The Sleeping Beauty Proposal by Sarah Strohmeyer Page B

least every other woman on the planet seems to think so.Todd told me that ever since he hired Nick to build some bookshelves and the kitchen cabinets and to install the trim, this house has taken on a magnetic quality, drawing to it love-smitten females of all shapes and ages, including the ninety-year-old next-door neighbor, Mrs. Ipilito, who trots over every afternoon with a pot of espresso and a basket of biscotti, just for an opportunity to stare into Nick’s Mediterranean blue eyes and sigh over his Apollonian shoulders.
    Nor does Nick do anything to dissuade them, apparently. According to Todd, he chats up all his female admirers, never failing to notice if the single mother down the street has had her nails done or changed the color of her hair. I’ve even witnessed this firsthand.
    Two weeks ago, when I stopped by to take Todd out to dinner, I caught Nick flashing me his mesmerizing smile even though I had done absolutely nothing to encourage him.
    "What?” I finally had to ask.
    â€œNothing.” He kept stupidly grinning, almost laughing to himself before yanking a hammer out of the canvas tool belt that hung low on his hips. His very trim hips. Which was when, for no reason I’ve been able to fathom, my whole body kind of burst into flame. No, really. My face flushed and a wave of heat ran right up my neck. I’d say it was a hot flash except that I’m too young. (At least, I hope I’m too young.) And the worst part of it is, I think Nick knew I burst into flame, too.
    After this thoroughly mortifying experience, I resolved that should he ever try to cast his spell on me again I would simply walk away. Today, however, I’m in a rare mood.With Hugh having just dumped me, I’m itching to take on any egotistical man who assumes he’s God’s gift to women. Just let him try his seductive powers. Let him try. The way I see it, men like Hugh, and, quite possibly, Nick, need to be stopped in their tracks so they don’t bulldoze through life, razing the hearts of vulnerable women—like I used to be.
    â€œYou guys know Nick?” Todd asks us. “Nick is the best carpenter this side of the Charles River.”
    â€œThat’s not saying much, man.” Nick laughs and climbs the ladder to nail in the molding. Despite my simmering irritation, I’m disappointed he didn’t attempt to charm me with his special grin. Not that I wanted him to charm me with his grin, just that I was ready for it.
    â€œYou’re making people work on Sunday?” Patty asks Todd, though her gaze is assuredly fixed on Nick’s tight jeans. Patty’s the type who wouldn’t mind being under Nick’s spell. She claims this is a perk of being a woman, that we get to sleep—or dream about sleeping—with men like Nick.
    â€œWe have to work on Sunday. Gotta get this house on the market,” Todd tells her. “When I say Cecily’s motivated, I mean motivated. Come on. We’ll start with the kitchen, since it’s the worst part of the house and you’ve already been in it.”
    We move from the dining room with its bay windows and built-in glassed bookshelf (spectacular!) to the kitchen, which is definitely too small and, aside from a sink, a dented Sub-Zero refrigerator, cabinets with no doors, and a standard gas stove, is largely unfinished.
    Todd pounds the rough-in for the counter.“This is why you’re getting a price break. I’m telling you, if this kitchen were done, the ticket would go up another hundred grand.”
    Fine by me, since if I had my druthers, I’d knock out the butler’s pantry and design the kitchen from scratch. The cabinets would have to be white with maybe Italian tile on the backsplash. I’d put in rock maple counters for easy cutting, perhaps some granite or soapstone. A slab of marble for rolling out pastry dough. Though, what am I saying? To do all that would be hugely expensive.
    Todd