"A house, garden, porches." More comfortable out in the air, he settled down. "I pictured you as a town girl."
"I always have been. I'm not sure suburbia would suit me. Fences with neighbors just over them. Too much like apartment living, I'd think, without the privacy and convenience." She slid a loaded slice of pizza onto her plate. "But I'd like to give home owning a shot—somewhere in the country. Eventually. The problem is, I can't seem to stick to a budget."
"You?" He helped himself. "Miz Spinelli seems so practical."
"She tries. My grandparents were very frugal, had to be. I was raised to watch my pennies." She took a bite and drew in a deep, appreciative breath before speaking over a mouthful of cheese and sauce.
"Mostly I watch them roll away."
"What's your weakness?"
"Primarily?" She sighed. "Clothes."
He looked over his shoulder, through the door to her clothes, heaped in a tattered pile on the floor. "I think I owe you a blouse… and a skirt, not to mention the underwear."
She laughed lustily. "I suppose you do." She stretched out, comfortable in pale-blue leggings and an oversized white T-shirt. "This was such a hideous day. I'm glad you came by and changed it."
"Why don't you come home with me?"
"What?"
Where the hell had that come from? he wondered. The thought hadn't even been in his mind when the words popped out of his mouth. But it must have been, somewhere. "For the weekend," he added.
"Spend this weekend at the house."
She brought her pizza back to her lips, bit in carefully. "I don't think that would be wise. There's an impressionable young boy in your home."
"He knows what the hell's going on," he began, then caught the look—the Miz Spinelli look—in her eye.
"Okay, I'll sleep on the sofa downstairs. You can lock the bedroom door." Her lips quirked. "Where do you keep the key?"
"This weekend I'll be keeping it in my pocket. But my point is," he continued when she laughed, "you can have the bedroom. On a professional level it'll give you some time with the kid. He's coming along, Anna. And I want to take you sailing."
"I'll come over Saturday and we can go sailing."
"Come Friday night." He took her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips. "Stay till Sunday."
"I'll think about it," she murmured and drew her hand away. Romantic gestures were going to undo her.
"And I think if you're going to have a houseguest, you should check with your brothers. They might not care to have a woman underfoot for a weekend."
"They love women. Especially women who cook."
"Ah, so now I'm supposed to cook."
"Maybe just one little pot of linguini. Or a dish of lasagna."
She smiled and took another slice of pizza. "I'll think about it," she said again. "Now tell me about Seth."
"He made a couple of buddies today."
"Really? Terrific."
Her eyes lit with such pleasure and interest, he couldn't help himself. "Yeah, I had them all up on the roof, practiced catching them as they fell off."
Her mouth fell open, then shut again on a scowl. "Very funny, Quinn."
"Gotcha. A kid from Seth's class and his kid brother. I bought them for five bucks as slave labor. Then they wheedled an invite out to the house for dinner, so I stuck Ethan with them." She rolled her eyes. "You left Ethan alone with three young boys?"
"He can handle it. I did for a couple of hours this afternoon." And, he recalled, it hadn't been so bad. "All he has to do is feed them and make sure they don't kill each other. Their mother's picking them up at seven-thirty. Sandy McLean—well, Sandy Miller now. I went to school with her." He shook his head, amazed and baffled. "Two kids and a minivan. Never would've figured that for Sandy."
"People change," she murmured, surprised at how much she envied Sandy Miller and her minivan. "Or they weren't precisely what we imagined them to be in the first place."
"I guess. Her kids are pistols."
Because he said it with such easy good humor, she smiled again. "Well, now I see why you popped up at my office. You wanted to escape the madness."
"Yeah, but mostly I just wanted to rip your clothes off." He took another slice himself. "I did both." And, he thought, as he sipped his wine and watched the sun go down with Anna beside him, he felt damn good about it.
Chapter Sixteen
drawing wasn't ethan'sstrong point. With the other boats he'd built, he'd worked off very rough sketches and detailed measurements. For the first boat for this client, he'd fashioned a lofting platform and had found working from it was easier and more precise.
The skiff he'd built and sold had been a basic model, with a few tweaks of his own added. He'd been able to see the completed project in his mind easily enough and had no trouble envisioning side or interior views.
But he understood that the beginnings of a business required all the forms Phillip had told him to sign and needed something more formal, more professional. They would want to develop a reputation for skill and quality quickly if they expected to stay afloat.
So he'd spent countless hours in the evenings at his desk struggling over the blueprints and drawings of their first job.
When he unrolled his completed sketches on the kitchen table, he was both pleased and proud of his work. "This," he said, holding down the top corners, "is what I had in mind." Cam looked over Ethan's shoulder, sipped the beer he'd just opened, grunted. "I guess that's supposed to be a boat."
Insulted but not particularly surprised by the comment, Ethan scowled. "I'd like to see you do better, Rembrandt."
Cam shrugged, sat. Upon closer, more neutral study, he admitted he couldn't. But that didn't make the drawing of the sloop look any more like a boat. "I guess it doesn't matter much, as long as we don't show your art project to the client." He pushed the sketch aside and got down to the blueprints. Here, Ethan's thoughtful precision and patience showed through. "Okay, now we're talking. You want to go with smooth-lap construction."
