Playboy Bachelors. Marie Ferrarella
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or eat ready-made things out of a box.”
He curbed the desire to ask her about her mother. If she wanted him to know more, she’d tell him. As for preparing things out of a box, she’d just described the way he lived. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Have you read what they put inside that stuff?”
He shrugged, then swallowed what was in his mouth before answering, “Food.”
“Food whose ingredients are guaranteed to give you high blood pressure and shut down your kidneys by the time you reach middle age.” Turning, she reached into the blue and white box and took out a small round bowl. “I brought you fruit for dessert.” She took off the cover. “Blueberries. They’re rich in antioxidants.”
He laughed, shaking his head as he looked at the offering. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re pushy?”
“Maybe once or twice,” she allowed.
He was willing to bet it was more than that.
Philippe glanced down at his plate. Somehow, he’d managed to eat the entire portion without realizing it. The blueberries, however, held no interest for him. He moved back from the table.
“Thanks, that was really good. But you don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.” She gathered up the dirty dishes, putting them back into the chest.
Philippe started to offer to do them for her and then realized that he couldn’t. She’d ripped out his sink that morning. With the chest between her hands, she began to make her way to the front door. He noticed that she was leaving her tools behind.
“Don’t you need to take anything else with you?”
She glanced back at the toolbox. “Why? You’re my only client.”
He took the chest from her, indicating that he was going to follow her out with it. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Well, it means that business is bad, right?”
She shook her head. “No, it means that I only do one client at a time.” She unlocked the door and took the chest from him, placing it behind the front seat of her truck. “I was serious about that. This way, it’ll get done faster.”
“And with your brother working with you, it’ll be even that much faster.”
She was going to have to keep after Gordon, she thought. He did good work—when he was working. But given half a chance, he’d take off for a few hours or catch a nap.
“Absolutely,” she promised.
Ten minutes later, J.D. had left and he was back at his desk. His appetite appeased, his brain cleared, Philippe was in a much better frame of mind to take another crack at the program.
Bathed in absolute quiet, after a few minutes, Philippe realized that he found the silence almost deafening.
With a resigned sigh, he shook his head and turned on the radio to fill up the empty spaces.
Somewhere between the time his alarm sounded and he toweled himself dry from his shower, it hit Philippe like a bullet right between the eyes.
He was looking forward to seeing J.D. Looking forward to seeing her even with the accompanying wall of noise. The realization caught him off guard. He tried not to dwell on it, tried not to attach any sort of deep meaning to it. He didn’t, by definition, dislike people and she was a person. The woman had turned out to be a decent sort, that was all. No big deal.
If it was no big deal, why did he feel compelled to convince himself of that? It should have just been a given.
Making a disgusted noise that drew into service a mangled French phrase, one of the few things he had learned from his father, he focused his mind on what was important. His work.
Philippe had forced himself up early, showering and shaving a good ninety minutes before he usually left the confines of his bed. With a stale piece of toast and marginal coffee, he sat before his computer, pondering the merit of a particular equation on his screen when he heard the doorbell.
Or thought he did.
It turned out to be a false alarm. Just his ears playing tricks on him.
There was no one at the door.
Glancing around, seeing only a jogger in the distance, Philippe experienced a smattering of disappointment. He retreated. Somehow, this was all wrong, although he couldn’t begin to untangle the reasons why. He had work to do.
Maybe he was working too hard. Rather than take his time or kick back, as was his cousin Beau’s habit, Philippe was always doggedly at his desk, working every available moment he had. Because he believed that all work and no play not only made Jack a dull boy but also helped contribute to the death of his brain cells, he had gone out of his way to institute his weekly poker game, making sure never to miss one.
But maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe, like his mother had said to him time and again, he needed to get out of his shell. Needed to go out. With someone of the opposite gender.
Philippe frowned.
The fact that he was even thinking like this was proof that he needed to let up a little. To let go.
Right after this baby’s packed up, he promised himself.
Famous last words, he mocked. He’d thought somewhere along the same lines when he’d worked on the last program—and all he’d done was jump right into this one.
Just before he reached his office threshold, Philippe stopped abruptly. Cocking his head to the right, he listened intently.
No, this time the doorbell wasn’t his imagination. Retracing his steps back to the front door, he swung it open.
And smiled.
Kelli was clearly the one who had rung his doorbell. She was standing on her toes, stretching as far as she could, about to press her small finger to the white button again. When the door opened, she offered him a smile that he imagined angels looked to as a standard by which to measure their own smiles.
“I’m here,” she announced brightly.
He exchanged looks with J.D. who was standing beside her. A man in jeans and a T-shirt was behind them. His wheat-colored hair and fair complexion fairly shouted that he was related to both.
“So I see,” Philippe said, turning his attention back to Kelli. He hadn’t really intended to take the girl’s hand, but Kelli had other ideas. She slipped her small hand into his and then tugged him back into his house.
“I brought stuff to do,” she informed him. “So I won’t get in your way.”
How could someone so young sound so adult? He nodded in response. “Very thoughtful of you.”
She beamed. Then suddenly, as if she’d forgotten her manners, she turned around to look at the man behind her. “This is my Uncle Gordon. Mama says you want your house done faster.” A little pint-sized feminine pride slipped into her narrative. “Uncle Gordon is fast, but not as fast as Mama.”
Philippe caught himself wondering just how fast Mama was. Reining in his thoughts, he slanted a glance toward J.D.
Damn, but worn T-shirts never looked so good to him before. “I’ll bet,” he acknowledged.
Something in his tone had Janice struggling to tamp down a wave of warmth. She raised her chin a little, not certain if she should be defensive or not.
But she could be polite. She nodded at her daughter, her eyes on Philippe’s. “Thanks for letting me do this.”