She was going to get darn lonely. And broke. Since she’d cleared her professional commitments in preparation for the wedding, she had no money coming in. What was left in her checking account should have lasted two months, if she’d been careful. But she’d foolishly blown her weekly budget on food, flowers and napkins for one night. Why? Was she so lonely for company that she’d courted Ethan’s approval and attention?
Under regular circumstances, with her normal income, she could have filled countless days scouring antique stores, flea markets and garage sales throughout the area. But not with her present finances! How, she wondered, was she going to fill up her days and nights without work, shopping or friends?
The fact that she hadn’t included her former fiancé in her thoughts was another indication she’d done the right thing by calling off the wedding. If she’d been madly in love with Gig Harrelson, she would be missing him terribly. All she felt was an enormous sense of relief. Her reason for marrying him was wrong, and she would have realized it earlier if she’d allowed herself to step back and think about their relationship. Yes, she still missed the familiarity, but not the particular man with whom she had nearly pledged to spend the rest of her life.
She was learning a lot about herself, but she was also going to get lonesome before long. She might have to return to Houston early, even though she’d signed a contract with the real estate agent to stay in the house two months. Funny thing was, she really didn’t want to go back to her condo, to her life, just yet. She’d rather enjoyed her temporary stay in Ranger Springs so far. She’d continue enjoying it if she had a little more money and she could remain friends with Ethan. And spend time with Bess, when the older woman returned from San Antonio.
Robin just had to remember to treat Ethan exactly as she did his elderly aunt.
She smiled as she straightened, thinking that she needed a little time to freshen up before Ethan arrived. She’d focused almost all her attention on the table, telling herself her appearance wasn’t all that important. After all, she wasn’t trying to attract Ethan’s attention. She certainly didn’t want to appear as polished and perfect as her table setting. She simply wanted to be…neat. Clean. She didn’t want to look like she’d been rushing around all afternoon like a madwoman.
When she glanced at her watch, however, she realized “freshening up” might consist of patting the perspiration off her forehead and running a brush through her hair. Ethan was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes, and she assumed the food would be warm by then.
As if thinking about dinner had made it a reality, the smell of scorching vegetables wafted through the open kitchen doorway. She recognized the odor immediately; her cooking usually took on this particular odor before she dumped it down the garbage disposal.
“Darn it,” she muttered, rushing into the spacious kitchen and jerking open the oven. The roasted chicken was hissing at her from inside the hot interior, and the string beans had shriveled into wrinkled green ropes in the middle of a large but attractive enamel pot on the stove. She pulled the pot off the burner just as the doorbell rang—and noticed that she’d totally forgotten to warm the risotto.
“Great. He’s early,” she mumbled as she pulled the sputtering chicken from the oven. The skin of the roasted bird seemed to have a life of its own as steam escaped from various crannies. “Yuck.” She should have chosen a nice, quiet chicken breast filet instead of this whole bird, which seemed reluctant to make it to the table.
The doorbell rang again. Using the kitchen towel, Robin patted her face and neck, straightened her mid-calf-length sundress and ran both hands through her hair. Ethan would just have to face her as she was; she didn’t have time for even minimal primping. She rushed toward the entryway.
“Hello,” she said breathlessly as she opened the door.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes skimming her quickly. “You look great.” He immediately clamped his mouth shut, as though he’d already said too much.
Robin grinned. Despite saying she wasn’t going to get involved, despite assurances to him and to herself that she wasn’t ready for any kind of romantic relationship, there was nothing like a good-looking man’s appreciative stare to make a woman feel good. And heavens, Ethan did look good tonight in a solid, dark red shirt and body-hugging jeans. He was one-hundred percent Texas male, from his regulation haircut to his worn-but-shiny cowboy boots. Yes, this man’s compliment made her pulse race and her palms itch.
Even if she did have a hissing chicken and stringy beans waiting to bring her back to reality.
