Room...but Not Bored!. Dawn Atkins

God, Trudy. I’m at the beach house, and, you won’t believe this, but—”

      “There’s a man there. I know,” Trudy said. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I hired him before we left for London to paint and do some fix-up so I could sell the cottage.”

      Ariel glanced at Jake—his hair was beautifully sun-streaked—then turned to the side to make the conversation more private. “I wish you’d said something.”

      “I’m saying it now. And there’s one more thing….” Uh-oh. “He might be living there. As part of the deal, I told him he could stay until he finishes.”

      “You told him he could live here?” Her voice squeaked. She shot Jake a wan smile.

      “It’s good to have someone keep an eye on things. This was killing two birds with one stone.”

      “You should have warned me.”

      “I was a little distracted, I guess. And you took off so fast…. Jake’s a nice guy—completely trustworthy. He’s done work for my neighbor, watched her kids while she did errands. Very sweet. I talked to him several times.”

      “But he’s going to live here?” Ariel whispered through gritted teeth. “With me?” Again, she tried to smile at Jake.

      “There are two bedrooms, Ariel. And he’s not going to attack you or anything…unless you want that.” Then her voice went low. “If I’d had the time, let me tell you…wowsa.”

      Wowsa? So un-Trudy-like. “Why are you telling me this?” she said, exasperated, hoping the cell phone hadn’t leaked Trudy’s words to her eavesdropper.

      “Love is all around, Ariel. Stop and smell the roses.”

      Smell the roses? All Ariel could smell were dead fish and seaweed…and maybe a faint coconut scent coming off Jake Renner’s gleaming body. “I’ll get back to you on that,” she said, her saccharine smile going sour. Her partner—who had yanked herself up by the straps of her own Aerosoles and, by the way, had once declared relationships speed bumps on the road to success—was now spouting Zen bumper stickers from her outpost in the Twilight Zone.

      “I mean it,” Trudy insisted. “Rethink your life. I’ve started doing watercolors again.”

      Ariel held her tongue.

      “I’m sure you can work something out with Jake. He’s very easygoing.”

      Ariel shot a glance at him. Easygoing and hard-bodied. He exuded that lazily confident air that most women went for. She got a little internal zing herself. Biology was undeniable, she guessed, no matter how inconvenient.

      “Look at it this way,” Trudy continued. “If you don’t like the paint colors or tile I chose, you can change them—on my dime. If you want, add a few things while he’s available.”

      “I can’t afford anything more. I don’t want anything more. I…oh, hell, this is just too much to think about.”

      “You’ll do great, Ariel. Soliciting clients is not that hard. Your work speaks for itself.”

      Not if she couldn’t speak for her work.

      “Start with my leads, use my software and call me if you need a consult. If I’m anywhere I can be reached by phone, of course.” She gave that laugh again. More a trill than a tinkle, now that Ariel thought about it. “Seriously. You have everything you need to be successful.”

      Everything except clients. “I appreciate your faith in me,” Ariel said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

      “Bye-ee.”

      Bye-ee? What had the twit on the other end of the line done with levelheaded Trudy? Was she wrapped in duct tape in a trunk somewhere? Ariel clicked off, thrust the phone back in her purse, and looked up at the nearly naked man wearing a bemused expression.

      “So I guess you’re the house painter,” she said, trying to smile.

      He bowed. “And the framer and the carpenter and the plasterer and, possibly, the electrician, judging from the shorts we’re getting in the bathroom.”

      “Shorts in the bathroom?” she repeated weakly. Her already fuzzy brain throbbed with this new quandary. She didn’t deal well with change. Someone had definitely moved her cheese. “I need to sit down,” she said, bending to grab her suitcase handles, intending to head inside.

      Jake took the bags from her, hefting them as though they weighed nothing, and held the door. She moved inside, sand grinding in her shoes, anxiety burning in her stomach. She caught more of Jake’s scent as she passed—warm sunshine, sweet musk and coconut—pleasant in a beachy kind of way.

      She looked around the tiny living room and her heart sank. There wasn’t even a place to sit. Drop cloths covered what few pieces of furniture fit in the small space. Pieces of Sheetrock were propped against a canvas-covered lump—the sofa. Boards lay on the floor along with boxes of nails, tools, masking tape and a few cans of paint. More drop cloths covered two side chairs and the cocktail table.

      There were two fancy bicycles leaning on one wall—one disassembled—and a colorful, battered surfboard braced against the half wall that led to the kitchen.

      Jake set down her bags, shoved some of the sofa’s canvas away, and motioned gallantly for her to sit in the space he’d cleared. She dropped there with an unladylike plunk.

      “Better?” he said.

      “A little.”

      Jake lowered himself onto a drop-cloth–covered chair very close to her, the muscles of his legs and chest rolling with his movement. How she managed to fixate on his body at a time like this was beyond her. It must be raw exhaustion. Like a hypnosis subject transfixed by a shiny object, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. You’re getting sleepier and sleepier…warmer and warmer…more and more aroused…

      “Things are a little confusing,” she said, trying to clear her head. “Trudy sold me this house while we were in London and now…”

      “And now I’m fixing it up for you. No problemo.” He had the bluest eyes and an expressive mouth—very broad, like it spent most of its time smiling.

      “Yes, problemo,” she corrected. “I have to live here, you see. And work here. And—”

      “Not to worry. I’m a great roommate.”

      “I’m sure you are, but, I don’t really want a roommate.” Or a construction site. Jake obviously wasn’t one of those craftsmen who prided themselves on working neatly. Supplies were scattered from one end of the room to the other. God knows what the rest of the house looked like.

      “I don’t either, but I’m flexible.” He shrugged. “You can have the master bedroom, since it’s your house.”

      She stared at him. “As I just said, I would prefer the place to myself.”

      He looked at her, blinked, smiled.

      “I’m a business consultant,” she explained. It was difficult work that requires concentration, quiet and order and—at the minimum—a room for an office. She surveyed the living room and it looked the way her life felt—confused and chaotic. Despair welled up. She rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands.

      “You’re freaked right now,” Jake said softly. “Give it a few days and see how it works out.”

      She lifted her head and stared at him.

      He grinned. “What, you want to kick me out today? Make me sleep on the beach?”

      “I’m sure you have family or friends you can stay with.”

      He just looked at her with those smoky blue eyes. She knew silence was a negotiating tool meant to put the opponent on the defensive, get him to blurt a concession, and she felt herself succumbing,