Wife for the Weekend

by Ophelia London

  Normally, he liked it when she got kitten-feisty, but this was all wrong.

  “Jules, calm down.”

  “You don’t know what real art is,” she said, wringing the bottom of her sweater. New stains of paint on her fingers stood out. “When’s the last time you were in a gallery? I’m not talking about some opening in Chelsea where you’re there to have a business meeting and not actually look at the art. A real gallery, like the ones here in Mount Gretna that feature local artists. They’re beautiful and moving—emotional, and that can’t be created on a computer.”

  Seeing the genuine injury in her eyes made his world stop. And once again when it came to Juliet Bloom, he was an idiot. If he’d considered for two seconds, he would’ve known. She didn’t wear shoes or own a smartphone, why would she be in favor of virtual art?

  “I offended you,” he said humbly. “And I’m sorry.”

  When she looked at him, her cheeks were red. “Okay.”

  “But I’m not sorry about the idea,” he added. “I see it through your eyes, though, and I get what you’re saying.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dexter pushed his computer away, wanting to make amends. “You were sketching earlier and I know that’s your painting on the wall.” He pointed at the squiggly lines. “What else have you done?”

  She peered at him kind of funny, then extended her arms out to her sides. “These.”

  It took a moment before he realized what she meant. “All of these? There’s got to be a hundred,” he said, gazing at the walls, every square inch covered with some kind of drawing or painting.

  “Eighty-nine. Grams counted last year.”

  “And you did them all?”

  “I’m an artist—it’s what I do.”

  “Right.” Okay, so he didn’t get the meaning of bright pink sunflowers that morphed into blue ocean waves and orange sun rays, and he knew nothing about technique, but he had to be impressed with the sheer volume of work. No one spent so much time at something if they didn’t love it, if passion didn’t surge through their veins like bolts of lightning.

  “Do you have more at home in Vegas?”

  “Not nearly as many,” she admitted, slowly walking back to the couch. “Real life was there. I had a job and responsibilities—bills to pay. But when I’m here…” Her voice trailed out as she gazed into space. “It’s like I’m completely free. I’ve always felt that way—it changes people, I swear. I feel no weight on my shoulders, no responsibility other than to create. I have a lot of artistic friends in Vegas. Some have never found their muse. I have, and it’s always been here in Hershey, Mount Gretna, this cottage facing the lake.”

  Finally, Dexter understood why this place was so important to Jules. It wasn’t just her grandmother’s memory, it was the house itself. For a minute, he felt jealous. Besides the weekends he’d spent at home during college, sleeping late and eating his mom’s cooking, Dexter had never felt free and weightless like how Jules had described.

  But man, did it sound appealing; she sounded appealing. He wanted it—what she’d described.

  But would it work for him without her?

  “I’ll, um, take the couch again,” he said. “We’d better call it a night.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dexter was in the middle of the recurring dream of getting ready to bungee jump from his office window. His father was always in the dream, behind him, watching, but this time, his corner office was full of his family, Quent, Rosemary Granger, and Jules.

  He was jumping, though. No matter who was watching. It was time. Something suddenly broke his concentration. A knock at his office door. A pounding so loud it sounded like a wrecking ball.

  “Ouch. Holy mother of…”

  The voice shook him awake, and at first he just stared across the room. Streams of morning sunlight touched its edges and corners, illuminating tiny whirlpools of swirling dust coming off the antique furniture. He grabbed his phone. It was after nine o’clock. Since when had he been a late sleeper? He yawned and stretched, wondering if he could find that “nala” from yesterday.

  More pounding made it impossible.

  Dexter was on his feet, storming bleary-eyed toward the sound. “Stop! What in holy hell are you doing?”

  Jules peered at him through the most ridiculous pair of safety goggles while lowering a freaking sledgehammer. “Did I wake you?”

