Read Online Hands On by Christina Crooks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christina Crooks
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right away.”
Gratitude and awe coursed through her, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. He’d gone back after she’d fallen asleep, probably. His stamina astonished her, even as his thoughtfulness made her heart warm. “Harry,” she said, letting her affection, her admiration, color his name. “Thank you.”
His eyes sparkled in the basement’s dimmer light. He handed her the purse. “Don’t mention it.”
“But I want to.” She reached up to cup his face the way he had hers earlier. “You’re so sweet.”
Looking into his eyes, she could feel herself falling for him, a tugging ache in her heart that made her want to cook him something, or maybe have his babies. But something had scarred him in his past, and she was pretty sure it probably had to do with a relationship. So she just gently patted his cheek.
“That picture, upstairs. Does it have anything to do with why a handsome, heroic specimen such as you is living in this big house all by yourself?”
Harry lifted her hand from his chin, fully extending her arm. He kissed her knuckles, once. A gallant gesture before he turned toward the workbench and took a few steps.
Her hand tingled. She followed in his wake.
And what a nice-smelling wake it was too. She knew from his clothes that he didn’t dig ditches for a living—as if the big fancy house wasn’t enough clue to his white-collar employment—but his clean, musky male scent confirmed it. Maybe it was pheromones. His scent attracted her more than cologne ever had.
Intriguing, gallant, sensitive, good-smelling, fabulous lover… If she weren’t careful, she’d get her heart broken. He’d warned her of the possibility, since he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
He must’ve been in a very bad relationship. Worse than hers, even.
She approached the smooth wood where her marionette lay, her hands almost automatically clearing the tangles from the strings and taking in the extent of the damage. Bad, but not irretrievable.
Harry watched her hands.
She would need tools, glue, rags, paints…most of her supplies, really, but the damage wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She could scavenge an arm from Odie, a little-used boy puppet, and at least replace that crushed limb.
She worked and talked at the same time. “So. Who was she, and what’s the deal with that ugly painting?”
“As you surmised, the two are related.” His lips thinned. Disapproval. Distaste for the woman, the artwork, or both? “I managed to get involved with the most conniving, lying gold-digger on the entire West Coast. Worse, I offered to marry her.”
Ginnie glanced at his ring finger.
“Oh, we didn’t get to the altar. Almost but not quite. Thankfully not quite. But you wanted to know about the painting.”
She wanted to know about everything. Absolutely everything there was to know about the fascinating man. “Uh-huh.” Her hands continued to work as she listened carefully.
“Jaye Rae lays waste wherever she goes. She’s beautiful, of course. Honey-tongued. Talented at the art of being arm candy. Not so good at oil painting, which was her hook. A passionate artiste ”—Harry pronounced it “arteest” with such contempt that Ginnie froze for a moment—“in search of a real man who could understand her unique artistic temperament. So needy. So controlling. Anyway,” Harry continued, “it was a long time ago.”
When Ginnie glanced at him, she could see the muscles in his shoulders all bunched up. He looked at his watch.
“But what happened?” she asked quickly, before he made an excuse to leave. He didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, but he needed to. She knew. Plus she was dying to hear what happened.
He paused, then answered, his voice clipped. “Long story short, she was an actual artist like I’m a bunny rabbit. She painted her contempt for art, and called it art. There was a period of time after she moved in that this whole space down here was supposedly her studio. She’d come
Gratitude and awe coursed through her, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. He’d gone back after she’d fallen asleep, probably. His stamina astonished her, even as his thoughtfulness made her heart warm. “Harry,” she said, letting her affection, her admiration, color his name. “Thank you.”
His eyes sparkled in the basement’s dimmer light. He handed her the purse. “Don’t mention it.”
“But I want to.” She reached up to cup his face the way he had hers earlier. “You’re so sweet.”
Looking into his eyes, she could feel herself falling for him, a tugging ache in her heart that made her want to cook him something, or maybe have his babies. But something had scarred him in his past, and she was pretty sure it probably had to do with a relationship. So she just gently patted his cheek.
“That picture, upstairs. Does it have anything to do with why a handsome, heroic specimen such as you is living in this big house all by yourself?”
Harry lifted her hand from his chin, fully extending her arm. He kissed her knuckles, once. A gallant gesture before he turned toward the workbench and took a few steps.
Her hand tingled. She followed in his wake.
And what a nice-smelling wake it was too. She knew from his clothes that he didn’t dig ditches for a living—as if the big fancy house wasn’t enough clue to his white-collar employment—but his clean, musky male scent confirmed it. Maybe it was pheromones. His scent attracted her more than cologne ever had.
Intriguing, gallant, sensitive, good-smelling, fabulous lover… If she weren’t careful, she’d get her heart broken. He’d warned her of the possibility, since he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
He must’ve been in a very bad relationship. Worse than hers, even.
She approached the smooth wood where her marionette lay, her hands almost automatically clearing the tangles from the strings and taking in the extent of the damage. Bad, but not irretrievable.
Harry watched her hands.
She would need tools, glue, rags, paints…most of her supplies, really, but the damage wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She could scavenge an arm from Odie, a little-used boy puppet, and at least replace that crushed limb.
She worked and talked at the same time. “So. Who was she, and what’s the deal with that ugly painting?”
“As you surmised, the two are related.” His lips thinned. Disapproval. Distaste for the woman, the artwork, or both? “I managed to get involved with the most conniving, lying gold-digger on the entire West Coast. Worse, I offered to marry her.”
Ginnie glanced at his ring finger.
“Oh, we didn’t get to the altar. Almost but not quite. Thankfully not quite. But you wanted to know about the painting.”
She wanted to know about everything. Absolutely everything there was to know about the fascinating man. “Uh-huh.” Her hands continued to work as she listened carefully.
“Jaye Rae lays waste wherever she goes. She’s beautiful, of course. Honey-tongued. Talented at the art of being arm candy. Not so good at oil painting, which was her hook. A passionate artiste ”—Harry pronounced it “arteest” with such contempt that Ginnie froze for a moment—“in search of a real man who could understand her unique artistic temperament. So needy. So controlling. Anyway,” Harry continued, “it was a long time ago.”
When Ginnie glanced at him, she could see the muscles in his shoulders all bunched up. He looked at his watch.
“But what happened?” she asked quickly, before he made an excuse to leave. He didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, but he needed to. She knew. Plus she was dying to hear what happened.
He paused, then answered, his voice clipped. “Long story short, she was an actual artist like I’m a bunny rabbit. She painted her contempt for art, and called it art. There was a period of time after she moved in that this whole space down here was supposedly her studio. She’d come
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