That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [74]
But even as he told himself that, he wondered if he was wrong. Because he had never reacted this way—with such instant awareness—to anyone before.
Not until today. Three weeks before his wedding.
Hell.
He should have followed Mr. Brown Suit out the door. Instead he'd stayed. And gotten himself into some completely unexpected trouble. Not merely because of his cold feet or her killer smile. No, what had really done him in was that he liked her. Really, truly, liked her.
"So, earlier, when you said you need space to 'put things together' you weren't talking about the actual furniture, were you?" he said as they finished a final trip to the Dumpster in the back, now filled with scraps of wood and shoeboxes.
She nodded.
He persisted. "As in assembling?"
"Yes." Seeing his skepticism, she fisted her hand, put it on her hip, and tilted her head back. "I know how to use basic tools."
He followed her stare and noted the rinky-dink toolbox. His three-year-old nephew had sturdier looking stuff in his toy box. "You're going to use that?"
"I'll be fine," she insisted, her tone allowing for no further argument. Then, as if realizing she might have sounded ungrateful, she added, "I so appreciate your help, even though you really didn't have to stay…"
They'd gone over that a few times already. "Forget it. I'd be willing to bet you put in some overtime hours on my behalf in recent weeks."
She glanced up, appearing puzzled. "I don't know what you mean."
"Well, I know there's been a lot of … indecisiveness with my family."
The confusion disappeared from her face, and she chuckled. "Oh, you mean the four different bridesmaids gown styles? The three shades of pink? The two types of headdress?"
"And the partridge in a pear tree," he said, unable to hold in a rueful chuckle.
Her eyes sparkled as she laughed with him. "It's not so bad. Weddings are pretty…"
"Torturous?"
She tsked. "I was going to say energetic."
"Yeah. Like the electric chair." Electric chair. Condemned man. Kinda fit the direction of his thoughts these days.
"Pessimist," she said with an amused frown.
"Optimist."
Her eyes narrowed and she said, "Man," as if getting the last word with the ultimate insult.
He couldn't help replying, with equally exaggerated disgust, "Woman."
Their playful bickering brought a feeling of pleasure deep inside Luke's body as he acknowledged how relaxed he felt in this woman's company. He hadn't felt this way for a long time. A very long time. Why didn't I meet her six months ago?
"I hope this desk isn't too big," he said, looking around the circle they'd managed to clear in the back room.
"It's huge." She didn't sound worried. Again the optimist. "I think my aunt pictures it doubling as a back-up sewing table, but I plan to keep it perfectly neat and for business only. She'll probably be disappointed when she sees how organized and professional I'm going to make this place."
He raised a brow, unable to help it. Given the woman's shoebox filing system, he wondered just how organized she was going to be.
Rachel seemed to sense his skepticism and she frowned. "I am organized and businesslike."
"Uh-huh."
Her eyes narrowed. "Very organized."
He didn't say a word, merely letting his gaze fall on the teetering pile of bridal magazines in one corner and the haphazard stack of packing boxes in another. They hadn't been shoved there during the rearranging, but had remained exactly where they'd been when he arrived.
Following his stare, Rachel blew out a long breath and swept a strand of hair off her face. It was a nervous habit, one that caught his eye every time. When she was deep in thought—or nervous—she shoved her hair out of the way as if it was an unwelcome shroud instead of the pure spun gold that looked softer than any silk gown in this place.
He gulped the image away, returning his attention to the job at hand.
"Okay," she admitted, her tone grudging. "Organization has never been a strong suit of mine.