  “Did you wake me?” He stepped back and looked around. The breakfast nook table and chairs were moved away from the wall and covered in a tarp. The wall between the window and back door had a hole in it the size of a basketball. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Knock down this wall, so you better move, it’s not safe.”

  “Safe?”

  He noted her perpetually bare feet. At least she was wearing steel-toed boots, which looked five sizes too big.

  “I know what I’m doing.” She swung the sledgehammer and hit the wall, causing Sheetrock to fly and the windows to rattle.

  “You’re supposed to remove the glass first. Did you shut off the circuit breaker?”

  Ignoring him, she took another swing. Wires and beams inside the wall showed through. This focused, eccentric girl was going to seriously hurt herself if she kept going. When she wound up to swing, he grabbed the tool out of her hands.

  “Whoa. Hold on.”

  “I told you I know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re acting crazy.”

  “It’s perfectly sane to do home construction on my own home. And yes, the power is off. I’m not daft.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then his stubbly chin. He hadn’t shaved since Sunday. “Jules. You can’t knock down this wall until the glass is out.”

  “I tried.” She ran the back of a hand across her forehead, smearing a line of white drywall chalk. “I’ll have someone come out later this week and help me with that part.”

  “Nope. No way.”

  She stepped up to him, hands on hips. “We’ve been over this. You don’t have a vote.”

  “I realize that.” Had he ever met a more stubborn woman? “Will you at least let me hire a contractor?”

  “No.” She took off her goggles and tossed them on the tarp. “I’m doing it myself. I don’t need a professional.”

  He could only imagine what would happen if she continued on her own. “Look, I know you’re totally, totally capable, but the guy who lives across from Mom and Dad has a construction company, a small one—indie. I think he builds houses for Habitat for Humanity.” He paused for Jules to roll her eyes on cue. “Let’s have him come here before you go further. These old houses can be tricky. I know you’d hate to mess anything up.”

  If she went along with it, that might buy him time to talk her out of renovating. Give him ten minutes and he’d patch the hole in the wall she’d made.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a second opinion, just in case. Think he can come out today—this morning?”

  “Why don’t we wait until later? Family’s coming over tonight for the wedding party and we don’t want a bunch of broken glass and loose wires hanging around, right?”

  She shifted her stance, wobbling in her big boots. “Okay, I’ll wait a day. Then you won’t be here to bug me about it.” She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes, but the usual sass wasn’t there. Maybe the thought of him leaving made her feel weirdly anxious, too. “But will you call your guy today? I don’t want to put it off.”

  He swallowed and tried not to ogle the slice of skin showing between the top of her shorts and the oversize white T-shirt tied at the waist. She had dust on her arms and face. And was she sweaty? Damn…

  “S-sure, sure,” he said. “I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

  “Great.” She exhaled contently and stared out the windows toward the lake.

  Dexter wouldn’t admit it to Jules, but this part of the house, and the hundred square feet of the deck, was the perfect place for an art studio. So much light and warmth and space. He understood
why she was determined, though he was too practical to be in favor of it.

  “I’m dirty and hot,” Jules said, pulling back his attention. “I need to clean up.”

  “You shower, I shower,” he said automatically.

  “Yeah, right—not!” She swatted his arm. “I think I’ll go for a swim. The water’s pretty cold, but I like it that way. Wakes up my mind and my body.”

  It wasn’t hard for Dexter to envision what that might look like. “What do you need for tonight?” he asked, to have something to do. “I can clear out some of the furniture so there’s more room. I’ll run to the store, too.”

  “Already did that,” she said. “I used your car. Hope you don’t mind, but you were dead to the world. You’re a really heavy sleeper.”

  “I never used to be,” he said. “And it’s fine that you took the car. Feel free whenever you need.”

  “You’re not moving the furniture, though.”

  “But I was thinking—”

  “Not one piece, Dexter.” She pointed at him with playful scorn. “There’s plenty of room, and since it’s casual, we’ll be sitting most of the time, either inside or on the deck. The weather’s supposed to be beautiful.”

