for many reasons, but . . . that’s surprisingly wise. Okay then, expert. How’d you find your one-night stands? Dating app?”
“Nope. The old-fashioned way.”
“Mail order?”
He laughed, enjoying her off-beat sense of humor. “Bars. Good, old-fashioned, belly up to the bar, have a drink, buy a drink for the girl, have a few more, take her home . . .”
“That actually works?” she asked skeptically.
“Does for me.”
“All right then,” she said, turning to face him full on. “Be my wingman.”
“No.”
“Just one time,” she said, stepping toward him, hazel eyes pleading. “I just need to see how this all works in action.”
“So you want me to help you have sex?”
He said it to irritate her and was surprised when she nodded. “Yes.”
“You do realize that goes against every male instinct, right? Setting a beautiful woman up with another man?”
“Flattery looks terrible on you,” she murmured as she pulled down two bowls. “And you don’t have to set me up. Just show me this bar scene you’re talking about, keep me away from the married men.”
He studied her, looking for traces of vulnerability, but saw only a woman who knew what she wanted.
He also knew what he wanted. He hadn’t a moment ago, but that’s the way it went with him. He acted on instinct, figured the messy stuff out later.
“I’ll do it on one condition,” Scott said.
“Name it,” she said.
“Let me design your kitchen my way. No peeking until it’s done. And no pink.”
He didn’t know why this was important, but instinct told him it was vital, even if he didn’t know why yet.
Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. “And you’ll take me out, show me how to get a guy I won’t ever have to see again after one night. Someone who, if I forget to shave my legs, I never have to come face-to-face with?”
He extended a hand. “Tomorrow night. Leg shaving optional. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock.”
“Nine?”
“This isn’t dinner and a show, Claire. It’s a different scene entirely. So, what do you say? Trust me with your kitchen?”
She sighed and put her hand in his. “All right, wingman. Let’s do this.”
Chapter Eight
SATURDAY, AUGUST 10
Claire was just finishing putting on her mascara the next evening when she jumped in surprise at the sound of Scott’s voice calling up the stairs.
“Claire? I let myself in. Down here whenever you’re ready.”
She shook her head in bemusement as she wiped the accidental swipe of mascara off her brow bone. It was hard to remember that a week ago she hadn’t even known Scott Turner. Now he had a key to her house, creative control over her kitchen renovation, and she was about to spend Saturday night with the guy.
It should feel like the twilight zone, and instead it felt . . . She gazed distractedly down at the mascara wand for a moment in puzzlement. Instead, it felt exactly right.
Why was that?
The man was basically a stranger, and yet he didn’t feel like a stranger. Perhaps because Scott Turner had zero artifice about him. He was blunt, a little callous, and could be downright rude. It was refreshing as heck. After being married to a two-timing, no three-timing—probably more—snake, Scott’s candor was refreshing and . . . safe, somehow.
Scott was exactly as he seemed to be. No false advertising. No ghosts. No hidden facets. She liked that. She was even starting to like him, when he wasn’t ticking her off.
Done with her makeup, she slipped on her favorite black stilettos, the ones that managed to be comfortable and make her legs look amazing, if she did say so herself, and walked down the stairs. Following the sound of her TV, she walked into the kitchen and found Scott watching a baseball game.
“Well?” she said, just a tiny bit smugly when he didn’t turn. She was oddly eager to see his face when he realized she knew her way around a contour kit and had a rather impressive push-up bra in her arsenal.
He glanced over, then did a double take. And not the good kind. “What is that?”
Claire felt her face fall. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to a funeral?”
She immediately retracted all her thoughts about his candor being refreshing and gave him a withering look. “Is that really the thing you want to say to a widow?”
Though now that she thought about it, was this the dress she’d worn to Brayden’s funeral? Still, she stood by her choice. “It’s a little black dress,” she argued. “It’s classic and works