Wild in the Moment by Jennifer Greene

want to be honest with him. At the top of the stairs she opened the door, but before she flipped on a light, she turned and said seriously, “If you see my place, I think it’ll explain a lot. Enough so that you just might not want to jump my bones the way we did before. That was a blizzard. A wild moment in time.”
    â€œAs compared to this moment, which is…?”
    â€œMore like straight old real life.” She flipped the light switch. Without looking at him, she slipped off her coat and scarf, tossed her bag on a chair and aimed for the wine. She wasn’t trying to create a cozy drink-together atmosphere, but almost anyone could look at her current “home” and need some whiskey to absorb the shock.
    Moments later she handed him a glass of Merlot. Not good Merlot. For damn sure, not French Merlot. Just the stuff she’d found in the grocery store—which was even then too expensive. Of course, air was too expensive for her these days.
    â€œWhat in God’s name was this place when you moved in?”
    â€œSome kind of storage attic. Which is undoubtedly why Harry was willing to give it to me rent free,” she said dryly.
    She watched him look around. He’d shed his jacket, but he hadn’t sat down yet, didn’t look as if he was necessarily going to.
    Her first week here was right after the blizzard—when she’d realized the farmhouse furnace needed a complete overhaul. That wasn’t her expense problem. It was Violet’s. And Violet could afford it just fine. But it was going to be another three weeks before the plumber could even get to the problem, and by then she’d realized how much it would cost her to live home…and how bad her financial situation really was. That same day she’d seen the Temporary Help Wanted sign in the café window.
    This room…well, it had taken her seven days of scrubbing before she could even stand it. Apparently no one had ever washed it before. Mice and birds and bees had set up housekeeping under the eaves, but nothing human. There was a utilitarian bathroom with a teensy shower; the white porcelain sink was rusty, but it was all usable. And there were two windows built into the slant of the roof.
    When her boxes had arrived from France at the farmhouse, she sorted through and discovered that she had all kinds of “things.” The only thing she didn’t have was money.
    So there was an original oil over the couch with no springs. The old iron bed was nothing to admire, but the quilt was convent-made, in rich purples and lavenders. She’d covered a hole in the wall with a Versace blouse, draping it as if it were intended to be a wall covering. She’d used scarves—Hermes, Dior, Chanel—to cover the paint-scarred tables. Her china was fine-boned, a pale cream with a rim of gold, even if the rickety card table was the only place to eat. A hot plate and small fridge functioned as her kitchen.
    â€œIf I tried to explain this to anyone, they’d never believe it,” Teague said.
    â€œYeah…well, that’s my reality. I’m dead broke. And I do mean broke.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant or thought. You’ve made something original and interesting and even beautiful out of…out of God knows what.”
    â€œIt’s hardly beautiful.”
    â€œYeah, it is. All the color, the scarves and stuff…it looks intentional. Not like you’re covering up the horrible room. But like you were creating an artsy cool boudoir.”
    She frowned, confused.
    â€œOkay, okay,” he said. “You want me to take this more seriously. You’re not just broke. You’re really broke.”
    â€œYes.” She hesitated. “Teague, I don’t mind you knowing. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything around town, because my parents and family still communicate with a ton of people here. I don’t want word to get back