Page 8 of The Love Shack

The idea relieved her.

And oddly, it caused a stirring of resentment. She’d changed a lot, in every...okay,most...ways possible. To prove it to herself, she hitched her chin. “How can you not know what drinks you have?”

“I have other things on my mind.” Standing aside, he stretched out one muscular arm to hold open the wooden door.

Um, yeah. That long reach did interesting things to his chest and shoulders.

His gaze was on her, patiently waiting for her verdict.

It felt like a test, so screw it. She sidled past with Hero. Accidentally,on purpose, she inhaled the scent of warm, sweat-damp man mingled with the fresh outdoors.Intoxicating.That was,ifshe could be intoxicated...but she couldn’t, because for real, she didn’t care about men inthatway anymore.

He brushed past her as he came in, leading the way through an empty living room that was definitely under construction, into a kitchen that appeared functional.

“So you worked on the kitchen first?”

“Enough to make it usable.” He grabbed a black T-shirt off the back of a chair and pulled it on.

Shame. Or maybe it was good. She’d done enough ogling this morning.

He opened a big white fridge and began rummaging around past numerous food bags.

“What is all that?”

“The bags? I get my dinner from Saul’s restaurant.”

“Wow. Looks like you really worked up an appetite.” His fridge was crammed full.

After a short laugh, he explained, “I buy enough to cover the whole week. Between the T-shirt shop and working here, I don’t have much time to cook. I buy seven entrées from Saul, along with a bunch of sides, then all I have to do is choose what I want and nuke my meal.”

Amazing. “What about breakfast and lunch?”

He found two waters, a Coke and a bottle of iced tea. After setting them all on the table, he said, “There’s a smaller fridge at the shop in town. I keep lunch meat and bread there. Breakfast is usually coffee and a protein bar.”

Okay, so that was how he stayed so ripped. He deprived himself of food while working all day. “Balanced meals are important.”

“I get by.” He nodded at the drinks. “Here are your choices. What do you think?”

She thought she didn’t want to take a single thing from him, given that’d leave him with less.

“Berkley,” he said, dragging out her name like a complaint. “You won’t leave me short on supplies. I have to be at the shop tomorrow morning and I’ll grab more drinks on my way home.”

Refusing him now would be rude, so she smiled and reached for a bottle of water. “Thanks.” Coffee would have been even better, but his carafe was empty. She tipped her bottle at the bare walls on one side of the kitchen “So what’s going on here?”

“Do you have a good imagination?”

Once, years ago, she’d imagined herself recovered from public scorn, a functioning, happy person, even when that dream had seemed far, far out of reach. Now, living here, that dream was reality. “Sure. Great imagination. Lay it on me.”

The curve of his mouth showed admiration. “The upper part of this wall, from here and including that small corner, will be white subway tiles, with the oven and stovetop here, a few cabinets and a dishwasher below. The sink will be in that corner. I’m taking out the rest of that wall and replacing it with sliders that’ll open to the side yard. The counter will be stained concrete.”

“Sweet. What color stain?”

“Dark brown, to reflect the window trim and wood flooring.”

She looked down and found rustic wood beneath her feet. “Huh. Original?”

He nodded. “I’ll replace a board or two, sand out the rough spots, then give it a fresh coat of stain, finished with polyurethane. Overall, the floor is in great shape.”

Getting into his description, she asked, “Stainless steel appliances?”

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