A Marriage-Minded Man / From Friend to Father: A Marriage-Minded Man / From Friend to Father. Karen Templeton

with her. Drove me nuts. Me, I point to something, say, ‘Yeah, that one,’ and that’s it. Half makes me wonder if you’re really a woman.”

      Tess gave him a look. Eli grinned harder.

      “So,” she said, moving smartly along, “you got close enough to a ‘girlfriend or two’ to do the decorating thing?”

      “Not by choice, believe me.” He paused. “And that pretty much signaled the end of those relationships, too.”

      “Death by paint chips?”

      “You wanna send a man to hell, show him fifteen different shades of white and ask him which one he likes better.”

      Tess laughed, and Eli smiled, thinking, Don’t stop. The dude clunked the first two gallons up on the counter, went to work on the next batch. “I’m not a ditherer. Especially when it’s not for me,” she said, skimming a finger along one can’s rim. A beat or two passed before she looked back at him. “And I’ve learned the sorts of colors more likely lead to an offer. Warm neutrals,” she said, holding up a swatch that reminded him of coffee with too much cream.

      A few feet away, a couple started bickering with each other in Spanish. Figuring it wasn’t exactly a private affair, Eli didn’t even pretend not to listen in. Except they were talking too fast for him to pick out more than a word here and there. He nudged Tess with his elbow. “What’re they saying?” he whispered.

      “What?” she said, then glanced over her shoulder. Shaking her head, she turned back to her paint swatches. “Something about his mother, but that’s about all I can make out. My Spanish is from hunger, remember?”

      “Why is that?”

      She shrugged. “Mom never let me speak it. She considered it low class. What do you think of this for the dining room?” she said, holding up another swatch.

      “It’s…yellow? And what do you mean your mother considered it low class?”

      “Just what I said. Not a whole lot of Latino love goin’ on in my house growing up. And can we please change the subject?”

      He got the message. “You got a painter lined up?”

      “Yeah. Me.”

      “You?”

      Again with the eyes. “I painted my whole house myself. I imagine I’ll be okay with a few accent walls and a bathroom. And it’ll help stay within the budget.” Grunting softly, she hefted first one can, then the other into the cart. “I’ve become very handy over the years, I’ll have you know.”

      “You one of those gals who changes her own tires?”

      “One of my least favorite jobs in the world, but yep. And my oil, sparkplugs and filters, too.”

      “Impressive.”

      “Not at all. Just easier than depending on someone else,” she said as the next can of paint appeared in front of them. Eli grabbed it before she did, if for no other reason than to avoid the strange look the paint-mixer dude was giving him. Maybe because Tess weighed less than the paint.

      Forty-five minutes later—after choosing the cabinet hardware, backsplash tile and bathroom vanity and fixtures with equal efficiency—they were back in her SUV and Eli realized he was starving.

      “Hey. Wanna burger or something? My treat.”

      “I can buy my own lunch—”

      “I’m sure you can, but you’re not gonna today. So deal. So what’ll it be? Mickey D’s, Wendy’s or Burger King?”

      “I think my arteries just screamed.”

      “You don’t eat meat?”

      “Meat that doesn’t look like it’s been run over by a steamroller, sure. If something’s gonna eventually kill me, I’d at least like to enjoy the process.” Her mouth worked for a second before she abruptly turned off the highway onto a little street winding away from the touristy area. “You want a burger, I’ll show you a burger.”

      Twenty minutes later, Eli grinned down at a burger so fat and juicy and sassy he half expected it to moo. Then he looked over at Tess, her eyes closed as she savored her own first bite, and something squeezed tight in his chest.

      “I take it,” he said, “you haven’t had one of these in a while, either.”

      Tess shot him a look, but was apparently too caught up in red meat worship to make a comeback. Swallowing, she shook her head. “Taking two little kids someplace like this is a waste. One bite and they’re done. Or have to go potty. Sure, the girls and I have our Ortega’s Wednesdays—sometimes—but it’s not the same as—”

      Lowering her burger to her plate, she turned toward the window. But not before Eli saw tears swell in her eyes.

      “Hey,” he said, dipping his head. “You okay?”

      “I’m fine,” she said on an embarrassed half laugh, then pressed the edge of her napkin to one eye. “Have no idea where that came from. Don’t take it personally.”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

      “No, I mean…” She blew out a breath, then took a sip of her iced tea. “I’d just forgotten how nice it can be to have a civilized meal. Even if it’s just a burger and fries. Just two adults sitting in a booth…” She shook her head, laughing a little.

      Covering.

      “Hey,” Eli said, and she looked up again, chewing. “Admitting you enjoy the company of somebody over four feet tall isn’t a sign of weakness. Even if the company is me. Although I’m flattered as hell you consider me an adult.”

      He’d expected—wanted—a laugh. Instead, she lowered her gaze again, dunking a French fry in a pool of ketchup for several seconds before answering. “Okay, confession time…watching you work, the way you interact with your crew…” She almost smiled. “Whatever personal baggage we have between us, I can’t deny the person I’ve seen over the past couple of weeks…”

      Eli went completely still, watching her. Waiting. Finally she lifted her eyes, looking seriously put out with herself. “I was wrong about you, okay? And seeing somebody for who he is—not who you thought he was—has nothing to do with flattery.”

      Wow. Talk about your whoa and damn moments. Eli leaned back, one arm stretched across the booth seat’s top. “Despite all the gossip?”