The first room he looked in had to be her grandmother’s, judging by the photos and the décor. A lot of crocheted things, too. Not the room he was looking for, so he kept going.
He found what looked like a combination guest room and storage closet, so he guessed she didn’t have a lot of overnight company. The bathroom was big and had been updated in the last decade or so. Hiding behind a set of louvered doors, he found a state-of-the-art washer and dryer set, which wasn’t surprising considering what Emma did for a living.
Finally, at the end of the hall on the right, he found what had to be Emma’s bedroom. His bedroom.
Judging by the long arch meant to disguise a weight-bearing beam, it had started life as two smaller bedrooms, but at some point the wall had been removed to make a master suite. Besides a bed that looked queen-sized and the usual bedroom furnishings, there was a sitting area. End table with a lamp surrounded by more books. A small flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. And the couch she’d be sleeping on for the next month.
Even with the room’s expansion, he figured there were only about ten feet between the bed and the couch. Despite the fact he’d learned over the years to sleep through any conditions, this arrangement was going to be a little awkward. Intimate.
There was a door to the left of the sitting area and he poked his head through to find a three-quarter bath—toilet, sink and a shower. It’d do.
Aware of how many minutes he’d burned exploring, Sean went back down to the kitchen, grabbing his coffee along the way. He could see by tension in her shoulders she didn’t really care for him being so free with her home, but she’d probably come to the same conclusion he had.
“I just want to finish this coffee,” she said. “Rough night.”
He splashed the little bit of hot coffee left in the pot into his mug and leaned against the counter, watching her make a few more notes in her organizer.
“So…landscaping, huh?” He’d pushed a few mowers in his time. “Don’t you think having Emma in the business name’s a bad idea, though?”
She set down her pen and narrowed her eyes at him. “What? Girls can’t be landscapers? You’ve heard we’re allowed to vote now, right?”
“I just think if I want my lawn mowed or my weeds whacked, I’m more likely to call Bob or Fred.”
“And that’s fine. If you want somebody to mow your lawn or whack your weeds, call Bob or Fred. But if you want an artist to design the beautiful, virtually maintenance-free landscaping for your summer cottage or lake house, you call Emma.”
Her defensive tone made him want to chuckle and poke at her some more, but he stifled it. “So you specialize in design, then?”
“Yes, but I do the labor, too.” She smiled. “Except for the next month, of course. I’ll have you to do the heavy lifting.”
“Not afraid of a little hard work.” He was looking forward to it, actually. His body was accustomed to a little more physical activity than it was currently getting. If he got too soft, his cousins would wipe the grass with him during the annual Fourth of July family football game.
Emma looked at her watch and then stood to rinse her coffee mug. “Time to hit the road.”
It wasn’t until she’d climbed behind the wheel of her truck and was watching him expectantly that Sean realized he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever ridden shotgun to a female driver. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked to be the one in control.
But she’d be signing his paychecks for the next few weeks, so she was the boss. He slid in on the passenger side and closed the door, only to find himself white-knuckled by the time they reached the highway. She didn’t drive any better than she claimed she cooked.
They spent the morning at a three-million-dollar summer home on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee, where he had the joy of turning a pile of rocks dumped next to the house into stone walls outlining what would be the perennial beds, whatever the hell that meant.
It was good physical labor that worked up a sweat, but it didn’t make him nearly as hot and bothered as watching Emma work. She didn’t whine. Didn’t worry about breaking a nail. She just worked alongside him, humming country tunes under her breath, and he found out the hard way how attractive a hard-working woman could be.
Ten feet, he thought. Ten feet between his bed and hers. A few steps.
Then she bent over in front of him to adjust a rock and he dropped the one he was holding onto his toes, which made a dozen curses echo through his head, though he managed not to say them out loud.
Thirty days with Emma was shaping up to be one hell of a job.
Chapter Four
“It’s not Disney World, Sean. You get in, you get what you need and you get out.” If Emma had known shopping with him was going to be like this, she would have hidden a cattle prod in her purse.
“I’m shopping.”
“No, you’re meandering.”
He stopped the cart—again—to look at something on the shelf and then resumed walking at a snail’s pace. “I might see something I need.”