3

      “WHAT CAN I DO?” Ariel said when she reached the kitchen.

      “Just keep me company,” Jake said. He opened the refrigerator and reached inside, demonstrating what a marvel of biological engineering his body was. Smoothly swelling muscles fanned out, tightened and released in delightful synchronicity as he shifted things around. And his skin was a golden brown….

      Stop. What was she doing? Her travel-fogged brain kept honing in on Jake’s anatomy. She should be worrying about the “whatever was in the refrigerator.” If Jake was like most guys, it would be leftover Chinese, ketchup and maybe wilted lettuce.

      She was relieved when he stood with an armload of fresh items—an avocado, some mushrooms, Muenster cheese and a plastic-wrapped container of what looked like fresh spinach.

      “Are you sure I can’t do anything?” she asked. To keep from ogling you?

      “Not a thing,” he said. The way he snapped on the gas stove, deftly whacked off a hunk of butter and flipped it onto a serious omelet pan seemed to indicate he knew his way around a kitchen—or at least an egg dish.

      The kitchen was small—no, cozy, she corrected, thinking like a real estate agent. The counter space was modest, but charming—tiny blue-and-white tiles with decent grout. The sink, however, was battered and rust-stained and the faucet appeared corroded. She’d have to replace it. Kitchens and bathrooms were big selling features, she knew, and a good place to spend renovation dollars. The stove was an older model, but clean and it seemed to work.

      The wallpaper was outdated, but high shelves held decorative plates with ocean themes, attractive driftwood pieces, and several plants—curly bamboo and an orchid—that gave the room character and life.

      “I can at least set the table,” she said, going to the cupboard beside him, where she assumed the plates were. She found flower vases, mixing bowls and sports bottles instead.

      “Up there,” Jake raised his chin at the cupboard directly above him, his hands busy cutting mushrooms.

      “Excuse me,” she said, reaching past him.

      “Take your time,” he said, not moving an inch. She felt his eyes on her, sensed his lazy grin, and prickled from the abrupt intimacy of it all. Snatching two plates, even though they didn’t match, she decided to wait until Jake left the counter to get the water glasses from the higher shelf.

      The silverware was in the first drawer she opened, thank goodness. Unwilling to hunt for napkins, probably in the drawer at Jake’s groin, she ripped two paper towels from the under-cupboard hanging roll, then moved to the table, which held more Jake accoutrements—a bike repair manual, a set of wrenches and a stack of magazines named for S sports: Sail, Scuba, Surf.

      “So, you seem to do a lot of water things,” she said to make conversation while she set the table.

      “Why else live at the beach? Being in water feels good.”

      Pool water, maybe, which was clear and clean, not mucky like the ocean and full of creepy weeds and mysterious creatures you couldn’t see. Plus, saltwater burned her eyes.

      Finished setting the table, she watched Jake efficiently chop a hunk of red onion into tiny squares that he sprinkled into the bubbling butter. Great hands.

      Ariel forced herself to look away. Her gaze snagged on the kitchen linoleum. Bleached, scarred and cracked, it should be replaced. She hoped that was part of Jake’s job. If not, she’d have to pay for it herself.

      Now was a good time to find out what Trudy had asked him to do. She’d be gentle, not her usual blunt self. The man was cooking for her, after all. “I guess the construction company you work for gives you a lot of free time for your sports?”

      Jake gave a short laugh. “Construction company?” He glanced at her as he picked up an avocado. Cupping it, he deftly coaxed it out of its hull with such easy grace she found it hard to swallow. “I work for myself.”

      “So, how, um, did you get into construction?”

      “I’m not really into it,” he said, fanning the slices in a gourmet-worthy display onto the cutting board. “I have buddies in the business.” He began cubing the Muenster.

      He’d learned construction from buddies? Drinking buddies, no doubt, who swapped construction feats of derring-do over pitchers of margs. The guy was a beach bum, pure and simple. A charming bum, but still a bum. Maybe Trudy’s good sense had run amok long before she headed for London.

      “So Trudy says you worked on her neighbor’s place?” she asked, wanting some credentials.

      “Yeah. It was fun. And then Trudy offered me this gig.”

      Gig? This was a gig? “So, you’re not a builder, per se?”

      “Nah. I teach scuba, sailing, surfing, repair bikes, this and that.”

      At least he had other income—he’d be able to afford rent when he moved out. “So, tell me what Trudy’s asked you to do.”

      “This and that,” he said, snapping eggs one-handed and lightning-quick into a bowl.

      “Specify, please.”

      “Okay. Let’s see…patch the roof…repair the wall between the bedrooms…deal with the electrical, replace the wallpaper in the living room and kitchen…paint inside and out…replace the kitchen linoleum with tile…” He looked up, considering. “That’s it, I think.”

      “That’s a lot,” she said, grateful that Trudy had arranged to have so much done, but worried about living through the chaos of a messy worker. On the other hand, if she cancelled some of the work, when would she be able to afford it? “And how long do you expect it to take?”

      “Two-three months. Depends.”

      “Depends on what?” What time he got up in the morning? Whether he needed to consult a manual? “That seems too long.”

      “You can’t rush quality,” he said, dumping the egg mixture into the omelet pan, pausing to deliver a wicked smile.

      “Oh, yes, you can. I would think a month would be plenty. Let’s aim for that. Speed is crucial since this will be my office, too, until I can afford to lease space.”

      “You won’t get in my way,” Jake said, sprinkling cheese on the omelet.

      “But you’ll get in mine,” she said as gently as she could. “I’ll try to meet clients in their offices—more convenient for them—but I’m sure I’ll need to see a few people here, and I’ll need peace and order for that. The second bedroom will be my office, but until you move out, the living room will have to do. That means the painting stuff must be organized.”

      “The sunporch would make a great office,” Jake said, pointing a spatula in the direction of the door out back.

      Through the window in the door, she could see tattered window screens, plastic patio furniture, another surfboard and lots