Okay, and so maybe her venerable, shrunken sweater also didn’t quite meet the waistband of her jeans. Hadn’t the man ever seen a belly button before, either?
Still…did she look that bad, that terrible? She had pulled her thick, long, unruly mop of redder than red hair up on top of her head, securing it there with a rubber band, so that curls tumbled all over the place—back, front, sides. She always thought she looked like a really, really big chrysanthemum when she wore her hair this way, but it was comfortable, and it kept the mop out of her eyes and…“What?” she exclaimed at last, exasperated, and nearly spilling the coffee. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Ryan answered her, taking one of the cups from her and sipping its contents, his gaze now carefully lowered. “What’s this?” he said before taking another sip. “It’s coffee, yes, but there’s something else….”
“They’re French vanilla coffee beans, with a dash of apple cinnamon strudel flavor tossed in,” she told him, sitting down across the table from him. “Like it?”
“First thing in the morning? No. But, since I’ve already had two cups at home, yes, it tastes pretty good. Some special blend?”
“I pick it up at the mall, actually. There’s a gourmet coffee kiosk on the upper level. Every time we’re at the mall, I pick up another flavor. I’ve got a Jamaican blend that would put hair on your fingernails, I swear, but I didn’t think you’d like it. So,” she said, putting down her cup and bracing her elbows on the table, “what do you want to do first?”
His smile did something very strange, setting off a small explosion somewhere in the pit of her stomach. “Do first? Frankly, I’d like to offer you your money back and the services of a first-class handyman. But somehow I don’t think you’d go for that. Or would you?”
She pretended to consider this for a moment, then shook her head, her mop of curls speaking quite eloquently as they bobbed back and forth. “Nope. No deal. We have a bargain, right?”
She’d stick to that answer: a bargain. She wouldn’t mention anything else, couldn’t mention anything else. Not when she didn’t really understand it herself. She only knew she was doing a nice old lady a favor, and she would never renege on her promise.
Especially when her To-Do list was nearly as long as one of Ryan Chandler’s long arms.
Janna picked up the paper, scanned it. “I think you should start with the garage. Zach thinks it’s his private dumping grounds, but I need more storage space for my own stuff. I bought some shelving—you can put shelving together, can’t you?—and after you take everything out of the garage and hose down the floor, we can get everything arranged. Oh, and I’ll help put the shelves together, I promise.”
He looked at her as if she had just told him to climb to the top of Mount Everest and bring her back a tutti-frutti flavored icicle. “You’re kidding, right?”
She looked back at him blankly. “Kidding? Nope. Why would I be kidding?”
He reached up, scratched at a spot behind his left ear. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I thought you’d want to go for a drive, have lunch at some country inn, maybe take in dinner later? Dancing? You know, the sort of thing every other bachelor is probably doing this weekend with the women who bid on them. But clean a garage? Put up shelves?”
“Put together shelves, then put them up. There’s a difference. These are just inexpensive metal thingies, freestanding shelves we sort of smash back against the walls to load my junk onto.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I mean, I wouldn’t ask you to put together real shelves. We have too much else to do to fool with something like that.”
Now he rubbed a hand across his jaw. He really was quite expressive with his hand movements, although he probably didn’t know that. “Got any aspirin, Ms. Monroe?” he asked after a moment.
She got up quickly to get the aspirin bottle down from the cabinet, keeping her eyes on him. Look how he frowned. He was so cute when he frowned. Tall, dark, green-eyed…and really, really cute. Almost cuddly, although she doubted anyone had ever told him that! She nearly dropped the aspirin bottle, realizing that her mind had taken a quantum leap from dirty garages to…well, she’d think about all of that later, wouldn’t she? “You have a headache?” she asked.
“No, but I’m pretty sure I will any minute now,” Ryan said, accepting the two tablets she handed him, swallowing them down with a sip of coffee, and then heading for the back door.
Janna felt the sudden, irresistible need to make a stupid fool of herself, something she could usually do with quite a flourish, especially considering she hadn’t felt foolish about a man—especially a man like Ryan Chandler—in a very, very long time.
“The garage door has one of those electronic openers,” she told him, hands on hips as she felt her tongue begin to run on wheels. “The code is 0000, as it’s easy to remember—and because zero is the lowest number on the keypad and Zachary could reach it by the time he was five and we put it up—and then you press the Enter button and the door goes right up. Sorry if I’m rattling on. I was just giving you a bit of Monroe folklore, or whatever. You don’t mind, do you? No, of course you don’t.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, shaking his head as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Janna put her hands on her hips and stared at the closed door for some moments. The colorful room suddenly seemed drab, now that he’d left it. “The man’s obviously in a daze,” she told herself with false concern and a pot full of ulterior motive. “He’ll forget the code on his own,” she said out loud finally, and went after him.
Three hours, four bandages, and several muttered curse words later, the garage was clean. Hell, it sparkled, if a garage could be said to sparkle.
And, much to Ryan’s surprise, he was beginning to enjoy himself.
Janna had been as good as her word, and had helped screw together the inexpensive, freestanding metal shelves, using an electric screwdriver that had enough attachments to be standard issue on a manned Mars landing-and-recovery module.
As she had put the last bandage on his scraped elbow, a maneuver he couldn’t quite manage himself, she’d kissed the cartoon-covered strip to “make it all better.”
He hadn’t even felt insulted, being lumped into Zachary’s age group, where kissing to make things better must be standard operating procedure.
Besides, it worked.
“Where to now, boss?” he asked, still feeling pretty good about himself. He was, after all, in very good shape. He worked out three times a week in his own home exercise room—without resorting to Allie’s motivational exercise tapes. He golfed. He played the occasional game of tennis—although never against Allie, who cheated blatantly. “Out” to his grandmother only counted if she called it.
“Where to now? Upstairs, to the main bathroom,” Janna answered, already leading the way.
The trip to the second floor meant that Ryan was going to get a look at her house, which intrigued him mightily. Outside, it was a typical redbrick Cape Cod, although the bright-yellow shutters and woodwork were, to say the least, out of the ordinary. However, once inside her kitchen, he’d known that here lived a woman who was either color blind or in love with color. Bright colors. Sunshiny colors. Happy colors. She’d even painted the interior of her garage a sunny yellow—with blue stripes, no less.
They passed through the kitchen and directly into the dining room. Ryan stopped in his tracks, instantly mesmerized by the hand-painted mural on the wall shared with the kitchen. It was a scene from a park, a Paris park, in fact. He recognized snippets from his art history classes. The tree in the foreground. The lady in the hat, exposing her profile and the bustle of her long skirt.
“Isn’t that Monet?” he asked, pointing to the mural.