pretty adorable mother’s mouth closed.
He’d worked on getting the base cabinets in all morning, and she’d been peppering him with questions all morning.
Breathing down his neck, hanging over his back, all but crawling up his ass.
He knew damn well Matt had taken off to Miz Vi’s place to spare himself the headache of his girlfriend’s sweet, chatty—and let’s face it—ditzy mother.
Worse, she was still dithering—“dithering” would be the word of the day—about the cabinets even as he installed them. And if he had to take them out because she changed her mind again, he might do worse than duct tape.
He had bungee cords, and he knew how to use them.
“Oh now, Griff honey, maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the white. They’re so plain, aren’t they? And white’s cold, it’s just a cold color, isn’t it? Kitchens ought to be a warm place. Maybe I should’ve gone with the cherrywood after all. It’s so hard to know before you see them right there where they’re going, isn’t it? How do you know what it’s going to look like until you see what it looks like?”
“Clean and fresh,” he said, trying to sound cheerful when he wanted to grind his teeth. “Kitchens should be clean and fresh, and that’s what you’re going to have.”
“Do you think so?” She stood, nearly at his elbow, twisted her linked fingers together. “Oh, I don’t know. Henry finally just threw up his hands and said he didn’t care either way. But he’ll care if it isn’t right.”
“It’s going to look great, Miz Bitsy.” He felt like someone, possibly himself, was shooting a nail gun dead center of his forehead.
He and Matt had dealt with fussy clients back in Baltimore. The control freaks, the whiners, the demanders and the ditherers, but Louisa “Bitsy” Addison was the undisputed queen of the ditherers.
She made the previously reigning champs—John and Rhonda Turner, who’d had them tear out a wall in their row house in Baltimore, build it back in, then tear it out a second time—seem resolute, steady as a brick wall—in comparison.
What they’d estimated as a three-week job—with a three-day contingency built in—was currently in week five. And God knew when it would end.
“I don’t know,” she said for the millionth time, patting her hands together under her chin. “White’s kind of stark, isn’t it?”
He set the cabinet, pulled out his level, shoved one hand through his mop of dark blond hair. “Wedding gowns are white.”
“Now, that’s true, and . . .” Her already big brown eyes got bigger, and a giddy thrill shone out of them. “Wedding gowns? Oh now, Griffin Lott, do you know something I don’t? Has Matt popped the question?”
He ought to throw his partner under the bus. He ought to throw him under, then back up and drive over him again. But . . . “I was just using an example, like . . .” He did a frantic mental search. “Magnolias, for instance. Or—” Sweet Jesus, give me one more. “Ah, baseballs.”
Crap.
“The hardware’s going to punch it all up,” he continued, just a little desperately. “And the countertop. That warm gray’s going to give you friendly and sophisticated at the same time.”
“Maybe it’s the wall color that’s wrong. Maybe I should—”
“Mama, you’re not having those walls repainted.” Emma Kate marched in.
Griff could’ve kissed her, could have dropped down and kissed her feet. Then he lost track of her completely when the redhead stepped in behind her.
He actually thought, Holy shit—and hoped he hadn’t said it out loud.
She was beautiful. A man didn’t get to be just shy of his thirtieth birthday without seeing some beautiful women, even if it was just on a movie screen. But this one, in the flesh, was one quick
wow
.
Masses of curling hair the color of a sunrise all tumbling around a face that looked like it had been carved out of porcelain—if they carved from porcelain, how would he know? Soft,
He’d worked on getting the base cabinets in all morning, and she’d been peppering him with questions all morning.
Breathing down his neck, hanging over his back, all but crawling up his ass.
He knew damn well Matt had taken off to Miz Vi’s place to spare himself the headache of his girlfriend’s sweet, chatty—and let’s face it—ditzy mother.
Worse, she was still dithering—“dithering” would be the word of the day—about the cabinets even as he installed them. And if he had to take them out because she changed her mind again, he might do worse than duct tape.
He had bungee cords, and he knew how to use them.
“Oh now, Griff honey, maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the white. They’re so plain, aren’t they? And white’s cold, it’s just a cold color, isn’t it? Kitchens ought to be a warm place. Maybe I should’ve gone with the cherrywood after all. It’s so hard to know before you see them right there where they’re going, isn’t it? How do you know what it’s going to look like until you see what it looks like?”
“Clean and fresh,” he said, trying to sound cheerful when he wanted to grind his teeth. “Kitchens should be clean and fresh, and that’s what you’re going to have.”
“Do you think so?” She stood, nearly at his elbow, twisted her linked fingers together. “Oh, I don’t know. Henry finally just threw up his hands and said he didn’t care either way. But he’ll care if it isn’t right.”
“It’s going to look great, Miz Bitsy.” He felt like someone, possibly himself, was shooting a nail gun dead center of his forehead.
He and Matt had dealt with fussy clients back in Baltimore. The control freaks, the whiners, the demanders and the ditherers, but Louisa “Bitsy” Addison was the undisputed queen of the ditherers.
She made the previously reigning champs—John and Rhonda Turner, who’d had them tear out a wall in their row house in Baltimore, build it back in, then tear it out a second time—seem resolute, steady as a brick wall—in comparison.
What they’d estimated as a three-week job—with a three-day contingency built in—was currently in week five. And God knew when it would end.
“I don’t know,” she said for the millionth time, patting her hands together under her chin. “White’s kind of stark, isn’t it?”
He set the cabinet, pulled out his level, shoved one hand through his mop of dark blond hair. “Wedding gowns are white.”
“Now, that’s true, and . . .” Her already big brown eyes got bigger, and a giddy thrill shone out of them. “Wedding gowns? Oh now, Griffin Lott, do you know something I don’t? Has Matt popped the question?”
He ought to throw his partner under the bus. He ought to throw him under, then back up and drive over him again. But . . . “I was just using an example, like . . .” He did a frantic mental search. “Magnolias, for instance. Or—” Sweet Jesus, give me one more. “Ah, baseballs.”
Crap.
“The hardware’s going to punch it all up,” he continued, just a little desperately. “And the countertop. That warm gray’s going to give you friendly and sophisticated at the same time.”
“Maybe it’s the wall color that’s wrong. Maybe I should—”
“Mama, you’re not having those walls repainted.” Emma Kate marched in.
Griff could’ve kissed her, could have dropped down and kissed her feet. Then he lost track of her completely when the redhead stepped in behind her.
He actually thought, Holy shit—and hoped he hadn’t said it out loud.
She was beautiful. A man didn’t get to be just shy of his thirtieth birthday without seeing some beautiful women, even if it was just on a movie screen. But this one, in the flesh, was one quick
wow
.
Masses of curling hair the color of a sunrise all tumbling around a face that looked like it had been carved out of porcelain—if they carved from porcelain, how would he know? Soft,