“Oh, I’m not at that stage yet,” Sam said absently. “I still recognize myself in the mirror when I shave.”
Why bother to waste compassion on the man? “Well, good luck finding something to do.”
“Gran’s keeping me busy. Everybody she knows has something that needs fixed.”
That wasn’t what Delainey had meant, but she decided not to press the point. It would be no wonder if Emma Ashford was trying her best to keep her grandson occupied. Having a grown man lying about the house all day would get old in a hurry.
Sam crossed the kitchen to the pantry closet and moved aside half a dozen cans of condensed soup so he could reach the electrical panel at the back. “Good thing you haven’t stocked up the shelves,” he said. “Why they always put these things in the darkest and most inaccessible spot is beyond me.”
There was a click from the direction of the closet, and abruptly the light over the sink glared straight into Delainey’s eyes. Feeling a bit obstinate, she plugged the toaster into the outlet he’d repaired and pushed the lever down.
“What’s the matter? You didn’t think I could do it?” He leaned both elbows on the breakfast bar.
Inside the toaster, the coils glowed red. She unplugged it. “I was just making sure. So that’s what you meant earlier about not being the official handyman around here. Emma has you lined up as the unofficial one.”
“It keeps me out of trouble.”
Delainey had her doubts that any kind of job could accomplish that goal. “Well, thank you. Let me know what I owe you for the work.”
Sam picked up the last of the tools. “Oh, I couldn’t charge a fee.”
“Why on earth not?” She was so intrigued she forgot she was still holding the toaster. “Seriously, Sam, this could be a nice little business. There must be a huge demand for someone who’ll do the little jobs that regular contractors don’t want to bother with—things like broken outlets and drippy faucets and loose door handles.”
“If that’s a polite way to ask me to fix your drippy faucet and your loose door handle—”
“I haven’t got any—at least none I’ve found yet. I was speaking generally. You wouldn’t need much to get started. Just business cards, a nicely printed fee schedule, some advertising, a phone number and a reliable answering service.” She eyed the fitted case with its neat but limited assortment of screwdrivers and pliers. It was definitely an amateur’s kit, the kind of thing she’d have to buy for herself sometime soon. “You’ll need some better tools, of course, and maybe a truck or a van.”
“And the necessary licenses and permits. I wasn’t kidding about the electricians’ union.” He closed the toolbox with a click that sounded almost final.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But getting the money to start shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll help you put together a business plan and a loan application.” She delved into her briefcase, scooping out the few magazines which hadn’t already escaped when she set it down, and pulled out a gold case engraved with her initials. “Here’s my card. We do this kind of thing all the time.”
He took the bit of glossy paper and looked at it thoughtfully. “Delainey Hodges, Business Loan Officer, National City Bank.”
“Think it over and call me.”
He tapped a finger against the card. “Do you always make loans so impulsively?”
She was annoyed. “Look, Sam, I didn’t promise to back this enterprise.”
“It certainly sounded to me like that’s what you were doing. Do you get paid based on how many loans you can talk people into taking?”
“I just think it would be a great idea. And I didn’t guarantee you a loan, I said I’d help you apply for financing. If the package looked good, then the bank would probably be happy to give you a loan.”
“I don’t doubt it. The criteria seems to be if the client can prove he doesn’t need the money, the bank will lend it.” He put her business card in his pocket.
“That’s not the way it works. What happened to put you off banks, anyway?” she asked shrewdly. “Did somebody repossess your car after you lost your job, or what?”
He didn’t answer, but flicked a fingertip across Curtis Whittington’s face on the cover of a financial magazine. “Unless it’s somebody like this, of course. Then the bigger the loan amount and the riskier the ride, the happier the bank is to help out.” The magazine slid a little, showing that Whittington’s face was on the one underneath as well. Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Are you a fan?”
“Of the merger king? Not exactly. But I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Lucky you. Do you want me to take the flowers?”
“No, I’ll bring them over later. When did you say Emma will be home?”
“About six. My feelings are hurt, you know. What did Gran do to deserve flowers?”
“Hey, I offered to pay you. Twice.”
“I remember. I’ll let you know when I figure out what kind of reimbursement I can accept without losing my amateur standing. Of course, there’s always—”
Delainey tried to swallow a gasp. He’s only jerking your chain, she told herself.
“Though maybe it’s not worth the risk,” he said earnestly. “If you could cook, your pantry wouldn’t be so empty.”
She was too startled to stay silent. “You were going to ask me to cook something for you? Not—” She noticed that his deep blue eyes were starting to sparkle like moonlight on a lake, and swallowed hard.
“I’m always willing to listen to an offer,” Sam said gently. “What sort of currency did you have in mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. Well, I’ll keep thinking. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
“Don’t twist your brain into knots over it.”
Sam smiled. “I’ll tell Gran you’re going to stop by. She’ll be pleased—she was making noises earlier today about giving you a housewarming party.”
“That’s lovely of her, but—”
“Yes, isn’t it thoughtful? I already know what I’m going to get you.”
Delainey couldn’t stop herself. “What?” she asked warily.
“An accessory for the next time you use your fireplace.”
“If you’re thinking of buying me a poker, I should warn you—”
“Nothing so dull. I’m going to get you a smoking jacket, so you won’t have to keep ruining your pajamas. See you later, sweetheart.”
Sam had left the garage door open when he’d gone over to Delainey’s to rescue Emma, so it was easy to put the tool kit back on the shelf on his way through.
Delainey had been right on target about one thing, he thought as he lined the plastic box up precisely with the dust-free outline it had left on the metal shelf. But it was one he hadn’t expected she would pick up on at all.
You’ll need some better tools, of course, she’d said almost casually. And she was right—he’d practically twisted the head off one of the cheap screwdrivers just putting that outlet back together. But he hadn’t expected that she’d know the difference.
The woman might not be able to light a fire, but at least there were a few practical bits of knowledge floating around under all