Read Online Last One Home by Debbie Macomber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Debbie Macomber
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didn’t need to like him, either. Cassie was determined that no matter what he said, she wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her. She had faced off with the master of intimidation and survived. Compared to Duke, Steve was an amateur.
Shelly had a radio, which she placed on the floor between the living room and the dining room and put it on a Top 40 station. The two women started work, singing to the music. Soon they were dancing, too, paintbrushes in hand, enjoying themselves and making the most of the song.
“Hey, you two,” George said, coming inside the house and heading toward the Styrofoam cooler. “You’re having way too much fun in here.”
“That’s because we’re singing along with Uncle Kracker and you’re stuck with Mr. Potato Head,” Cassie said.
Shelly’s eyes widened as she slid her finger sideways across her throat, telling Cassie to cut it. That was when she realized Steve had come inside with George and stood directly behind her.
Well, she hadn’t said anything he didn’t deserve.
“Here,” George said, breaking the tension. He handed Steve a bottle of water as if nothing had happened. Then he looked toward Shelly and Cassie. “You two need water?”
“I don’t,” Shelly said.
“Me, neither.”
The two men drank their water. Determined to prove her worth, Cassie returned to painting, using the paintbrush to cut in around the windows just like Steve had instructed. Another song came on the radio, and while Shelly didn’t sing, Cassie’s feet refused to hold still. At first she simply tapped her foot as she continued to paint. But all too soon her legs and hips started to sway, as it was impossible to stand still. At one point she whirled around in a complete circle and discovered Steve. He stood no more than a few feet behind her. His dark, disapproving look stopped her cold.
“Did you need something?” she asked, refusing to flinch.
“You’re not using the right brush,” he said, his words devoid of emotion.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The paintbrush,” he reiterated, pointing to the one in her hand. “It’s the wrong size. It will take you twice as much time to cover the same area with that smaller brush. Use the other one, the bigger brush, but be sure and give that one a thorough cleaning first.”
Did he seriously think she’d just leave it thick with paint? Cassie’s back was as straight as a telephone pole. “I happen to like this smaller brush. It fits perfectly in my hand and applies the paint smoothly and evenly.”
Steve stared her down, but Cassie refused to blink. The truth was she really didn’t have a preference, but she refused to let him think he had the upper hand.
“Have it your way, then.”
“I will,” she said, making her voice as sweet and accommodating as humanly possible. She held the same ramrod-straight pose until Steve left and returned to the roof with George.
As soon as he vacated the house, Shelly came over to Cassie. “He really doesn’t like you,” she whispered, as if she was afraid he would hear her.
“I told you.”
“Calling him a Mr. Potato Head probably didn’t help.”
Cassie disagreed. “He was being a jerk, just the way Amiee said.” Her daughter had the electrical contractor pegged after less than five minutes.
“He isn’t always like this. Deep down, I think he must like you.”
That was so far from the truth it was almost funny. “If so, he has an odd way of showing it.”
“I’m serious. Try being nice to him,” Shelly advised, “and see what happens.”
“The thing you’re forgetting,” Cassie said, as she reached for the paint bucket, “is that I really don’t care if Steve likes me or not.”
“You’re going to be working together for a long time. Those sweat-equity hours don’t fly by as quickly as some people think. It’s a lot of time and effort, and if you’re going to be working with Steve, then you should at least make an attempt to try to get along, don’t you
Shelly had a radio, which she placed on the floor between the living room and the dining room and put it on a Top 40 station. The two women started work, singing to the music. Soon they were dancing, too, paintbrushes in hand, enjoying themselves and making the most of the song.
“Hey, you two,” George said, coming inside the house and heading toward the Styrofoam cooler. “You’re having way too much fun in here.”
“That’s because we’re singing along with Uncle Kracker and you’re stuck with Mr. Potato Head,” Cassie said.
Shelly’s eyes widened as she slid her finger sideways across her throat, telling Cassie to cut it. That was when she realized Steve had come inside with George and stood directly behind her.
Well, she hadn’t said anything he didn’t deserve.
“Here,” George said, breaking the tension. He handed Steve a bottle of water as if nothing had happened. Then he looked toward Shelly and Cassie. “You two need water?”
“I don’t,” Shelly said.
“Me, neither.”
The two men drank their water. Determined to prove her worth, Cassie returned to painting, using the paintbrush to cut in around the windows just like Steve had instructed. Another song came on the radio, and while Shelly didn’t sing, Cassie’s feet refused to hold still. At first she simply tapped her foot as she continued to paint. But all too soon her legs and hips started to sway, as it was impossible to stand still. At one point she whirled around in a complete circle and discovered Steve. He stood no more than a few feet behind her. His dark, disapproving look stopped her cold.
“Did you need something?” she asked, refusing to flinch.
“You’re not using the right brush,” he said, his words devoid of emotion.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The paintbrush,” he reiterated, pointing to the one in her hand. “It’s the wrong size. It will take you twice as much time to cover the same area with that smaller brush. Use the other one, the bigger brush, but be sure and give that one a thorough cleaning first.”
Did he seriously think she’d just leave it thick with paint? Cassie’s back was as straight as a telephone pole. “I happen to like this smaller brush. It fits perfectly in my hand and applies the paint smoothly and evenly.”
Steve stared her down, but Cassie refused to blink. The truth was she really didn’t have a preference, but she refused to let him think he had the upper hand.
“Have it your way, then.”
“I will,” she said, making her voice as sweet and accommodating as humanly possible. She held the same ramrod-straight pose until Steve left and returned to the roof with George.
As soon as he vacated the house, Shelly came over to Cassie. “He really doesn’t like you,” she whispered, as if she was afraid he would hear her.
“I told you.”
“Calling him a Mr. Potato Head probably didn’t help.”
Cassie disagreed. “He was being a jerk, just the way Amiee said.” Her daughter had the electrical contractor pegged after less than five minutes.
“He isn’t always like this. Deep down, I think he must like you.”
That was so far from the truth it was almost funny. “If so, he has an odd way of showing it.”
“I’m serious. Try being nice to him,” Shelly advised, “and see what happens.”
“The thing you’re forgetting,” Cassie said, as she reached for the paint bucket, “is that I really don’t care if Steve likes me or not.”
“You’re going to be working together for a long time. Those sweat-equity hours don’t fly by as quickly as some people think. It’s a lot of time and effort, and if you’re going to be working with Steve, then you should at least make an attempt to try to get along, don’t you
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