Page 89 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

“Apology accepted.”

He grabbed his suitcase and climbed the steps to the small, square upstairs hallway, which was cut up with a series of doors.

“You can take Nana’s old bedroom,” she said. “Bathroom next to it. That’s the living room. It was my mother’s bedroom when she was a kid. I sleep on the third floor.”

He set down his suitcase and went over to stand in the living room doorway. The outdated gray-and-mauve decorating scheme looked hopelessly shabby. A section of yesterday’s newspaper had fallen to the sculpted tweed carpet, and the book she’d been reading lay open on the gray sofa. A pickled oak armoire holding a television occupied the space between two rattly double-hung windows, which were topped with poofy valances in faded gray and mauve stripes. In front of the windows, a matching pair of white metal stands with curly legs held more of Nana’s African violet collection.

“This is nice,” he said. “I like your house.”

At first she thought he was kidding, but then she realized he was sincere. “I’ll trade you,” she said.

He gazed toward the open door in the hallway. “You sleep in the attic?”

“It’s where I stayed when I was a kid, and I kind of got used to it.” “Tinker Bell’s lair. This I have to see.” He headed for the narrow attic stairs.

“I thought you were so tired,” she called out.

“Making this the perfect time for me to see your bedroom. I’m harmless.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment.

The attic with its twin dormers and sloping ceilings had become the repository for all of Nana’s discarded antiques: a cherry four-poster bed, an oak bureau, a dressing table with a gilded mirror, even an old dressmaker’s mannequin from the days when Nana had kept herself busy by sewing instead of matchmaking. One dormer held a cozy armchair and ottoman, the other a small walnut desk and an ugly, but efficient, window air conditioner. Annabelle had recentl

y added blue-and-white toile curtains to the dormer windows, a matching toile bedspread, and some French prints to complement the miscellaneous landscapes that had drifted up here.

She was glad she’d tidied up earlier, although she wished she hadn’t overlooked the pink bra lying on the bed. His eyes wandered to it, then drifted to the mannequin, currently outfitted in an old lace tablecloth and a Cubs hat. “Nana?”

“She was a fan.”

“So I see.” He gazed up at the sloping ceiling. “All this needs is a couple of skylights, and it’d be perfect.”

“Maybe you should concentrate on decorating your own place.”

“I guess.”

“Honestly, Heath, if I had that gorgeous house and your money, I’d turn it into a showplace.”

“What do you mean?”

“Big furniture, stone tables, great lighting, contemporary art on the wall—huge canvases. How can you stand living in such an amazing house and not doing anything with it?”

He looked at her so strangely that she grew uncomfortable and turned away. “Nana’s bedroom has a temperamental window shade. I’ll go fix it and get you some towels.”

She hurried downstairs. The faint scent of Avon’s To a Wild Rose still clung to Nana’s room. She turned on the small china dresser lamp, put away the extra blanket she’d left at the foot of the bed, and fixed the shade. In the bathroom, she stowed the Tampax box from last week and draped a clean set of towels over the old chrome rod.

He still hadn’t come downstairs. She wondered if he’d spotted her old Tippy Tumbles doll propped on the bureau. Even worse, what about the sex toy catalog that she hadn’t gotten around to throwing away? She rushed up the stairs.

He lay on her bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, and sound asleep.

His lips were slightly parted, and his ankles, clad in plain black socks, crossed. One hand rested on his chest. The other lay at his side, next to the scrap of pink bra peeking from under his hip. It nested by his fingertips, not quite touching them, but close enough to make her queasy. Call her crazy, but she couldn’t stand seeing abandoned lingerie anywhere near him.

A floorboard squeaked as she tiptoed to the bed. Slowly, carefully, she snagged the bra strap and tugged.

It didn’t budge.

He expelled a little puff of air. This was nuts. She felt vulnerable enough as it was. She should go away and let him sleep. But she tugged again.

He rolled toward her, onto his side, trapping all but a loop of lacy strap under his hip.

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