briefly, then did a double take. The flannel he’d arrived in yesterday morning was nowhere to be seen, and instead the man wore only a white T-shirt with his jeans. A very fitted white T-shirt.
He was more muscular than she’d expected. Yesterday she’d thought him lean, and he was. But seeing the way his arms filled out the sleeves of his shirt, it was obvious he was also strong. Not in a gym rat way, but in a masculine, I put this body to good use sort of way.
The lumberjack comparison was increasingly apt. As was the alpha part.
“What?” he asked gruffly, going to her cupboard and helping himself to a glass of water.
Claire realized her gaze had been lingering a little too long. She blamed it on the champagne and looked back down at her paint swatches, pretending indifference. “Nothing.”
He finished his water in three gulps, then set the glass down on the counter next to the stack of mail on her counter. Unabashed, he used a single finger to move the top item of mail aside, then another.
“You had a birthday.”
“Obviously.”
He leaned back against the counter and studied her. “How old are you?”
“No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend,” she mused without looking up.
His eyebrows lifted. “Who says I don’t?”
“Um, everything about you?” If he wasn’t going to be polite, why should she bother?
“It’s not like I asked your weight,” he said, clearly trying to provoke her.
“You know,” she said, still not glancing up, “for a man who seems determined to give off unsociable, taciturn vibes, you sure are chatty.”
“Just trying to figure you out, since we’re stuck with each other for the foreseeable future.”
Good luck with that. I haven’t even figured myself out.
Claire shifted in her chair to face him. “Don’t worry, I have good news. I’ve already got a read on you. Let me guess. You have no sisters, your mother subscribed to the boys-will-be-boys model, and you have no serious relationship to show for it?”
“Right, wrong, wrong,” he replied without hesitation.
He turned and unzipped the small cooler he’d brought with him, giving Claire’s brain a chance to catch up as he pulled a sandwich out of a Ziploc and took a bite.
“No sisters, awesome mom, and . . . serious girlfriend?” She amended her guess, wondering if Naomi had been wrong about his commitment-phobe status.
“No sisters, no mom, and one fiancée.”
Claire blinked rapidly. Naomi had gotten it really wrong.
“When’s the wedding?” she asked.
“What?” He balled up the Ziploc and shoved it back into the cooler as he polished off the last bite. “Oh. No. Former fiancée.”
“Ah.”
He gave her a knowing look. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“Say what?”
He turned back toward her, crossing his arms. “That you’re not surprised.”
Claire frowned, not loving that he was more perceptive than he seemed.
“I’m sorry your relationship didn’t work out.” Her voice sounded stiff, even to her own ears.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not . . . sorry that your relationship ended?”
“Nope.” There was a curtness to his tone, and Claire found herself intrigued in spite of herself. However, she’d only known the guy a little over twenty-four hours. She couldn’t very well go prying into the most painful parts of his past.
Not that he was likely to tell her what she wanted to know. Despite his assertion that he wanted to “figure her out,” he seemed the type of man to use as few words as possible, and she doubted he’d waste them on her.
Still, she was curious enough that she made a mental note to ask Naomi later. If Oliver and Scott went way back, Naomi was likely to at least know something about the mysterious fiancée.
“What’re those?” Scott asked, nodding at her paint swatches, the topic of their personal lives apparently finished alongside his sandwich.
Claire gave him a sweet smile. “My color choices.”
He grunted. “You’re still on that banana cream pie thing?”
“It’s strawberry lemonade cupcake, and if anything, my vision’s becoming clearer.” For now.
“My vision’s becoming clearer, too.” He jerked his head to the right. “That needs to go.”
She glanced in the general direction, having no idea what he was talking about. “Are your other clients mind readers? Because I lack that skill.”
“The wall,” he snapped. “We need to tear it down.”
“Don’t we sort of need it?”
He walked toward it, knocked on the portion closest to the arched entryway to the kitchen. “Beam’s right here, and that’s the only load-bearing part. The rest is just a throwback to when galley kitchens were in style. We can turn the support beam into