That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [78]
"Eyes front," he muttered under his breath as he got out of his car and walked around it to the sidewalk. Ten steps to the awning; a few more until he was inside with his parents, his brother, the regulars.
But his eyes weren't obeying his brain. They shifted, looking left. Up the block. Toward the bridal shop.
A panel truck was double-parked at the curb in front of Rachel's building. Watching a uniformed deliveryman exit the store, pushing a large dolly, he remembered the desk she'd been preparing for last night. She'd gotten her delivery. Which meant she was sitting up there again this evening, with her little screwdriver and her small hammer out of her Tonka Toy toolbox, about to set up a desk that probably weighed more than she did.
"Not your concern," he reminded himself.
But his feet didn't listen to his brain any better than his eyes did. Because he suddenly found himself turning away from the restaurant, and striding a few doors up the street.
When he got to the boutique, he figured he'd just peek inside, make sure Rachel had help with her task, then slip away. Nice and easy. A look, that was all.
But she didn't have help. Luke couldn't contain a groan when he saw her in there, trying with all her might to tug at an enormous cardboard box.
"Dammit, Rachel," he muttered.
His hand reached for the doorknob, but his subconscious tried to talk him out of it. Don't do this.
He almost obeyed the mental voice. Then he muttered a curse and consigned it to the depths of his subconscious, where it could party all night long with his conscience. And he walked into the darkened shop.
She immediately looked up, a flash of concern on her face. Probably understandable, given what had happened the previous evening with the s.o.b. in the brown suit.
When she saw and recognized him, he expected the concern to fade away. It didn't. If anything, she seemed more disturbed. Her frown deepened, then she quickly dropped her eyes, shielding her expression behind her bangs and her half-lowered lashes. She said nothing for a long, thick moment.
"You look like you need some help," he muttered, answering a question she hadn't even asked.
She'd been asking more than that one question with her discomfort and her silence. And he'd been less than honest about his one answer. But it would do for now.
"My aunt wanted to stay, but I was afraid she'd hurt herself so I told her I had help."
Unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt, he rolled them up as he walked across the store. "You really do need to start locking the door after hours."
"I was going to, but since the delivery man left this monstrosity right in the middle of the floor, I would have had to walk across it to get to the door."
"The monstrosity you were about to try to wrestle into the back room all by yourself." Shaking his head, he squatted down and tested the weight of the box, lifting one corner. Then he grunted. The thing had to have a couple hundred pounds of pressed wood sections inside. "The guy couldn't even bring it into the back for you?"
She made a tiny little sound, almost a clearing of the throat, but probably more like a groan of embarrassment. "It won't fit."
He sat back on his haunches, following her stare. She was right. The box wasn't going to fit through that narrow doorway.
"I was trying to open it, figuring I could just carry it piece by piece."
"You should've stuck with your shoe box system." Then, not bothering to ask if she wanted his help, he tore open the end of the carton and began pulling components out.
"Lord have mercy, are those the directions?" she asked as a wad of paper about the size of Chicago's phone book came tumbling out.
"'Fraid so."
"Wow, I hope you're good with your hands?"
There was a loaded comment. Because yeah, if he did say so himself, he was damn good with his hands. As well as other body parts. All of which were dying to prove the point to the woman staring at him in wide-eyed innocence.
Maybe not complete innocence.