  If he persisted in the argument about furniture, he’d never win. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  She pushed out her lips and combed her fingers through her hair. “I made bread this morning. It’s rising in the fridge. I picked up jam and cheese from the farmers’ market, and these cute little avocado-bacon wraps. They’ll take twenty minutes for me to put together. I bought all the ingredients for lemon bars with Hershey’s chocolate chips—Natalie and Luke will love those. You can pick up some wine if you think your family will expect it.”

  “I’m sure they’ll each bring a bottle,” he said, a bit taken aback. “You did all that this morning?”

  “I’m an early riser and you snore.”

  He laughed, enjoying—more than he’d ever expect—the simple couple-type conversation that flowed so easily between them. When he was back in New York tonight, he would miss it. Immensely.

  “Well, thanks,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to take care of everything. I was prepared to have it catered.”

  “Why? I love entertaining. Besides…” She rubbed her nose. “I’d like your family to have one last good impression of me before they hate my guts. It’s important to me—I’ve known them forever. It’ll suck to lose them.” Before he could reply, she added, “I’m going for that swim.”

  And she was out the door, kicking off her boots, walking across the deck in her bare feet, not bothering to take a towel. Dexter watched her the whole three minutes it took her to get to the lake, not even trying to fight back the warm feeling moving from his chest to his stomach.

  He set up shop on the deck, knowing Jules didn’t like him conducting business inside. Even though she was away, he respected her quirky wishes. He made a few phone calls, replied to a hundred emails, then when he was done with the red-hot issues concerning ET, he opened the PowerPoint file.

  Despite his opposite views on the subject, Dexter couldn’t help replaying Jules’s words. To someone as gifted as her, his program wasn’t real art.

  Maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps the opinion of a true artist he trusted was the exact kind of feedback he needed. The benefits of having Jules in his life—for even these few days—still hadn’t ceased to surprise him.

  At the sound of voices, he glanced toward the lake. Jules’s form was in the water, splashing around, but there was also a figure on the shore. Dexter squinted and sat forward, then he was striding across the deck, trying not to break into a run.

  “Leave, now,” he said, slightly out of breath.

  “I brought the house papers,” Quent Sanders replied, leaving the shore and walking over. “Signed and notarized.”

  “You were supposed to fax them to me.”

  “Why do that when I can hand deliver?” He grinned and passed Dexter a sealed, legal-sized folder. “I’m all about giving that personal touch to everyone. Amazing view here, anyway.” He turned in the direction of Jules in the water. “Can’t take my eyes off it.”

  She was close to shore, but must’ve been on her knees or sitting, because the water was up to her shoulders, strawberry hair floating around her. Dexter didn’t have to account for each item of clothing on the rocks to know she wasn’t wearing anything.

  “Amazing view,” sleaze bucket Quent repeated in a lower voice, a sleazy, sleaze bucket voice. “Must run in the family—and I’d know. I was just about to take a closer look—”

  With no time to analyze the white-hot rage blurring his vision, Dexter reacted by cocking back and cold-clocking Quent right on his sleazy mouth.

  …

  Jules tried to yell stop, but nothing came out. And she wasn’t exactly in a position to get out of the water to make him stop. Letting Dexter see her was one thing, but Quent?

  “Dexter!” she shouted. “Don’t!”

  Too late. Dex was staring down at where he’d knocked Quent flat on the ground, holding his fist inside his other hand, face dark as thunder.

  “Don’t hit him again,” she called. “Walk away.”

  “I won’t touch him,” Dexter replied in a disgusted voice.

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bleeding?”

  He paused. “A little.”

  She needed to get out of the water and help, but when she tried, Dexter shot her a steely look. “Babe—stay where you are.”

  She nodded and stumbled back, swimming out a little farther. She’d never seen him so pissed, not enough to punch a guy. “Get me a towel, then. We need to call 911.”

