rimmed glasses from his face when he saw her. “Hi.”
“Um...” Vessa looked away, acutely aware that she had nothing on under her top, that the room was cold and he was anything but. She held up the tailor’s measuring tape she kept in her bag. “Might be helpful to have the room dimensions.”
“With that? Hang on.” He stepped past her, so close she could smell him, male heat and laundry soap. He went into the garage and reappeared seconds later with a carpenter’s tape measure.
“What are you working on?” she asked, staring down at the schematics on the floor.
“Network cabling for Bergman’s monstrosity of a courthouse addition. The man still sketches pipe for gaslight. I’m behind on it.” He pulled the metal rule from its silver case and let it rewind with a snap. “It’s quiet here, and I can work without bothering anyone.”
He didn’t live alone, then. How cruel of Donna Edith, to dangle someone so sexy, yet unavailable, in front of her. Not that she needed a guy complicating her life, with the eventual questions she couldn’t answer. Even if he was long and lean and had a shadow of stubble on his jaw that she itched to touch.
She faked a smile. “Big family at home?”
“No. By anyone , I mean my roommate and whomever he’s hooking up with. And by room , I mean couch and a sleeping bag. I want to get my own place, but that would involve taking time off to go look for an apartment, and, yeah, that’s not going to happen anytime soon.” He flicked the tape measure again, then jerked his head toward the hall. “C’mon, I’ll help you measure. It’s supposed to be eleven by twelve, but let’s check.”
He was single. Thank you, Donna Edith.
Vessa held the end of the tape while he read the feet and inches. His arms were as lengthy as the rest of him, and surprisingly muscular. He was so close ,close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body. She jotted the numbers down on a sticky note, her handwriting even messier than usual. The silence grew thick in the little room.
“What do you do besides work?” she asked.
“Sleep, when I get caught up. Eat. Drink beer on Wednesday nights. I’ll play a couple games of pickup basketball at the gym a few nights a week. That’s about it. What about you?”
“Um.” She swallowed, and made a vague motion around the room with her hand. “This is about it.” He did not need to know she was a table jockey at a pizza joint. Successful designers shouldn’t have to bust their rump fetching Cokes and yet more dipping sauce.
“I guess it must be, as fast as you work,” he said. “Let me know if it gets to be too much.”
“It’s fine.” The silence stretched in the room, wound tight like the metal tape in his hand.
He cleared his throat. “What will you do in here?”
“Paint. The floor needs a rug.” She turned in a slow circle. “It could be a sitting room, maybe. A place for guests to sleep, but not like a spare bedroom. More of a place to curl up with a dirty romance novel and drink tea.”
“Not an art studio?” He was watching her, his head cocked to the side.
“No. That would be upstairs, where the light is so pretty, coming in at all angles. The bathroom is right there, where it’s easy to wash out brushes. Not that this room isn’t pretty,” she said, though it wasn’t, almost square with stark walls and the generic fixture and naked bulb.
“The window may have been a bad idea,” he said.
“Why?” She looked out, but the glass reflected the room. She was a blot of pink, her pajama top with the beckoning lucky cats, with him behind her, hands over his head, fingertips hanging on to the doorjamb.
“The edge of the plot runs thirty-six inches past the outside wall, which means if a house goes up, six feet away you have a nice view of brick—or worse, another window.”
“So no dancing around the house in your underwear,” she said, peering to see past the
“Um...” Vessa looked away, acutely aware that she had nothing on under her top, that the room was cold and he was anything but. She held up the tailor’s measuring tape she kept in her bag. “Might be helpful to have the room dimensions.”
“With that? Hang on.” He stepped past her, so close she could smell him, male heat and laundry soap. He went into the garage and reappeared seconds later with a carpenter’s tape measure.
“What are you working on?” she asked, staring down at the schematics on the floor.
“Network cabling for Bergman’s monstrosity of a courthouse addition. The man still sketches pipe for gaslight. I’m behind on it.” He pulled the metal rule from its silver case and let it rewind with a snap. “It’s quiet here, and I can work without bothering anyone.”
He didn’t live alone, then. How cruel of Donna Edith, to dangle someone so sexy, yet unavailable, in front of her. Not that she needed a guy complicating her life, with the eventual questions she couldn’t answer. Even if he was long and lean and had a shadow of stubble on his jaw that she itched to touch.
She faked a smile. “Big family at home?”
“No. By anyone , I mean my roommate and whomever he’s hooking up with. And by room , I mean couch and a sleeping bag. I want to get my own place, but that would involve taking time off to go look for an apartment, and, yeah, that’s not going to happen anytime soon.” He flicked the tape measure again, then jerked his head toward the hall. “C’mon, I’ll help you measure. It’s supposed to be eleven by twelve, but let’s check.”
He was single. Thank you, Donna Edith.
Vessa held the end of the tape while he read the feet and inches. His arms were as lengthy as the rest of him, and surprisingly muscular. He was so close ,close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body. She jotted the numbers down on a sticky note, her handwriting even messier than usual. The silence grew thick in the little room.
“What do you do besides work?” she asked.
“Sleep, when I get caught up. Eat. Drink beer on Wednesday nights. I’ll play a couple games of pickup basketball at the gym a few nights a week. That’s about it. What about you?”
“Um.” She swallowed, and made a vague motion around the room with her hand. “This is about it.” He did not need to know she was a table jockey at a pizza joint. Successful designers shouldn’t have to bust their rump fetching Cokes and yet more dipping sauce.
“I guess it must be, as fast as you work,” he said. “Let me know if it gets to be too much.”
“It’s fine.” The silence stretched in the room, wound tight like the metal tape in his hand.
He cleared his throat. “What will you do in here?”
“Paint. The floor needs a rug.” She turned in a slow circle. “It could be a sitting room, maybe. A place for guests to sleep, but not like a spare bedroom. More of a place to curl up with a dirty romance novel and drink tea.”
“Not an art studio?” He was watching her, his head cocked to the side.
“No. That would be upstairs, where the light is so pretty, coming in at all angles. The bathroom is right there, where it’s easy to wash out brushes. Not that this room isn’t pretty,” she said, though it wasn’t, almost square with stark walls and the generic fixture and naked bulb.
“The window may have been a bad idea,” he said.
“Why?” She looked out, but the glass reflected the room. She was a blot of pink, her pajama top with the beckoning lucky cats, with him behind her, hands over his head, fingertips hanging on to the doorjamb.
“The edge of the plot runs thirty-six inches past the outside wall, which means if a house goes up, six feet away you have a nice view of brick—or worse, another window.”
“So no dancing around the house in your underwear,” she said, peering to see past the