“My men,” she said with a sigh, and carted the first box upstairs.
Since her bedroom was currently chaos and full of other men, and dog, she went back down, got soft drinks out of the fridge, and took them back up.
“’Preciate it. We’ll haul all the wrapping and padding away with it. We’ve got specific instructions. It’s going to take a while to get it put together.”
“Okay.”
“You want it where you got the mattresses, right?”
“I . . . Yes. That’s fine. I need to make a call.”
She left them to it, called home, and spent the next twenty minutes with Seth as Harry was at the restaurant. His pleasure zipped over every mile.
She didn’t tell him she’d narrowed down her choices and styles of bed, had even planned a day trip to Seattle to look some over. Whatever they’d bought her would be treasured just for that.
When she went back into the bedroom she stopped short. They had her mattresses on the frame, had the headboard and footboard on—or heading that way.
“Oh my God.”
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
She looked at the driver—she didn’t know his name—then back at the bed. “It’s gorgeous. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.”
“Wait till we get the posts up.”
Mahogany, she thought, with satinwood crossbanding. Chippendale-style—she hadn’t been raised by Seth and Harry for nothing. The wood tones, rich and lovely, set off the soft colors of the walls. Fretwork legs, and posts high and turned.
If a woman didn’t have sweet dreams in a bed like that, she needed therapy.
“You okay, ma’am?”
She managed to nod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Josh. Josh and Chuck.”
“Josh. I’m fine. You were right. It’s a hell of a bed.”
When they were done, she tipped them generously—the least she could do—and gave them more soft drinks for the road.
When they left, she stood staring at the bed, at the way the early-evening light gleamed on the wood, on the details.
“Some uncles you’ve got,” Xander commented.
“Best ever.”
“Need to cry it out?”
She shook her head, pressed fingers to her eyes. “No. I hate to cry. So useless. I talked to them Sunday. They went right out and found this, then had it shipped all the way out here this way—along with sheets and pillows and bedding. And it’s just right, just exactly right. For me, for the room, for the house.”
She pushed the threat of tears away. “I’m not going to cry. I’m going to cook. I still don’t have dishes or a table. But you can eat what I fix on paper plates outside on the deck. That’s your tip for helping set up the bed.”
“I’ll take it. What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m having wine. I’m feeling sentimental and a little homesick.”
“Got beer?”
“Pretty sure.”
“If you do, I’ll go for that.”
“Okay.” She started out, glanced back at him. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
“Yet.” His smile was easy. And dangerous. “Beer and a dinner’s a start.”
A finish, she thought as the dog trooped down with them.
—
He watched her cook. He’d never seen anybody cook by grabbing things, throwing this thing in a pan, that thing in a skillet. Chopping this up, stirring that in.
The dog watched her, too, and wasn’t subtle about licking his muzzle when the scents started rising.
“What are you making there?”
“We’ll call it Pasta on the Fly.”
She laid olives—fat ones—on a cutting board, smacked them with a flat of the knife she’d been wielding, and popped out the pits. Something else he’d never seen anyone do.
“Don’t those just come in jars without pits?”
“These are Kalamata olives, friend, and they’re worth the extra step. Anything I put in here you don’t like, you eat around.”
“I’m not fussy.”
“Good thing.”
Now she took a hunk of cheese and worked it to a blur over a grater. He’d have asked why she didn’t buy it already grated but figured he knew the answer.
She tossed little tomatoes in the pan, added some sort of herbs, and stirred—even while muttering how she wished the local produce ran to fresh basil.
“I need to get good cookware before Harry sends me that, too.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve got? Looks like it’s working fine to me.”
“Hardware store special. He’d be appalled. I’m a little appalled myself, actually. And I definitely need good knives. Something to add to the list.”
He liked watching her—quick, sure movement. Liked listening to her—a voice that held just the right amount of smoke.
“What else is on the list?”
“Painting the guest rooms I have earmarked for my brother and for my uncles. The one for my grandparents. After that, I think I’ll retire my roller and pan. I don’t like painting.”
“Have the painters paint.”
“I need to buy decent cookware and knives—I can paint two more rooms in this ridiculously big house. And now I have to find furniture worthy of that bed, and so on.”
She drained the pasta—the little tube sort—then added it to the skillet, along with the olives, the cheese. Tossed it all around.
“Plates are in that cupboard there, such as they are, as are paper napkins and a box of plastic forks.”
“Got it.”
She tossed the stuff in the skillet a couple more times, then served it up on the paper plates and added wedges of Italian bread that she’d slathered with butter, sprinkled with herbs, and toasted.
“That looks amazing.”
“It would look better on the plates I ordered, but it’s good enough.” She handed him a plate, took one for herself, and then led the way out. Then she handed him her plate. “Hold this while I feed the dog.”
The dog looked at the kibble she dumped in his bowl, then back at Xander with the two aromatic plates of pasta. His tail drooped, and Xander swore the dog sighed in disappointment.
She sat, eyeing the dog, who eyed her. “This is mine, that’s yours. That’s how it goes.”
“Hard-ass.”
“Maybe.”
Xander sat down and sampled what she’d thrown together magically and a little maniacally in about twenty minutes.
“This is really good. Seriously good.”
“It’s not bad. It’d be better with fresh herbs. I guess I’ll have to plant some.”
It didn’t feel as odd as she’d expected, to sit there, eating pasta with him while the dog—who’d polished off his own bowl—watched them mournfully. Maybe it was the view—that soft hand of dusk gliding pale and purple over water and the green—maybe it was the wine. Either way, she needed to set the line.
“Do you want to know why I’m not going to sleep with you?”
“Yet,” he added. “Is there a list?”
“We can call it that. You live here, and right now, so do I.”
“Right now? You’ve got pots and pans for the right now, but have better ones on your list. It seems to me you’re looking at the down-the-road.”
“Maybe. I’ve never lived in any one place for more than a few months since I left New York. I don’t know if this will stick. Maybe,” she said again, “because it feels right—right now. But in any case, you live here and you’re friends with Kevin and Jenny—long-term, serious friends. We start something—and I’m also not looking to start something—and it gets messed up, your friend and my contractor’s in the middle of it.”
“That’s weak,” Xander said, and went back to the pasta.
“Not from where I’m sitting, in the heart of a construction zone. Plus you’re the only local garage and mechanic, and I might need a mechanic.”
Thoughtfully, he crunched into the bread. “Probably get the work done faster if we’re having sex.”
She laughed, shook her head. “Not if we stop having it, and you’re pissed at me. There’s work, of which I have to do a lot to pay for this house, and everything that goes into it. I don’t have time for sex.”
“There’s always time for sex. Next time, I’ll bring pizza and we can have sex in the time you spent making dinner.”
And thoughtfully, Naomi ate pasta. “That doesn’t speak well of your . . . stamina.”
“Just trying to work on your schedule.”