“Pictures don’t do that man justice. Even a very happily married woman like me can see that.”
No, they didn’t, Emma thought, her gaze drawn to the ridiculous photo of Sean hung above the wingback chair. It was ridiculous because he’d had his arm around Lisa’s niece, Stephanie, at a family barbeque but, in response to a request from Gram, Lisa had helped her Photoshop herself into it instead. She didn’t even want to imagine what Sean would think of that.
“I wouldn’t throw him out of bed,” she admitted when Lisa waited for her to say something.
Maybe it was for the best that he’d said no. Her sleeping on a couch a few feet away from Sean Kowalski sleeping in her bed had seemed like a fine idea in theory. But, after meeting the man, being that close to him when the lights went out and not being in the bed with him wasn’t a fine plan at all.
Work kept her pretty busy. She wasn’t one for hanging around in bars and none of the guys she already knew really got her motor running, so she’d been in a bit of a drought. Based on her reaction to simply meeting the man, Sean had the potential to rev her engine like she was nosed up to the start line of a quarter-mile run.
“Crap, I’ve gotta run,” Lisa said. “The boys all have dentist appointments in an hour and I just saw my youngest run by with a handful of Skittles.”
“Have fun with that.” Emma wasn’t sure how she did it. If Emma had four boys, she’d spend her days in the bathroom, taking nips off the bottle of NyQuil in the medicine cabinet.
“If I don’t talk to you again before your grandmother arrives, good luck.”
“Thanks.” She’d need it.
After shoving her phone back in her pocket, Emma dragged the couch away from the wall, revealing a new nest of dust bunnies to vent her frustrations on.
She used her toe to turn on the vacuum, hoping the drone of the motor would drown out the no-longer-quiet purr of her own neglected engine.
Sean matched the number on the directions to the middle of nowhere Lisa had given him to the number on the mailbox—it had daisies painted on it, of all things—and turned his truck onto Emma Shaw’s driveway.
The massive, traditional New England farmhouse at the end of the drive was a thing of beauty. White siding—painted clapboards, not vinyl—with dark green shutters painted to match the metal roofing. A farmer’s porch wrapped from the front around one side to what he assumed was the kitchen door, and hanging baskets full of different-colored flowers hung on either side of every support post.
There was an eclectically painted grouping of wooden rockers and side tables on the porch, inviting him to sit and chat awhile, and flower beds surrounded the sides of the house he could see. Not surprising, he guessed, as he parked alongside a pickup bearing magnetic signs with the same Landscaping by Emma logo she’d had on her sweatshirt.
After climbing out of his own truck, he climbed the steps to the front door and, after taking a deep breath—which didn’t help because oxygen didn’t cure insanity—he rang the doorbell.
It was almost a full minute before Emma opened the door. She looked cute as hell, with her hair scraped into a sloppy ponytail and a streak of dust down her nose. He stuck his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out and wipe it away.
Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Hi.”
“Gotta minute?”
“Sure.” She stepped back and let him into the foyer. Immediately to the left was a good-sized living room, and all the furniture was dragged to the center of the hardwood floor. The air was thick with the scents of Murphy Oil Soap and lemon-scented Pledge. “Getting ready for the white-glove inspection?”
She grimaced and swiped at her face, but she only made it worse. “Gram’s not like that. I just have a lot on my mind and when that happens, I clean. It’s a sickness.”
He wasn’t sure where to start. “I had dinner at my aunt and uncle’s last night.”
“How are they doing? I haven’t seen Mrs. K in ages.”
“They’re good. Got a chance to talk to Lisa, too. She says you’re not crazy.”
“I already told you I’m not crazy.”
“Crazy people don’t always know they’re crazy.”
She blew an annoyed breath at the wisps of hair escaping the ponytail. “Trust me, I know the circumstances are crazy. But I’m not. Do you want a drink or something? I have lemonade. Iced tea. I think I’m out of soda, which explains the frenzied, caffeine-fueled cleaning spree.”