“You got a problem with venison?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she’d eat anything he served but she’d prefer to do it in bed, after sex, and before the next round of sex. But she bit her lip and shook her head. “No, I don’t mind it at all. Daddy hunted every year so I was raised on wild game. I also like fried rabbit and frog legs, but I don’t like squirrel fixed any way. It’s just a rat with a fluffy tail to me.”
She took a step, tangled her foot on a wrinkle in the carpet, and plunged forward into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “Okay, which room first?”
“My bedroom and excuse the mess. I’m still not unpacked.”
“I’m not here to judge your housekeeping, Blake.” She set about measuring the room and then pulled a notepad from her pocket to write down the measurements. “Color? And will it be for the whole house or different for every room?”
“What would you do if this was the bedroom you’d be sleeping in the rest of your life?” he asked.
Lord, have mercy! That question put a visual in her mind that practically made her pant. “Something neutral, like a soft ivory or maybe a really light tan with white trim and doors. It would lighten up the place. Whoever painted it this god-awful shade of pink should be shot. It’s evident that the room has always been the master bedroom. No one paints a room where a man is going to sleep this color.” No wonder she was talking so fast and furious.
Blake chuckled. “So you aren’t into pink walls and lacy curtains?”
She thought carefully before she answered so she wouldn’t go off on another tangent. “You should be able to tell that by looking at me. Pink and lace were my youngest sister’s things. I was always the girl who’d rather be running around behind Daddy and playing in the sawdust.”
Something about that king-size bed with the tangled gold sheets set her hormones into overdrive. Thank God she had a notepad because she couldn’t remember a single, solitary number she’d written down on it. She did recall something about sand-colored paint with white woodwork but to be on the safe side, she probably needed to note that, too.
What was wrong with her? Hell, she couldn’t even hang on to Riley and he wasn’t a tenth as sexy as Blake. Deke appeared in the doorway and pointed toward the ceiling.
“Every joint has been affected by the leaks. Hall looks to be four feet wide and twenty feet long, so you’ll need five sheets for the hall. Write that down. Living room is a twenty-foot square so figure that many sheets. I ran back by to say we can’t go to Frankie’s tonight. I promised my cousin and his wife I’d go to dinner with them.”
She wrote down the numbers. “Thanks, Deke.”
“Y’all decided what to do with the floors?” Deke asked.
Blake shrugged and looked at Allie. “What do you suggest we do with this ratty old carpet?”
Deke went to a corner and pulled up a corner. “Looks like oak hardwood under it. I’d pull the shit up and throw it out. Wood floors are easier to clean. I pulled it all out of my house a couple of years ago and ain’t regretted it one time.”
“Want me to rip it all up after I get through painting? If you do, then I won’t have to cover the flooring to keep from getting paint on it,” Allie said.
“That sounds good,” Blake said. “How long do you think the whole job will take?”
“About a week if you will help me get the drywall up on the ceiling. Trim work takes longer because it’s tedious, and the doors will have to be sanded. But I’d say a week for each room.”
“So roughly a month unless you have to take a day now and then to help take care of Miz Irene?” he asked.
“That’s right.” She bit her tongue to keep from spitting out a monologue about woodwork, floors, carpet, and anything else to keep her mind off those sheets.
“Either of y’all want a cup of hot chocolate or coffee to warm your bones before you go back out in the cold?” Blake asked.
“Not me,” Deke said. “I’m outta here. Got wood to get cut and ready to sell while the sun shines. Can’t do much in that area if it’s bad weather next week.”
His boots didn’t make a noise until he hit the kitchen floor, and then she heard the back door slam again. She tucked the notepad and tape back in her pocket. “I’ll pass. I don’t want to get caught in a rain storm with drywall on the trailer.”
He raised his arms over his head and stretched, working the kinks out of his back by bending to each side. Allie’s eyes were glued to that broad chest and the way his biceps stretched the arms of the T-shirt. How long would it take her to strip that thing up over his head? How would it feel to bury her face on his chest while afterglow settled around them?
Afterglow is not real! You know that, Allie Logan. It’s something that romance authors made up to make all women think there is something wonderful out there. Kind of like sex that lasts all night and isn’t over in ten minutes with the man snoring on his side of the bed.