TWO THINGS HIT Ethan simultaneously as soon as he tore his attention away from Robin: first, the house—specifically the dining room—looked like something from one of those fancy decorating magazines Susie, his daytime dispatcher, provided for the police department waiting room; and second, it smelled like something from his early college days when he was still learning to scorch his meals to bachelorhood perfection.
“Please, come in,” Robin said, her voice breathless and sexy as hell. He didn’t suppose she meant to sound like she’d just had a satisfying roll in the hay. But darn it, she looked like she’d been caught doing something very naughty and pleasurable, and he couldn’t help it if his mind automatically jumped to conclusions. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her eyes were sparkling and a damp sheen made her filmy sundress cling to every curve of her body.
“I’m a mess,” she apologized as she walked into the living room, talking over her shoulder. “I do this all the time; I get carried away with decorating and forget I have other things to do.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she stopped beside the couch. “I meant to freshen up a little before you arrived.”
“I’m probably early. And you look…fine.”
“Thanks,” she said with a laugh. “That’s very gentlemanly of you.”
“It’s the least I can say after showing up before you were expecting me.”
Robin laughed. “If I tell my friends in Houston seven o’clock, most of them will show up from seven-fifteen to seven-thirty. A few might even stretch it to eight.”
“That’s one of the differences between the city and the country,” Ethan replied, presenting a bag that contained a six-pack of his favorite beer, plus something for her. “Can I put this in the refrigerator?”
“I’ll take it.” Her hands brushed over his as she tried to scoop the heavy bag into her arms.
“Let me,” he said at the same time.
She laughed, relinquishing her hold, as he tried to control his reaction to her innocent and fleeting touch. Man, he was in trouble if he couldn’t get through the first few minutes without thinking about how sexy she looked and sounded, and how he wanted to be the reason her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was shallow.
“Follow me.”
Gladly, he silently answered, as she breezed into the kitchen. Her hips swayed ever so slightly. Only her lower calves and ankles were visible beneath the hem of her sundress. But to him, the sight was very arousing.
She opened the side-by-side refrigerator, gesturing inside. “Put it anywhere it will fit.”
“I brought some white wine for you. I wasn’t sure if you were a beer drinker.”
“Thanks. I’d love a glass of wine. I didn’t bring any with me when I left Houston. I forgot how difficult it was to find a store out in the boonies…Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound disparaging of your town. I like it very much. Really.”
He handed her the bottle of chardonnay, then extracted a bottle of beer for himself. “No problem. I like being out in the boonies.” But her comments had reinforced one of their main differences—big city and small town, just like wine and beer, didn’t mix. No matter how attractive he found Robin, he had to keep that fact in mind.
“I’ll get you a glass.”
“Not necessary,” he said, twisting off the cap. “Can I get the cork for you?”
“I’ll do it. Just make yourself at home.”
She searched in two drawers b
efore she found the corkscrew. “I’m still getting used to the house.”
“I’m sure it’s very different from your place in Houston.”
“Very. I live in a high-rise condo without much storage. My kitchen cabinets hold a small set of dinnerware and a wide variety of glasses—I admit I eat most meals out. And my drawers aren’t full of all the gadgets Mrs. Franklin obviously uses.”
“So you’re not really into cooking.”
She froze, looking at him with wide eyes. Then she bestowed a big, fake smile and said, “Not as much as I’m into decorating.”
Ethan smiled in reply, speculating that her remark was a huge understatement. Somehow, the knowledge that she’d gone to so much trouble to fix dinner for him when she obviously didn’t enjoy cooking made the evening more special. For a special friend, he reminded himself. Ever since her phone call yesterday, he’d told himself many times how grateful he was that she’d made her intentions known up front. He’d been very worried that Robin wanted more of a romantic relationship than he could give her.
“Let me help. If you’ll show me where the lids are, I’ll try to keep the chicken and green beans warm while we relax a moment. You look as if you could use a glass of wine.”
