Mad Enough to Marry. Christie Ridgway
the front room. Layers of wallpaper were peeled back from the plaster in long curls. Pink stripes over yellow flowers over a design that might once have been green but was now grayish.
She paused in the middle of the room, taking in the bay window, the wallpaper curls, the two old recliners—one with duct tape on the seat—that faced a big-screen TV sitting on a platform of cinder block and plywood. He watched TV sometimes while he worked. The recliners had been left behind by the previous homeowner.
She looked over at him, her expression amazed. “You do actually live here. Your mother gave me this address when I called but I wasn’t sure I understood her correctly.”
Logan gestured toward the recliner sans duct tape, and then frowned as he watched her drop to the seat with a little sigh. She seemed glad to have something beneath her.
“Oh, Mom has the story straight,” he replied, scrutinizing Elena even more closely. “Can I get you something to eat? A beer? Soda?”
She waved a weary hand. “Whatever.”
When he came back in with two bottles of beer in one hand and a plate of cold pizza in the other, Elena was collapsed against the back cushion of her chair. He handed her a bottle and put the pizza on the scarred end table between the two recliners, nudging over the remote control to make room.
She took a long swallow of beer then cast him a look. “You really quit Chase Electronics?”
He took a chug from his own bottle. “Yep.”
“You moved out of your condo and bought this Victorian. On my side of town.”
“Yep. Though the condo is actually Griffin’s. He and Annie will live in it when they get back from the honeymoon. Until they find their own house, anyway.”
“You quit Chase Electronics,” Elena repeated as if still not quite believing it, then took a longer swallow from her bottle.
“And I bought my buddy Reuben’s rehab business—which doesn’t mean much more than his tools and this house which he was only half finished converting into apartments. But he wanted to move to Oregon with his girlfriend and I wanted to break the chains tying me to my desk at Chase Electronics. A match made in heaven.”
“You know how to do all this?” She gestured with her beer toward the wallpaper and then the bay windows. Half the trimwork around them was missing, the other half was shedding paint coat number fifteen.
He shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
Her jaw dropped.
He laughed. “It’s not as reckless as it sounds. Though I got my MBA at Stanford, I have an undergraduate degree in Industrial Arts. I’ve always wanted to work with my hands.”
It had been his brother almost passing up on love and his parents celebrating forty years of a merger instead of a marriage, to wake Logan up to that fact. He’d opened his eyes to find himself tied to a dreary job in the family company and also tied to an almost-fiancé. Both fulfilled other people’s expectations—but didn’t do a thing for him.
Elena drank from her beer again. “Your father…”
“Is predicting disaster. Me on my knees begging for my old position back at Chase Electronics.”
“You look determined to prove him wrong.”
“Yeah.” Logan had overcomplicated his life for years by going along with dear old dad, but it was simple now. He’d focus solely on building his business—a business that would satisfy him. “People are interested in restoring the Victorians and California bungalows around town—even more so since last summer’s earthquake damaged several of them.”
At the mention of the earthquake, she frowned and then quickly drained her beer and carefully set the bottle on the floor. “Well, I’m sure both of us have better things to do. I came to pick up my painting.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You mean my painting?”
Her lips compressed in annoyance. “I’m paying you for it,” she said, patting the pants pocket of her overalls.
“I never said I’d sell it.”
“Logan. I didn’t have time for this yesterday, I had to get to work. But there’s no point in arguing. I have the money.” Her hand went to her pocket again as she jumped to her feet. Then she swayed, looking dizzy.
Logan rose in concern as she put an unsteady hand on the back of her chair. “Elena?”
She blinked at him. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I just stood up too fast.”
He took a step toward her anyway.
Thank God. It gave him enough time to catch her as she fell.
He figured she was fainting. Or maybe she was passing out from a combination of no food and that one beer. Either way, he expected she’d keep her mouth shut.
But cradled in his arms as he climbed the stairs toward his second-floor apartment, Elena gave him grief.
“Put me down. I’m fine. Just a little tired or something. Put me down. Let go. I stood up too fast. I’m fine. Put me down.”
He let her drone on, which she did, of course, until he dropped her onto the mattress in his bedroom. Then he told her to shut up.
Unnecessary, though. Because her mouth had snapped closed, mid complaint, when she saw what he’d hung on the wall opposite his bed.
Damn.
Her gaze moved to him accusingly and she struggled to her elbows. “You told me yesterday that you wouldn’t hang it! You promised.”
He shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t let anyone see it. But enough about that. You need to lie back and rest.”
“I need to get my painting back!”
Double damn.
He sighed. “It’s my painting, darling. And you’re not going anywhere until we figure out why you went down for the count. Should I call a doctor?”
“Of course not.” She sat up.
His hand on her shoulder, he forced her back to the pillows. “Did you eat today?”
She looked ready to take a bite out of him. “I assisted at the cooking school this morning. We made seven-grain waffles with strawberry syrup. I’m sure I took a taste.”
A taste. “And then what?” he asked.
“And then I spent a few hours wading through the summer admission applications stacking up in my office, if that’s any of your business.”
Though officially an “administrative assistant,” Logan had heard she virtually ran the admissions office at the local community college single-handedly. He shook his head. “Elena, it’s Sunday. You worked two jobs today and you went to work yesterday as well. No wonder you’re dead on your feet.”
She glared at him. “Some of us can’t afford to sneer at overtime.” One hand slid into her pocket and the other grabbed his. Paper slapped against his palm. “There. Your money.”
Instead of green bills, he looked down at a section of the newspaper folded into a small rectangle. “What’s this?”
She made a little huff of irritation and fished through her other pocket. “A mistake.” She drew out a wad of cash. “Here.”
He avoided accepting it by unfolding the newspaper to glance at the circled ads. “You’re moving?”
“Temporarily. If I can find something we can afford for a month or two.”
“Why?” He looked at her over the top of the newspaper.
She sighed. “They did another round of earthquake inspections in my area and guess what? They found serious damage to our foundation. Gabby and I have