  “I’m fine.” Quent’s voice was hoarse as he sat up. “It‘s nothing.”

  Dexter scoffed. “I broke your nose, man. Be thankful that’s all the damage.”

  When Quent wiped his face, Jules saw the blood. “Dexter,” she called. “Help him.”

  “He doesn’t need help, do ya, Quentin?”

  “No,” Quent said, bringing his shirt to his nose. More blood.

  Dexter extended his hand to help him up. Quent glared at it, but finally allowed Dexter to pull him to his feet. “Never speak of my wife like that again,” he said in a low, menacing voice, thunder back on his face. “Never speak to her again, or to any member of my family. And if I hear even a whisper of a rumor that you’ve contacted Roxy, you’ll be very, very sorry. Do you understand?”

  Quent nodded, and without giving her even a split-second glance, walked toward his car parked on the lane. Dexter stared after him, hands on his hips. He didn’t move a muscle until Quent’s car was gone.

  “Did he touch you?” he said, whipping around to Jules. “Did he hurt you in any way?”

  “No,” she said, but her voice trembled. “He surprised me. I didn’t hear his car, but suddenly he was here.”

  “He’d probably been watching you from the trees.”

  “What?” Jules gasped and threw her arms around herself to cover up.

  He stared down at the ground, not looking at her. “He won’t be back. I promise.”

  “What happened between you two? Did he hurt Roxy?”

  The laugh Dexter exhaled was dark and laced with anger. “It was a long time ago. He seems to have a short memory about it because he still thinks he’s allowed around my family. That’ll stop now. He must get off on causing trouble, pain.”

  She wanted to ask him, wanted to help him through it, if she could. But he seemed in no mood to calmly discuss.

  “Do you want me to bring you a towel from the house?” he asked. “I’m sure you’re cold.”

  Jules looked down at herself, at the upper half of her body submerged in water. Uh, yeah, Dexter might not’ve been able to see it crystal clearly, but she was certainly displaying evidence of being cold.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. If you could maybe just head to the house now, I’ll grab my clothes and be a minute
behind you.”

  He nodded, squinting up at the sky nonchalantly. “Okay.”

  After he’d taken about three steps, Jules swam until she touched the bottom. But the action made her wince and cry out.

  Dexter swung around. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t…” She took another step. When her right foot burned, she stumbled forward.

  “Jules.” Dexter was at the shoreline, stripes of worry across his forehead. “You’re hurt.”

  “No, well, yeah.” She floated back and reach for her foot. The second it made contact with air, it stung like hell.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I must’ve cut it on a rock. I tripped when Quent was here, but didn’t feel it until now.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” But when she tried, she winced again and grabbed her foot protectively.

  “How bad is it? Let me see.”

  Was he seriously expecting her to crawl out of the water buck naked so he could examine her foot?

  “Here. Wear this.” He pulled off his black T-shirt and tossed it to her. It landed on the water right at her face.

  “Thanks.” She definitely didn’t make a point to breathe in the lovely, manly scent of Dexter before the whole thing was wet. Once the shirt was on—and so long it was practically a minidress—she swam to shore, rotating so she drifted in feet first.

  “It isn’t bad,” he said, down on one knee while holding her injured foot. “Multiple cuts all along the bottom. You need to stay off it.”

  “Easier said than—whoa!”

  In the blink of an eye, Dexter waded into the water, took her around the waist, and hoisted her out, not a single stumble as he treaded to shore. He held her in his arms like a baby as he silently carried her toward the house. Yes, his shirt she was wearing was long, but not long enough that it covered the underneath parts of her body, making Jules keenly aware that his hands were touching bare skin.

  She shut her eyes, and to block out feelings of embarrassment, she concentrated on his hands, how they felt, their warmth and strength. Next, she concentrated on his skin, his chest, the side of his neck, how he smelled the same every time she was near him. When she thought about his heart, his humor and bravery, and how he made her feel warm and protected, she couldn’t think of anything else.