Linda Jones - On Dean's Watch

Tewanda grinned widely. “First of all, you’re blushing beet-red. You don’t lie well, at least not to me. Secondly, this is Somerset, sweetie.” She raised a hand to her chest. “If a man had been anywhere near you, I would have heard about it. Face it, there’s nothing exciting about your life, and the only love in it is for Cooper. And thirdly, speaking of your adorable son, in all the years I’ve known you, Cooper has never said a word about there being a man in your house. Until this morning when I walked the boys to school, that is. I understand your Mr. Sinclair came over for dessert last night.”

Reva rested her forehead on the desk. What she’d said to Dean last night had been true. There were no secrets in a small town. “Strawberry shortcake, that’s all it was. I swear.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Tewanda said as she walked out the door, closing it softly behind her.

Reva finished writing out the checks. She went over the menus for the next week and glanced at the possible recipes for her new cookbook. Her first cookbook had been selling very well, and people were already asking for more.

Every now and then the sounds from the third floor distracted her. Was Dean really that terrible at being a handyman? Maybe Tewanda had been exaggerating. No man was bad with a hammer.

Was he?

When she couldn’t stand waiting anymore, Reva slipped out of the office, turned left and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible. Her shoes were flat and soft-soled, and the long skirt of her cream-colored dress swished quietly.

Unfortunately it was impossible to be completely quiet when a number of the steps had a tendency to squeal.

She caught sight of Dean staring at her through the railing. He sat on the floor of the third-story hallway, hammer in hand, and watched her approach.

“Who’s skulking now?” he asked with a smile.

“I guess that would be me,” Reva said as she finished the climb without attempting to be quiet.

“Usually when I hear creaking steps, I glance up and see a gray head peering around the corner,” Dean said.

“Miss Frances.” Reva sat on the top step. A couple feet of space and white slats marred by peeling paint separated her from Dean Sinclair. “I just wanted to warn you, customers will start arriving soon, so you’ll have to take a break until this afternoon.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon. You serve at one, right?”

She nodded. “People come early to walk in the gardens or explore the house or just sit on the porch and rock. Hammering and cursing kind of ruin the atmosphere.”

“I didn’t think anyone would be able to hear me,” he explained. “Sorry.”

“Sounds carry in these old houses. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced beyond Dean. “If I can get the third floor in good shape, make sure the railing is solid and safe and remodel the rooms, we can open this area up for customers, too. I was thinking of making a couple of the old bedchambers into sitting rooms or small parlors. I could even entertain small parties up here once everything is finished.”

Dean carefully laid his hammer down on the floor. He didn’t look the part of handyman, though he did try. His hair was cut too precisely. The jeans and boots were too new. The T-shirt, advertising the downtown hardware store, didn’t sport a single stain or rip.

And his face…he should have a five-o’clock shadow to make him look less respectable.

“Are you hostessing a table today?” he asked.

Reva shook her head.

“Good,” Dean said in a lowered voice that sent chills down her spine. “Have lunch with me.”

It was after one by the time Reva climbed the stairs to the third floor again. The dull roar of conversation, the clink of silverware on plates, the occasional trill of laughter, all were muted here at the top of the house.

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