Page 10 of Cool for the Summer

“Huh. Don’t like people telling you what to do?”

“Hey, I can take direction. When called for,” Donovan says with a sly smile.

I purse my lips. He could be referring to the directors of his plays, but it kind of sounds like he’s talking about taking direction in the bedroom. I hastily push the mental images that crop up as far to the back of my brain as I can.

“So, why are you here?”

“Why are any of us here?” Donovan answers facetiously, gesturing grandly to the tree-lined street of large grassy lots and well-kept post-war houses.

I give him my bitchiest glare and Donovan relents, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m here because Pete asked me to take care of Cleo, and he never asks me for anything.”

For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe he and Pete have a romantic history. I swallow. Should I press my luck and ask? It really isn’t any of my business, and Donovan and I are getting along so far—I don’t want to make the next two months any more awkward than they’re already going to be.

Instead, I say, “That was nice of you, to upend your life like that.”

He lets out a little huff. “Well, if we’re being honest here, I was kind of excited about the chance to get out of the city. I lost my lease about a month ago and I’ve been imposing on another friend ever since. My last show ended around the same time, and my agent’s working on setting me up with something for the fall, but in the meantime, I’m supposed to be writing a play.”

“You’re a playwright, too?” How many layers does this onion have?

“Not really.” Donovan seems uncomfortable at the term. When I lift my eyebrows, he elaborates. “I wrote a little one-act on a whim and, without telling me, my agent entered it into a contest. Somehow it won. Suddenly, I had producers wanting to talk to me. I never thought about writing seriously before, but Joan thinks I’m getting burned out, told me to take a break from the grind of auditions and eight shows a week and stew in my creative juices. Whatever that means.”

The irritation in his voice doesn’t distract me from the vulnerability on his face. It’s strange to see him uncertain about something, since he’s projected effortless competence all day. I want to be reassuring, but despite this accelerated get-to-know-you game, I really don’t know him well enough to be sure what to say, so I keep it light. “Stewing in creative juices—sounds delicious.”

He laughs a little, making the corners of his eyes crease attractively. I deliberately turn my gaze away and land on a house at the very end of the street. It’s different from the others we’ve passed—the front yard is an overgrown tangle of grass and rose bushes, the windows are dark, and there’s no car in the gravel driveway. A yellow newspaper sits disintegrating on the front step. The dark blue paint on the charming two-story wood frame house is peeling around the windows and the front door looks like it was once white but is now mottled green with some kind of moss.

“A fairy-tale cottage,” I whisper, pushing my sunglasses down my nose so I can see it more clearly.

Donovan squints at the property. “A dump,” he says flatly.

“A fixer-upper,” I correct him. There’s something about the house, clearly unlived-in, that makes me ache a little. Every other house on the street is tidy and neat. Boring. This one has gone to seed but has more character than all the rest. “I wonder if it’s on the market.”

“You looking to buy?” He makes it sound like a joke.

I open my mouth, then think better of it. People tend to treat me differently after I explain about my family. Instead, I shake my head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t tempt myself with things I can’t have.”

Donovan stares at the house for another minute, letting Cleo explore the overgrown flowerbed outside the split-rail fence that separates the front yard from the sidewalk.

“Wonder what the story is,” he muses. “Squabbling relatives? Maybe it’s haunted.”

“Ah, your writer’s imagination is showing,” I say, delighted.

He shrugs. “More likely the owner got moved to assisted living and their kids don’t know what to do with it.”

“Way to take the romance out of it,” I say dryly. “Well, anyway, you’re right. It would be a lot of work to fix it up.”

“You know about that kind of thing?” Donovan asks when we turn back toward home, Cleo leading the way.

“Not really. I once painted my dorm room purple—other than that, I’m not really handy. But I could learn.” I picture myself as a house flipper, rewiring and, uh, doing plumbing…things. It doesn’t exactly appeal. But I could hire people—that’s what Jack and Pete did when they bought their house. They redid the kitchen and bathrooms, added a studio for Pete, and completely overhauled the pool.

I wonder what the kitchen’s like in the dark blue house. I might not be handy, but I like to cook, and I love to bake. The kitchen is usually the only place I can fully relax.

“Purple?” Donovan sounds appalled.

“Yeah, it’s the color of passion. I thought it would help me get laid.” I laugh, remembering the irony of my first college boyfriend being color blind.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much help,” he says mildly.

I glance at him, surprised. He was definitely flirting with me this morning, but now it’s hard to tell if he means anything by that. Our little coffee klatch feels like a million years ago.

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