“That obvious, huh?” she said with amusement in her voice. Her smile changed to a frown. “Lids. I’m not sure—”
“I’ll look,” Ethan offered. He had no trouble locating them in Mrs. Franklin’s well-organized and equipped kitchen. Within a few moments, he and Robin both had a cold drink and had headed into the living room.
He’d been nervous about coming to dinner tonight, but now he was glad he’d accepted Robin’s invitation. She was lonely, just as her aunt had said, even if she had wanted him to kiss her last night in the Bronco. Her reaction was probably an abnormality, brought on by the night, her loneliness, and who knew what other emotions. He’d never been great at reading women. If he’d been more in tune to their moods and needs, he wouldn’t be sitting here with Robin tonight. He’d be with someone else—in a much more permanent situation.
His first impression of Robin as a hard-hearted man-killer who thought nothing of leaving her fiancé at the altar was as wrong as could be. Given his background, though, how could anyone blame him for being suspicious? Thank heavens he wouldn’t have to relive any of those painful memories, especially since he and Robin were going to be just friends.
“SO THAT’S WHAT decorators do,” Robin said, finishing her glass of wine. They’d cleared the table and disposed of the remains of the overdone-but-tasty dinner. What had been left wasn’t salvageable for leftovers—not that Robin looked like the type of woman who saved leftovers. She seemed like the sort who preferred catered meals and restaurant fare—and Ethan didn’t mean fast food. He and Robin were as different as armadillos and rattlesnakes.
“So you do what the client wants,” Ethan said as he sat beside her—but not too close—on the couch.
“Well, within reason. For example, if I had a client who wanted a nubby beige sofa, white walls and ‘starving artist’ oil paintings, I’d advise them against using me as a decorator. They can get that sort of thing at any furniture store.”
Ethan cringed inwardly. Aunt Bess didn’t seem to mind their decor, which had pretty much come from the local furniture store, and the white walls, which had been painted just prior to his buying the one-story, ranch-style home on two acres of land. He’d picked the house because of its location near the main road—rural but not far from the municipal building—and the fact there weren’t steps for Aunt Bess to climb. Since moving to Ranger Springs, he’d rarely thought about how the house looked inside.
Of course, he wanted a well-kept yard, which he mowed and trimmed weekly. The interior always seemed to him the domain of the “woman of the house,” and in his case, that was his elderly aunt. If he’d gotten married a few years ago, he might not spend his evenings in his comfortable lounger with his aunt sitting on the nubby beige sofa beneath the cheap oil painting of sea grass on a sandy dune.
“So what if a client already had that sort of style and wanted something else? What would you do?”
“I’d ask them what they liked, what kind of lifestyle they lived, how long they were going to be in the house, and what budget they were considering. Then I could come up with some preliminary ideas. Many clients enjoy shopping with me at design centers, antique stores and specialty shops for ideas and accessories.” She paused. “If I were in Houston, of course. I haven’t even seen an antique store in Ranger Springs.”
He’d always thought the fact that Ranger Springs didn’t have an antique store was a point in its favor, but he supposed Robin wouldn’t appreciate his opinion. Most of the stuff he’d seen inside those stores, on the two occasions he’d gone with his aunt, looked to him like someone else’s discards. “So you wouldn’t hold it against the client if they didn’t have a lot of stylish furniture and…knick-knacks to begin with?”
Robin laughed. “No, I wouldn’t. The most important thing is that the client and I can agree on a strategy for improving the look and function of their home.”
“Sounds like a big job.”
“I think so. People make fun of decorators, but we enjoy helping people live in a better environment. Some decorators work very closely with energy-saving and earth-friendly products, or with architects who design state-of-the-art houses. Most clients don’t want their homes to look like computer workstations or industrial sites.”
“I can understand that. I like a real homey look myself, but I have a hard time knowing what that means, exactly.” He took a sip of iced tea, enjoying the low-key conversation more than he’d imagined. “It’s like a lot of things—you just know it when you see it.”
