In The Stranger's Arms. Pamela Toth
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a neglected house or an outdated stock portfolio, she had potential, which always intrigued him. The day was looking brighter.
“Good morning,” he called out cheerfully. “It seems that I’m right on time.”
When she turned, the tiny gold hoops in her ears winked in the light. “Did you sleep well?” she asked with a smile that softened her stern expression and stubborn chin. The transformation made him blink.
She had worked some female magic to play up her full lips and thick lashes. The scent of wildflowers—or what he imagined wildflowers would smell like—ensnared him.
“Like I’d been shot in the head,” he replied.
“That’s an image I’ll try to forget.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “After all that rest, you’re probably ready to get started on my roof.”
“I’m rarin’ to go,” he drawled, realizing that he was famished. He would have to buy breakfast somewhere and then find a grocery store. Assuming he had kitchen privileges, he knew enough about cooking to keep himself fed.
“We can talk over breakfast, which Dolly usually fixes because she likes to cook,” Pauline explained over her shoulder. “Lunch is on your own and dinner is potluck, depending on who’s here and feels like fixing something. Or you can eat on your own, of course, if you’d rather.”
“Sounds fine to me,” he replied. “I’ll be happy to kick in for groceries or go to the store. Just let me know.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” she assured him.
At the bottom of the stairs, she led the way through the archway into the dining room he’d seen last night. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling above a dark wood table surrounded by matching chairs.
He followed her into the kitchen, which, like his bathroom, had obviously been modernized at some point, although the black-and-white-tiled floor looked original. The aromas of coffee and frying bacon made him realize how little he’d eaten in the last couple of days.
His attention went straight to Mrs. Langley, standing at the stove in a flowered apron over her purple sweat suit. On her feet were athletic shoes with fluorescent stripes, but he didn’t care if she wore snowshoes as long as she fed him.
Mouth watering, he echoed Pauline’s greeting.
“Good morning, you two,” their cook responded gaily. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m making sourdough pancakes.”
“Mrs. Langley, you’ve found my weakness,” Wade replied, patting his empty stomach for emphasis. “I may just have to marry you.”
With a girlish giggle, she waved him away with her spatula. “In that case, you’d better start calling me Dolly.”
She opened the oven door, and Wade had to swallow hard in order to keep from drooling like a dog. “I’ll set the table if you tell me where things are,” he offered. Anything to hurry the process!
“In that drawer and the cupboard above it.” Pauline pointed, then grabbed oven mitts. While he arranged the dishes and silver, she and Dolly brought over the food. He held out Dolly’s chair as Pauline seated herself.
“If you wait, you lose,” Dolly warned him as she reached for the coffeepot. “Help yourself.”
They passed the food and filled their plates, though Pauline skipped the bacon and only took one pancake. It was all Wade could do to not grab everything in sight and cram it into his mouth.
“I must say, you look better than you did last night,” Dolly told him as she stirred sugar into her coffee.
“I feel like a new man,” he replied after he had swallowed his first bite of the best pancakes he’d ever tasted. A few trendy restaurants in Frisco would have killed for the recipe.
“These are fantastic,” he added, reloading his fork.
“It’s the starter,” Pauline replied as she cut her pancake into neat, even pieces. “It was passed down from my grandmother.”
“The what?” he asked blankly. Surely food that old couldn’t be good.
“It’s a mixture of flour, water and yeast,” Dolly explained. “You keep adding to it so that it never runs out.”
“I never knew that.” He attempted to appear captivated, but Pauline distracted him.
In the light from the tall window, her hair was a mixture of shades from palest gold to rich, dark honey. He could almost feel it sifting through his fingers like warm silk.
“Something wrong?” she asked with a frown.
Feeling foolish for getting caught staring, he focused on his coffee. “I’m just enjoying the food and company.”
“Will you be able to start on the repairs today?” she pressed.
He hoped she wasn’t the type to stay on his back until the job was done, questioning every break he took and every penny he spent. “Absolutely,” he replied.
When he saw the relief on her face, he felt a twinge of remorse. She had every right to be concerned about her roof. He remembered from vacation visits to his grandfather that this area was no stranger to summer rain.
“A buddy of mine is bringing my stuff up in a rented truck this afternoon,” he added. “When I put it into storage, I’ll unpack my tools. I’ll write up a supply list after I buy groceries this morning.”
Pauline actually grinned at him before glancing at her watch. “I’d better get going,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Thanks for breakfast, Dolly.”
“Do you have an account somewhere?” Wade asked as he got to his feet. Seeing Pauline’s puzzled expression, he added, “So I can buy materials.”
She nibbled on her full lower lip, sending a jolt of awareness through him. “I guess I could call the manager of the building-supply store and set it up,” she murmured while he speculated on the softness of her mouth. “Greg and I went to school together, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’d better meet you there,” he suggested quickly. “When we’re through, I’ll buy you lunch.” Getting to know her better would be no hardship.
From behind her back, Dolly gave him a thumbs-up.
Pauline fiddled with a tendril of her hair. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Her tone couldn’t have been any prissier if he’d suggested a make-out session in the building supply parking lot.
Instinct warned him to proceed with caution. “I was just trying to avoid any delays,” he said innocently. “But I can probably manage on my own.”
Pauline carried her dishes through the arch to the kitchen and deposited them on the counter. “I’ll give you my cell number,” she said as Wade did the same. “You can let me know when you’ve got the list together.” She opened her purse and handed him a card.
Uncommon Threads was printed in purple script. Needlework supplies and classes, Pauline Mayfield, proprietor. In smaller print was an address on Harbor Avenue, followed by phone and fax numbers. On the last line was an e-mail address.
He was impressed. “I’ll look forward to seeing your shop,” he said, tucking Pauline’s card into his pocket.
Pauline finished her coffee at the sink, frowning at him over the rim of her mug. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with my roof?”
“I worked summers as a carpenter when I was in college,” he replied confidently.
“Any questions before I leave?” she asked as she put her mug into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to finish getting ready for work.”
“If anything comes up,” he replied, “we can discuss it at lunch.”
She