so immaculately dressed—his hair neatly brushed, and
more than likely remnants of air-conditioning still clinging to his skin while the big box fan was coursing a humid breeze around the room—gave her
an almost overwhelming urge to wipe that big, stupid grin off his face. A grin, yes.
The man was most definitely grinning.
"You're grinning," she accused.
"Is that a crime?"
"Around here it is. Please take that silly smirk along with your Gucci shoes out of
my sight. Or else."
He quirked an eyebrow, and his grin grew wider. "Or else... what?"
"Or else I'll belt you with this." She hoisted the sodden roller.
"My goodness, Micah, you're touchy today. Sorry the air-conditioning's down... it
must be the heat."
"I'll give you heat." She jabbed the roller in his vicinity.
"Promises, promises." He started in her direction. "Come on, Micah. Show me a little
heat."
"I'm warning you. Get back unless you—"
"Unless I what? Want to find out just how hot you can get?"
"Why don't you just keep your nasty thoughts to yourself, you... you —" She took a threatening step forward.
"Scallywag?" Chance stopped a few inches away from her dubious weapon and touched
his finger to the sopping roller.
"Yes! And—'"
"Riffraff?" In the blink of an eye he grabbed hold of the stick attached to the roller
and jerked it out of her grasp, sending it sailing across the room. Micah watched
in horror as it hit against her newly painted wall. The roller left a blob of white
over the peach tint she'd put on the day before.
"My wall!" she gasped. "Just look at what you did to my wall!"
"Oops."
"Oops? I spent hours on these walls yesterday, and all you can say is oops?" Impulsively she lunged at him, throwing her paint-streaked body heedlessly against
his expensive suit.
"How dare you!" she raged, striking a white hand against his chest. "There you sit,
day after day, week after week, shuffling papers behind your cozy little desk, probably
drinking cafe au lait out of your silver chalice. While I'm sweltering here, painting,
grouting, tiling, papering... you name it! Do you have any idea when the last time
was I dressed in something more elegant than a T-shirt and beat-up jeans? No, of course
not, because you're too busy in your air-conditioned office, wearing your ritzy Italian
silk ties, your pompous Georgio Armani suits—"
Micah's eyes suddenly riveted to where her fists clenched his jacket, the white imprint
of a hand on his tailored shirt.
"Your suit! Chance, I've ruined your suit! Oh, no... quick! Let's get to the bathroom,
maybe if we hurry I can get it—"
"Micah." Chance stilled her frantic attempts to pull away, drawing her closer instead.
One hand smoothed down her spine before catching her around the waist. "I don't care
about my suit. I care about you." His other hand came up to tilt her face to his.
Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. Ridiculous. How could she further disgrace herself
by crying at a time like this?
"What's wrong, ma cherie ? Tell me what's troubling you."
And then she did disgrace herself. The tears, hot and stinging, burned the back of
her throat as she tried to close them off. But in spite of her most valiant efforts
they broke loose.
Chance made a shushing sound and rocked her back and forth against him in what was
meant as a comforting gesture. Her head against his chest, he rubbed her back soothingly.
"There now," he murmured, "There now." And it was such a small thing, this paternal
inflection she had never seen in him before, that made her suddenly think of what
he would be like as a father. Loving, fair... but sometimes unbending. A good father,
to make up for the one he hadn't had.
The old feelings flooded through her, the ones she couldn't control or ignore. But
there was more, something in him she hadn't considered before this moment. And it
made him all the more desirable. She was tired of the tug-of-war between her head
and her
more than likely remnants of air-conditioning still clinging to his skin while the big box fan was coursing a humid breeze around the room—gave her
an almost overwhelming urge to wipe that big, stupid grin off his face. A grin, yes.
The man was most definitely grinning.
"You're grinning," she accused.
"Is that a crime?"
"Around here it is. Please take that silly smirk along with your Gucci shoes out of
my sight. Or else."
He quirked an eyebrow, and his grin grew wider. "Or else... what?"
"Or else I'll belt you with this." She hoisted the sodden roller.
"My goodness, Micah, you're touchy today. Sorry the air-conditioning's down... it
must be the heat."
"I'll give you heat." She jabbed the roller in his vicinity.
"Promises, promises." He started in her direction. "Come on, Micah. Show me a little
heat."
"I'm warning you. Get back unless you—"
"Unless I what? Want to find out just how hot you can get?"
"Why don't you just keep your nasty thoughts to yourself, you... you —" She took a threatening step forward.
"Scallywag?" Chance stopped a few inches away from her dubious weapon and touched
his finger to the sopping roller.
"Yes! And—'"
"Riffraff?" In the blink of an eye he grabbed hold of the stick attached to the roller
and jerked it out of her grasp, sending it sailing across the room. Micah watched
in horror as it hit against her newly painted wall. The roller left a blob of white
over the peach tint she'd put on the day before.
"My wall!" she gasped. "Just look at what you did to my wall!"
"Oops."
"Oops? I spent hours on these walls yesterday, and all you can say is oops?" Impulsively she lunged at him, throwing her paint-streaked body heedlessly against
his expensive suit.
"How dare you!" she raged, striking a white hand against his chest. "There you sit,
day after day, week after week, shuffling papers behind your cozy little desk, probably
drinking cafe au lait out of your silver chalice. While I'm sweltering here, painting,
grouting, tiling, papering... you name it! Do you have any idea when the last time
was I dressed in something more elegant than a T-shirt and beat-up jeans? No, of course
not, because you're too busy in your air-conditioned office, wearing your ritzy Italian
silk ties, your pompous Georgio Armani suits—"
Micah's eyes suddenly riveted to where her fists clenched his jacket, the white imprint
of a hand on his tailored shirt.
"Your suit! Chance, I've ruined your suit! Oh, no... quick! Let's get to the bathroom,
maybe if we hurry I can get it—"
"Micah." Chance stilled her frantic attempts to pull away, drawing her closer instead.
One hand smoothed down her spine before catching her around the waist. "I don't care
about my suit. I care about you." His other hand came up to tilt her face to his.
Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. Ridiculous. How could she further disgrace herself
by crying at a time like this?
"What's wrong, ma cherie ? Tell me what's troubling you."
And then she did disgrace herself. The tears, hot and stinging, burned the back of
her throat as she tried to close them off. But in spite of her most valiant efforts
they broke loose.
Chance made a shushing sound and rocked her back and forth against him in what was
meant as a comforting gesture. Her head against his chest, he rubbed her back soothingly.
"There now," he murmured, "There now." And it was such a small thing, this paternal
inflection she had never seen in him before, that made her suddenly think of what
he would be like as a father. Loving, fair... but sometimes unbending. A good father,
to make up for the one he hadn't had.
The old feelings flooded through her, the ones she couldn't control or ignore. But
there was more, something in him she hadn't considered before this moment. And it
made him all the more desirable. She was tired of the tug-of-war between her head
and her
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