Robin laughed. “Believe me, I’ve heard that before, especially from male clients. Women tend to be more opinionated and have a better idea of their personal style.”
And some of them have a hard time admitting what they really want out of life, he thought. But again, he was thinking of his past, which had no bearing on the present. He couldn’t lump Robin in with other women he’d known.
“Do most of your clients want something modern? Bright colors and glass cubes and things like that?” he asked.
“Actually, most people want a fairly traditional look, but they want to make their statement, too. For example, they might have inherited fine cherry or mahogany dining room furniture, but they collect modern art. It’s easy for a decorator to combine the two to make a striking room, but it takes skill and confidence some home-owners don’t possess. Success comes from color and balance. Convincing a client to paint their walls dark red is a real challenge,” she added with a chuckle.
“Most people around here don’t collect modern art,” he observed.
“No, but I’ll bet a lot of them have some fine antiques that they’ve either inherited or purchased. Some people have trouble integrating those pieces with their existing furniture.” She finished her glass of wine, then smiled. “Why? Do you think Ranger Springs could use a decorator?”
He narrowed his eyes and studied her, trying to imagine her setting up shop in a small town. The possibilities were slim, so he settled on “Maybe.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. A lot of people see decorators as an added expense they simply don’t need. They’re happy with their beige sofas and white walls.”
“But what if they’re not? Wouldn’t you like to help?”
“I’m almost always willing to help…for commission or a fee,” she said with a smile.
“How about my house? Would you help me get rid of the furniture-store look?”
“Your house?” She seemed to still, like a leaf momentarily caught in an updraft.
“Sure. I don’t know anything about decorating. Aunt Bess is as sweet as can be, but she’s happy with whatever pleases me. Oh, she’s got some antiques in her bedroom—a lot of knickknacks from her family. But they’re hers, not mine. Honestly, I think she’s kind of stuck
in the sixties or seventies from what she said when we went shopping a few years ago. I’m beginning to think I need help.”
“You’re serious.”
“Very.” Hiring Robin to decorate his house would keep her busy, so she wouldn’t be lonely. And if he gave her free rein to buy all those little things that made a place look like a home, she’d be working and out of his hair during the day. He wouldn’t have to worry about her sitting alone in this big house with nothing to do but think about her friends and family—and ex-fiancé—back in Houston. And best of all, he’d get the kind of home he’d always wanted, but couldn’t decorate on his own.
Surely his aunt would agree that hiring Robin to decorate was an even better inspiration than taking her out to dinner or a movie.
He could tell Robin was seriously considering the offer. She didn’t hide her feelings very well; he had no idea whether she could conceal her emotions even if she tried.
Her eyes sparkled as she leaned slightly toward him. “I’d like to see your house and discuss what you want.”
Ethan shrugged. “Sure, but it’s pretty standard stuff. One-story brick, three bedrooms, two baths. And as for what I want, I’m not really sure. I just want to make it more…homey. You know, kind of personal but not too fussy. I don’t like fussy. No frilly lace curtains and tiny little chairs. And I’m not giving up my recliner or big-screen TV.”
Robin laughed. “Somehow, I could have guessed that.”
BEFORE LONG, ETHAN announced he needed to get home. He had to work tomorrow, but at least this evening hadn’t ended like the one two nights ago, with him looking at his watch with a panicked expression on his face. No, tonight he’d appeared relaxed and pleased.
“I enjoyed the dinner,” he said, as she opened the door for him.
“Even if it was a little overcooked.”
“Just a bit,” he said, smiling in the appealing way she’d appreciated from the very beginning. She suspected he wasn’t the type of man who smiled a lot at work, given his status as chief of police and his FBI training. But he had a lot of warmth inside. She could tell by the way he treated his aunt, and the way he offered a smile as if he wasn’t sure it would be accepted.
The Bachelor Project Page 6