Hearts on the Line. Margaret Daley
It’s cold, outdated and impractical.”
He sighed. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
He started to say something else when she added, “But then I also like green, yellow and red.”
His chuckles floated on the air. “Maybe it would be easier if I asked if there’s a color you don’t like.”
“Hmm.” She rubbed her finger along her chin and looked toward the ceiling. “Nope, not really.”
“You’re making this hard for me.”
“But I like all colors. I don’t really have one favorite. That should make it easier. You can’t go wrong with any color scheme you pick.”
“So you would be okay with purple and, say, orange?”
She winced. “Well, maybe not those two colors together, but I do like them combined with other colors.”
With lightness deep in his eyes, he covered the short space between them. “Then I’ll just have to get to know you better so I can figure out what will work best.”
Words lodged in her throat, but for the life of her she couldn’t voice any of them. Mesmerized by the deep chocolate of his eyes, she found herself being drawn into those rich depths, like a hot fudge sundae, lured from the safe, emotional world she had created for herself into an unknown one where feelings dominated and threatened to take over. And, like the sundae, both hot and cold, at the same time.
Swallowing several times, she blurted out, “I trust your judgment after seeing what you did with your house.”
After she said that statement, surprise gripped her like a vise Quinn would work with. The day had been filled with one surprise after another. She took a step back to give herself some space because with him so near she obviously wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. Trust wasn’t something she often gave and especially when knowing someone for such a short time. What was it about Quinn that put her at ease? Yes, they had formed a bond up on the rooftop. Yes, she knew his younger brother, Brendan, and respected him. Yes, she had known who Quinn was casually. But those things weren’t really what made her stay up at night thinking about him or doing something out of character like wearing a sundress, the only one she owned.
Puzzlement drew his eyebrows together. He combed his fingers through his hair before rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ve got to give me more than that. What do you like to cook? Fancy meals? Gourmet food? Simple fare?” A touch of desperation entered his eyes.
“Nothing fancy or gourmet, but I wouldn’t classify it as simple, either. In the winter I love to make soups and stews. In the summer things like taco salad, three-bean salad. Then there’s the old standbys like lasagna and spaghetti. I made things my sister and brother would eat. How’s that help you?”
“I’m trying to get a feel for the work space you’d need.”
“I don’t cook as much anymore since Caitlin went into the Air Force a few months ago. With just me and my killer work schedule at times, it’s hard to come home and fix a hot meal. But hopefully one day I’ll do more.”
Quinn leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “No boyfriend to cook for?”
She glanced away from him. “I haven’t had a lot of time to date much, especially now with working and going to school.”
“What are you studying?”
“Psychology, with an emphasis on abnormal behavior. I took two classes during the spring semester, which practically did me in. This summer I’m taking it easy and only taking one, on Tuesday nights. I don’t think it will be a hard class. I begin this week.”
“Okay. This is a start. Let’s go back to your house and let me get some measurements in the kitchen.”
“For a man who doesn’t work on Sunday, you’re sure doing a good imitation of working.”
“Measuring’s nothing. I could do it in my sleep.”
The mention of sleep brought Becca back to the fact that the past few nights—ever since Quinn and she had connected on the rooftop—she hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest. In her line of business that could be dangerous. She needed to exorcise the man from her thoughts, but then, that might be most difficult if he was in her house day after day renovating it.
“I thought all cops liked coffee and doughnuts,” Quinn said, taking a seat at Becca’s kitchen table later that afternoon.
She splayed her hand over her chest. “I’m crushed. You must watch too much TV.”
“TV? What’s that?” He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat down to watch even the news.
“Occasionally I’ve caught glimpses of one in people’s houses.”
The twinkle in her eyes spoke to him on a level he hadn’t responded to in a long time. Her renovation project was just what he needed to get back to what he loved doing at Montgomery Construction, what he had done before his father had retired. “I live on coffee,” he said while Becca stood at the old stove waiting for a copper kettle to heat.
“I refuse to bring coffee into my house. Nasty stuff.” Retrieving two mugs from the cabinet, she poured some hot water into each one and then dunked tea bags into them. “Here, try this. Tea is much better for you than coffee.” After handing him a cup, she slid her own from the counter, then took the chair across from him. “This is chai tea. You can even have it cold if you like.”
He stared at his mug as though it were a monster terrorizing him. “It looks like dirty dishwater.” He sniffed it, a blend of spices peppering the air. “What in the world is in it? I like my coffee black, no sugar, strong.”
She took a sip of hers, watching him over the rim of her mug, but she didn’t say a word.
“If I try this, then you’ll have to try my coffee. You haven’t tasted coffee until you’ve had a cup of mine.”
“You aren’t gonna convert me.”
Quinn smiled. “I’ve been told I have powers of persuasion.”
Her laughter rang in the air, filling it with a sweet sound. “Sam’s tried. Even your brother. Nope, I don’t change my mind often once it’s set.”
He cupped the mug in his hands. “So no one can change your beliefs?” Somehow he got the impression they weren’t talking about drinking tea or coffee but something much deeper. From a couple of comments she had said, he didn’t think she believed in God. Is that why You have nudged me toward Becca, Lord?
“I’m slow to form an opinion but just as slow to let it go, too.”
Quinn took a sip, winced, then firmly set the mug on the table. “Doesn’t hold a candle to my coffee. Is that the best you have to offer?” He relaxed back in the chair, enjoying the lightheartedness of the conversation. So much had happened lately that was serious, it had been nice for a brief time this afternoon not to have to think about Escalante seeking revenge against his family.
She shot to her feet and stalked over to the cabinet, thrusting open its door. “Take your pick. I probably have thirty different kinds of tea for different moods.”
“What mood is chai for?”
She narrowed her gaze, but that twinkle still danced in her depths. “It’s for helping me to be patient.” After closing the cabinet, she sat again and drank her tea as though she was seeking that patience she had talked about.
Sliding the mug away from himself, Quinn broke the silence with, “As I said before, I’d like to start Wednesday morning. I’ll be in and out at first because I’m still overseeing a few projects. And since the explosion last month at the hospital, we will start rebuilding that physical-therapy wing soon. I’m training Chad Morrison