Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,8
house for a woman who was talking about cupcakes and strawberries.
“High-level vision,” he pressed.
“I already told you. Strawberry lemonade. You know, little touches of pink. Unexpected . . . delights.”
“Oh God,” he grumbled.
“A man who doesn’t like pink,” she said drolly. “How very original.”
“Pink doesn’t belong in houses.”
“Maybe not your house. I’m the one who will live here.”
Scott took another drink of the coffee. It really was very good. Too bad he was going to have to say no to the job. Pink. For God’s sake.
She studied him with those spooky hazel eyes of hers, looking oddly disappointed in him. “Haven’t you ever looked at your life and realized you were just . . . tired of it? Or yourself?”
Scott hesitated, wanting to say no. He wanted to say that only the self-indulgent had the time and energy to sit around assessing one’s life direction and then talking to strangers about it. But the truth was . . . he did get it.
Wasn’t it the very reason he was standing in this eyesore of a kitchen in the first place? Because he needed a change? Because he had the sense the life he’d built so carefully to his own specifications was no longer doing it for him?
Scott scratched his cheek, a little surprised to realize that maybe he and this widowed housewife might understand each other more than he expected.
“I’ll do it.”
She looked skeptical. “Really? Even with the threat of pink? And you haven’t seen the whole place. It’s three bedrooms, three baths—”
“Sounds good. Starting tomorrow okay?”
“What? No! I haven’t even figured out—”
“We’ll figure it out later,” he said, draining the coffee and setting his mug in the sink. “That’s half the fun.”
“That doesn’t sound fun at all.”
He smiled a little at her honesty and headed back toward the front door. “We start at seven tomorrow, and every weekday thereafter. Weekends optional, depending on both our schedules. I’ll try to start on the lesser-used rooms first, try to upset your life as little as possible, though fair warning, it’ll be loud, and it’ll be messy. I work mostly alone, except when I need an extra pair of hands for the big stuff. You’ll be without a kitchen for a couple of weeks, because that thing is the worst, but I’m quicker than most, and I’m damn good.”
“Mr. Turner—”
“Scott,” he said. “We’re about to live in each other’s back pocket, so first names are a must. And last thing. No pink.”
Her eyes narrowed in warning. “Sorry, I must be confused. I thought this was my home.”
He nodded, rocked back on his boots. “Absolutely it is. Which is why I can assure you that you will regret making it look like Pepto exploded in here.”
She gave him a withering look. “A little credit, please. I’m not entirely without taste.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think when you say things like strawberry lemonade. I have no idea what the hell that means. And I don’t think you do, either.”
“No. I don’t,” she snapped. “But I’m going to figure it out with or without you. Isn’t that half the fun? And yes, it will mean some pink. Or,” she added when he grimaced, “I can find someone else.”
“Someone else will be a yes-man,” he argued.
“That sounds great,” she said enthusiastically.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. The project wouldn’t be easy. The client definitely wouldn’t. And yet . . .
He scanned the space once more. Truly, truly awful.
Scott looked back at her. “I’ll be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. We can talk money and timeline. How do you feel about dogs?”
“Dogs?”
Scott hesitated, knowing it was unprofessional, but then decided he didn’t care. “I travel a lot and don’t get to see my dog as much as I’d like. I was thinking—hoping—I could bring Bob with me.”
“Oh.” A faint line appeared between her eyebrows, and she appeared to be deliberating his question very carefully. “I guess that’d be okay.”
He felt a surge of relief that he’d have at least a few weeks to spend with his too-often-left-behind dog. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said primly, reaching around him to open the front door. “Until tomorrow.”
He stepped out onto the porch, turned back. “When you say pink, you at least mean a discreet mauve, right?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Turner.”
He turned away. “Strawberry lemonade my ass.”
The front door slammed behind him, and he grinned at the metallic ting of the follow-up sound. He’d been spot on, as usual. That brass knocker really was a good door slam