Deck the Halls. Arlene James

fall all over him?

      Not likely. No way. Uh-uh. She had better sense than that, thank you very much.

      But, oh man, what a place.

      Vince slipped past her on the brick porch, which was deeply inset beneath a tall arch, and jammed a key into the lock, giving it a quick twist. The tall, honey-colored wood plank door, inlaid with artistically rusted nail-heads and iron bands, swung open soundlessly, revealing stone floors and smooth walls plastered in pinkish-tan adobe. The tall narrow windows flanking the door were made of stained glass depicting two spiny cacti in a delicate green with blossoms of rose red.

      He stepped back to let her pass, and she’d have wiped her feet before entering if there had been a mat of any sort. As it was, she wiped her hands surreptitiously on the seat of her worn jeans, just in case they were dirty, then tugged on the hem of her T-shirt to cover the self-conscious action. She tilted her head back in the foyer, looking up at least twenty feet to the ceiling, past an elegantly rustic wrought-iron chandelier with cut-glass shades.

      To her left was a hallway. To her right stretched a huge room set off by tall arches. It was completely empty except for a pair of light fixtures, larger versions of the one hanging over her head, and a leafy fern that sat on the floor in front of a window covered by a faded bed sheet. Straight ahead Jolie spied the back of a nondescript sofa and the overhang of a bar topped in polished granite.

      “This way,” he said, leading her through the foyer and into what was obviously a den.

      The sofa sat in front of a massive stone fireplace. Flanking the fireplace was an equally massive built-in unit which could easily contain a television set as large as a dining table. Upon it were a small framed photo of several kids with mischievous grins and a pile of paperback books. The only other furnishings in the room were a low, battered table and a utilitarian floor lamp. At least here the windows were covered with expensive pleated shades in a dark red.

      The bar, she saw, opened onto a large kitchen, as did the arched doorways on each end. Louvered, bat-wing doors stood open to reveal an island containing a deep stone sink. Behind it rose enough cabinets to stash away all the cookware usually offered for sale in a small department store.

      The brushed-steel fronts of the appliances announced that no expense had been spared in outfitting the space, but the countertops were bare except for a small toaster and a coffeemaker. At the end of the kitchen, surrounded by oriel windows and two doors, one that opened to a hallway and another leading outside, was a dining area large enough to dwarf the small round table and two chairs situated beneath another unique light fixture.

      “Who lives here?” she wanted to know.

      “I do.”

      She rolled her eyes at him. “Besides you.”

      “No one.”

      Bringing her hands to her hips, she stared at him in disbelief.

      “You’ve got how many bedrooms in this place, two, three?”

      “Four, actually.”

      “And you live here all by yourself?”

      “That’s right.”

      She looked around her, dumbfounded.

      “It’s a little bare,” he said sheepishly, and that was putting it mildly. “I really need to get somebody in here to help me do it up right. Just can’t figure out who.”

      Good golly, Miss Molly, what she could do with a place like this!

      She couldn’t imagine living here, but it was practically empty, almost a blank slate, and she could see just what ought to go where, starting with a pair of big, leather-upholstered, wrought-iron bar stools so company could sit there at the counter enjoying a cold drink while the host prepared dinner. And that island just begged for a big old pot rack, something sturdy and solid, not that the place lacked storage.

      “Hire a decorator,” she told him. Obviously he could afford professional help.

      He wrinkled his nose at that. “I don’t know. I’m not much for trends and themes. It’s not a showroom, after all, it’s a home.”

      “But the right decorator could do wonders in here,” she insisted.

      “Yeah, but who is the right decorator?” he asked rhetorically. He then effectively closed the subject by lifting a hand and saying, “Laundry room’s this way.”

      He led her through the kitchen and into the hallway. After pointing out that the garage lay to the left, he turned right. The second door opened into a laundry room large enough to sport not only a top-of-the-line, front-loading washer-and-dryer set but also a pair of roll-away racks for hanging clothes, a work table for folding and an ironing board, plus a sink and various cabinets.

      Dead center on the tiled floor lay a heap of clothing big enough to easily hide a full-grown man. Sitting up. Jolie’s jaw dropped.

      “How long have you been accumulating that?” she asked, pointing at the pile.

      “Week, week and a half,” he said mournfully. “By Friday there’ll be about half that much again.”

      “Good grief!” she exclaimed, mentally rolling up her sleeves. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

      He lifted his hands. “So do I load it up or not?”

      “In what?” she asked dryly. “You got a dump truck around here?”

      He chuckled. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

      “Well, then,” she said with a sigh, “I guess we’ll do it your way.”

      He just grinned, blast his good-looking hide, and well he might. In his place she’d be grinning, too. She was smiling on the inside as it was. Working in a place like this was going to be an out-and-out pleasure, even if it was only temporary. If he tried anything funny with her, she’d just walk out and leave him and his laundry high and dry without the least qualm.

      Looking at it that way, she couldn’t lose, because whatever happened, her car would be fixed. She almost hoped he did try to take advantage of the situation, but not until her debt was paid off because she didn’t like owing anybody anything.

      Yes, sir, smiling on the inside.

      For once, things were going to go her way.

      

      “This one?” Jolie slowed the car as they drew near the corner. Vince shook his head.

      “No, the next.”

      She sped up again, laughing when the little car responded with more pep than usual. “I can’t get over how much better it runs.”

      “It’ll drive even smoother with the tires rotated and balanced,” he told her. “You might notice a little improvement when we get all the hoses replaced, too, but probably not. You won’t have to worry about another breakdown anytime soon, though.”

      “Music to my ears,” she said, and he couldn’t help smiling.

      She drove as she seemed to do everything else, he noted, with an innate wariness. It certainly kept her on her toes and gave him some confidence in her safety on the road, but it also made him a little sad because she seemed to be constantly expecting trouble and catastrophe.

      Over all, Jolie Wheeler struck him as a woman who’d had a lot of hard knocks in life, which was, he supposed, nothing new. The odd thing was that he didn’t much like thinking of it.

      The way she’d taken in his place had told him that she was unfamiliar with some of the more recent building trends. Later, she’d seemed to be mentally furnishing and decorating the space, and yet she’d remained oddly detached, admiring but certainly not gushing with compliments. He had sensed a kind of assumption on her part that she was out of her element in his house, and that had irritated him a little. Okay, a lot.

      He was proud of his home.