LITMIR.BIZ

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she said after he’d started the engine. “You’re my boss for part of the day, my coworker most of the day and I guess we’re also friends.”

      She’d summed it up perfectly. And she was right, it was unusual but also complicated. “You nailed it.”

      “Which means it’s just as confusing to you?”

      “I’m not losing sleep over it.”

      She laughed. “Okay, then.” She pulled a small stack of papers from her seemingly bottomless purse. “I’ve got a list of furniture stores I think might be suitable.”

      “How long did you spend online doing that research?”

      She shrugged. “I had fun. I hope your mother likes the results.”

      “It only matters what I think.”

      “I know, but …”

      “No buts, Sara Beth. It’s a fact.”

      “And facts matter most to you.”

      Yes, most of the time that was true. He liked facts. Good, solid, unchangeable facts made the world go around—his world, anyway.

      But he was coming to like the mystery that was Sara Beth O’Connell, too, the woman he could already call a friend, but who also made him want.

      Friends with benefits, perhaps?

      Now, that was an idea worth getting lost in.

       Chapter Seven

      Sara Beth had occasionally wondered what it would be like to have a lot of money. Not that she felt she lacked anything, but how having a lot of money could affect someone’s life.

      Now she knew. Or to a degree, anyway.

      Having money meant being allowed to buy floor models and have them delivered the same day instead of waiting weeks or months. It meant the owner waited on you personally. It also meant having a credit card with a large enough balance to charge just about anything, including a loft’s worth of furniture.

      Sara Beth had bought a piece at a time for her apartment over a couple of years, not wanting to get into debt, and often picking up secondhand pieces she would refinish or repurpose in labor-intensive, satisfying projects.

      “Have you ever painted a room?” she asked Ted as they waited in the owner’s office at Caro Miro’s Design Studio, a high-end, contemporary furniture store—the sixth store they’d visited, and the most successful shopping they’d done. Caro was off arranging the delivery of a sofa, two side chairs, a dining room table and chairs, a sleek dresser to fit in his walk-in closet and a king-size bed frame and headboard. There was more to buy—tables, lamps, more chairs, a bedspread—but not today.

      Ted stopped thumbing through a furniture catalog to look at Sara Beth, her out-of-the-blue question getting his full attention. “Painted a room? No. Why?”

      “Just curious.”

      “Have you?”

      “Lots. I don’t like to paint walls or ceilings, but I don’t mind doing the trim. You probably wouldn’t even need a ladder.” She sighed. Being tall had its advantages. “I’m thinking you should repaint the bedroom part of your loft a deep, warm brown. Are you up to it?”

      “I believe in letting the experts do the jobs they’ve trained for.”

      She grinned. “I’ll bet your father said that to you while you were growing up.”

      He cocked his head thoughtfully. “It does sound like him.”

      “So, you’ll give it a shot?”

      “Would you ask a painter to dissect a frog?”

      She laughed. “When’s the last time you dissected a frog?”

      “In high school biology class.” His eyes lit with humor. “If you think the walls should be painted, I’ll have it done. As long as you choose the color.”

      “What do I get in return? I mean, I’m suffering for my generosity already.”

      “In what way?”

      “My feet hurt. My back aches. And I’m hungry!” Before he got all serious or feeling guilty on her, she added, “But today was a whole lot of fun. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

      “We didn’t always agree.”

      “Isn’t that great?”

      “You’re strange.” He softened the statement with a crooked smile.

      She felt highly complimented. All her life, she’d been the least strange person ever. People could count on her to be unbiased, easygoing, and noncombative. If Ted saw her as something more lively—like strange—she was glad. She really was having an adventure. “Thank you.”

      He looked doubtful but said nothing because the owner/designer returned to the office.

      “You’re all set,” Caro Miro said. She was a tall woman in her late thirties, wearing a vibrant blue outfit that hugged well-toned curves. Her catlike eyes zeroed in on Ted. “You’ll have delivery by six o’clock.”

      “I appreciate it.”

      Sara Beth watched the interaction between the two. She’d come to realize that Ted had no idea how attractive he was. He never noticed when women stared, or flirted, which this one was doing, and he was missing all the signals.

      “I thought I’d come with the delivery people to see your loft,” Caro said, handing a credit card receipt to him to sign. “Then I would be able to make recommendations for the other pieces you’re looking for.”

      Ted looked at Sara Beth then. “That won’t be necessary. We seem to make a good team. But I do appreciate all the time you gave us today, and the quick delivery.”

      Sara Beth’s heart did a little leap first, then she tried hard not to smirk at the much-sexier woman. Caro might be a few years older than Ted, but Sara Beth didn’t think that would’ve stopped him from responding to her obvious flirtation if he’d been interested.

      Which he wasn’t—because he and Sara Beth made a good team. It wasn’t her imagination or wishful thinking. He’d said so.

      He started to sign, then stopped. “There’s an error.”

      Caro used the opportunity to bend close to him. “Where?”

      “You undercharged me by six dollars.”

      She pressed a hand to her chest and smiled. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s not worth running it again. Consider it a thank-you.”

      Ted signed the slip, pulled out his wallet, drew out six dollars and handed it to her as he stood. “There.”

      Caro looked surprised. Sara Beth wasn’t the least bit.

      “Do you like Thai food?” he asked Sara Beth as they left the shop.

      “Love it.”

      He pushed a speed-dial button on his cell phone and called in an order, requesting several dishes. She wondered how often he ordered in.

      “At least I can take care of your hunger problem,” he said, ending the call.

      “Thanks.” Darn. No back rub or foot massage.

      When they reached the loft, Sara Beth pulled her “Ted” folder from her purse and set it on his breakfast bar as he headed to his bedroom to check his answering machine. She would’ve gladly flopped onto a sofa, if he’d had one.

      “If you need to put your feet up,” he called from the bedroom area, “feel free to use my bed.”

      Sara Beth froze in place, tempted. Too tempted. “I’m okay, thanks,” she called back before she

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