"I always have been. I'm not sure suburbia would suit me. Fences with neighbors just over them. Too much like apartment living, I'd think, without the privacy and convenience." She slid a loaded slice of pizza onto her plate. "But I'd like to give home owning a shot—somewhere in the country. Eventually. The problem is, I can't seem to stick to a budget."
"You?" He helped himself. "Miz Spinelli seems so practical."
"She tries. My grandparents were very frugal, had to be. I was raised to watch my pennies." She took a bite and drew in a deep, appreciative breath before speaking over a mouthful of cheese and sauce.
"Mostly I watch them roll away."
"What's your weakness?"
"Primarily?" She sighed. "Clothes."
He looked over his shoulder, through the door to her clothes, heaped in a tattered pile on the floor. "I think I owe you a blouse… and a skirt, not to mention the underwear."
She laughed lustily. "I suppose you do." She stretched out, comfortable in pale-blue leggings and an oversized white T-shirt. "This was such a hideous day. I'm glad you came by and changed it."
"Why don't you come home with me?"
"What?"
Where the hell had that come from? he wondered. The thought hadn't even been in his mind when the words popped out of his mouth. But it must have been, somewhere. "For the weekend," he added.
"Spend this weekend at the house."
She brought her pizza back to her lips, bit in carefully. "I don't think that would be wise. There's an impressionable young boy in your home."
"He knows what the hell's going on," he began, then caught the look—the Miz Spinelli look—in her eye.
"Okay, I'll sleep on the sofa downstairs. You can lock the bedroom door." Her lips quirked. "Where do you keep the key?"
"This weekend I'll be keeping it in my pocket. But my point is," he continued when she laughed, "you can have the bedroom. On a professional level it'll give you some time with the kid. He's coming along, Anna. And I want to take you sailing."
"I'll come over Saturday and we can go sailing."
"Come Friday night." He took her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips. "Stay till Sunday."
"I'll think about it," she murmured and drew her hand away. Romantic gestures were going to undo her.
"And I think if you're going to have a houseguest, you should check with your brothers. They might not care to have a woman underfoot for a weekend."
"They love women. Especially women who cook."
"Ah, so now I'm supposed to cook."
"Maybe just one little pot of linguini. Or a dish of lasagna."
She smiled and took another slice of pizza. "I'll think about it," she said again. "Now tell me about Seth."
"He made a couple of buddies today."
"Really? Terrific."
Her eyes lit with such pleasure and interest, he couldn't help himself. "Yeah, I had them all up on the roof, practiced catching them as they fell off."
Her mouth fell open, then shut again on a scowl. "Very funny, Quinn."
"Gotcha. A kid from Seth's class and his kid brother. I bought them for five bucks as slave labor. Then they wheedled an invite out to the house for dinner, so I stuck Ethan with them." She rolled her eyes. "You left Ethan alone with three young boys?"
"He can handle it. I did for a couple of hours this afternoon." And, he recalled, it hadn't been so bad. "All he has to do is feed them and make sure they don't kill each other. Their mother's picking them up at seven-thirty. Sandy McLean—well, Sandy Miller now. I went to school with her." He shook his head, amazed and baffled. "Two kids and a minivan. Never would've figured that for Sandy."
"People change," she murmured, surprised at how much she envied Sandy Miller and her minivan. "Or they weren't precisely what we imagined them to be in the first place."
"I guess. Her kids are pistols."
Because he said it with such easy good humor, she smiled again. "Well, now I see why you popped up at my office. You wanted to escape the madness."
"Yeah, but mostly I just wanted to rip your clothes off." He took another slice himself. "I did both." And, he thought, as he sipped his wine and watched the sun go down with Anna beside him, he felt damn good about it.
Chapter Sixteen
drawing wasn't ethan'sstrong point. With the other boats he'd built, he'd worked off very rough sketches and detailed measurements. For the first boat for this client, he'd fashioned a lofting platform and had found working from it was easier and more precise.
The skiff he'd built and sold had been a basic model, with a few tweaks of his own added. He'd been able to see the completed project in his mind easily enough and had no trouble envisioning side or interior views.
But he understood that the beginnings of a business required all the forms Phillip had told him to sign and needed something more formal, more professional. They would want to develop a reputation for skill and quality quickly if they expected to stay afloat.
So he'd spent countless hours in the evenings at his desk struggling over the blueprints and drawings of their first job.
When he unrolled his completed sketches on the kitchen table, he was both pleased and proud of his work. "This," he said, holding down the top corners, "is what I had in mind." Cam looked over Ethan's shoulder, sipped the beer he'd just opened, grunted. "I guess that's supposed to be a boat."
Insulted but not particularly surprised by the comment, Ethan scowled. "I'd like to see you do better, Rembrandt."
Cam shrugged, sat. Upon closer, more neutral study, he admitted he couldn't. But that didn't make the drawing of the sloop look any more like a boat. "I guess it doesn't matter much, as long as we don't show your art project to the client." He pushed the sketch aside and got down to the blueprints. Here, Ethan's thoughtful precision and patience showed through. "Okay, now we're talking. You want to go with smooth-lap construction."
