Jackie Braun - Expecting a Miracle

“I’m more of a give-the-orders, sign-the-check sort these days.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “The boss.”

That was true enough, but he’d never been the type to go around proclaiming himself as such. He knew too many people who’d gotten wrapped up in their own importance. If a year in self-prescribed exile had taught him nothing else, Gavin had conclusive proof that the world didn’t stop turning just because he’d opted out as a cog.

He decided to change the subject. “So, what can I help you with?”

“Oh. Sorry,” she said. He grimaced. There was that word again. “I…I was wondering if it would be all right if I made some changes to the cottage.”

“Changes?”

She cleared her throat. “Nothing major. I’d like to paint the walls in the bedroom.”

The entire place was done in a serviceable white that was little more than a primer coat.

“Got a color in mind?” he asked.

“I’m leaning toward sage green or something along those lines,” she said.

He nodded and scratched his chin, thinking of his already lengthy to-do list. “It might be a little while yet before I can get to that. The new cabinets for the kitchen are due to arrive next week. I talked a friend of mine into coming out from the city to help me install them.” He grinned. “He said he’d work for a prime rib dinner and beer. Obviously, that’s not union scale.”

“I’m an even better deal. I’ll do the work for free.”

“You want to paint it yourself?” His tone held enough incredulity that she looked insulted.

“Do I look helpless?” Her brows arched and she crossed her arms.

So, the woman had a spine after all. Gavin nearly smiled. “Ever done any painting?”

“Some.”

“Really?”

Her answer surprised him until she added, “Okay, no. Unless my toenails count.”

Gavin’s gaze dipped to her feet. The flat sandals she wore offered an unrestricted view of ten cotton-candy-pink-tipped digits. His ankle fetish now had stiff competition.

“You do good work.”

Her shoulders lifted slightly. “It’s all in the wrist.”

“That so?”

“I could teach you,” she offered. “I’m sure it’s a skill that would come in handy on your next job site.”

The beginnings of a grin lurked around the corners of her mouth. He liked seeing it. He liked knowing he’d helped put it there.

“I think I’ll pass. Maybe I could just watch you paint your own instead.” The prospect was a bigger turn-on than Gavin wanted it to be.

Hell, she was a turn-on, standing in front of him in pastel linen and looking sexier than most women could manage in skimpy black lace.

They studied each other. For Gavin, awareness sizzled like the business end of a firecracker. The way Lauren fidgeted with her wedding ring had him half hoping, half worrying, that she felt it, too.

“I’ve been watching the home improvement channel,” she told him after a moment. “I think I’ve picked up some decent pointers.”

It took a second for Gavin to remember what they had been talking about. Paint. Painting. The cottage. “Oh. Good. Some of it’s common sense. A lot of it is elbow grease. Technique only counts if you’re being paid by the hour.”

She smiled. “So, you’ll let me do it?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing against free labor. And if you mess it up—” he shrugged. “—it’s just paint. Another coat or two and the place will look as good as new.”

“I won’t mess it up,” she assured him.

“A bit of a perfectionist, are we?”

He didn’t get the feeling she was teasing when she replied, “If you’re going to do something, why not do it well?”

“Too bad everyone doesn’t share your philosophy. So, are you free around three o’ clock?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said slowly.

“Good. We’ll drive into town and swing by the hardware store. I need a few things, anyway, and while we’re there you can pick out a paint color.”

Lauren waited for Gavin under one of the big oaks, making use of the shade. She was just far enough along in her pregnancy that she could no longer button the waistband of most of her fitted clothes, but she hadn’t suffered from nausea in more than a week.

She was sleeping a lot, but she wasn’t sure if that was because of her pregnancy, the result of depression over her pending divorce or flat-out boredom. She wasn’t good at being idle. Back in the city she’d found a way to fill up her life, which of course was far different than being fulfilled. But here she had no luncheons to attend, no committees to help chair, no dinner parties to plan, shop for and execute. After staring at the blank white walls of the cottage for nearly a month, desperation had forced her hand and she’d decided to approach Gavin with her proposal to paint.

Somewhere in the midst of talking wall colors, though, she’d begun noticing the day’s growth of beard that shaded his angular jaw and a sweaty T-shirt that was pulled tight over some seriously toned shoulders. She fanned herself now, blaming her heated skin on the mercury. It wasn’t the man. No, it couldn’t be the man. She was pregnant, newly separated and several months from a divorce. Besides, she’d never been the sort to fantasize. Yet for a moment there…

She groped for a tidy explanation to this curious tangle of emotions. The best she could come up with was that she was confused, lonely and alone in a new town, staring down not just one major life change, but two. Gavin was nice, good-natured, easy-going and friendly. So, she’d flirted with him a little. No law against that. As for this unprecedented attraction? It was a figment of her imagination, a figment likely fueled by her hopped-up hormones.

When Gavin joined her, Lauren noticed that he’d shaved and had changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a fresh shirt. She thought she caught a whiff of soap, and his hair appeared to be damp from a shower. Because she wanted to keep looking at him, she turned her attention to the tree.

“This oak would be perfect for a swing,” she commented.

Gavin regarded the thick branches for a moment. “Or a fat tire on a rope.”

She shook her head. “No. A swing. Definitely a swing. And the seat should be painted red.”

“Reliving your childhood?”

Hardly, she thought. “I lived in Los Angeles, remember? But I worked on an advertising campaign for an airline once. The commercial started off with a little boy swinging and making airplane noises.”

“‘Our pilots have always been eager to soar.’” Gavin grinned as he supplied the text. “I remember that slogan. I didn’t realize it was yours. For that matter, I didn’t realize you’d worked…in advertising.”

She got the feeling he hadn’t thought she’d worked at all. “I don’t at the moment. I left my job at Danielson & Marx four years ago.”

“Danielson & Marx.” He whistled low. “That’s the big-time. Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” she replied. She hadn’t shared that truth with anyone, even her closest friend. When others asked the same question, she told them how content she was and how busy with committees and her crowded social calendar. It was easy to tell Gavin the truth, so she continued. “I especially miss the creative process. It’s not easy to sell consumers on an idea or product with only a few words or images.”

“I’m betting you were good at it.”

She smiled, thinking of the four Addys she’d racked up during her relatively brief career, and admitted, “I had my moments.”

He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his cargo shorts. “So, why did you quit?”

She bent down and plucked a blade of grass. As she tore it into small pieces, she said, “Well, I was getting married and…and…”