Deck the Halls

“Look, I didn’t mean to mislead you. The thought of putting a laundry room in the shop itself never even occurred to me.”

“And you assumed that I understood you were taking me to your house?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.”

She rolled her eyes at that.

“If you prefer,” he offered grimly, “you can take the stuff to a commercial laundry somewhere.”

“And who’s going to pay for that?” she demanded.

“I will,” he gritted out, hanging onto the wispy tail end of his patience, “but first you really ought to take a look at what my laundry room has to offer and what you’ll have to haul around town if you decide that you just can’t stand working here.”

She turned her head to stare out the passenger window, drumming her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. He didn’t know what else to say, what she expected him to say now, so he just waited her out. After some time she abruptly yanked the handle and popped up out of the car. Vince breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know if his relief stemmed from her cooperation or the possibility that her disapproval was not directed at his home after all.

He killed the engine as she moved around the car toward the walkway. He got out, tossed her car keys to her and followed her along the curving walk to the front door. He didn’t usually go in this way, preferring to park in the garage at the side of the house and enter through the back hall and kitchen, but he’d always admired the professional landscaping. In the summertime the flower beds beneath the front windows would blaze with purple lantana. Now he looked at it all with an especially critical eye, wondering what she thought of it, though why he should care was beyond him.

To put it bluntly, the girl was a charity case, and as prickly as a cactus. What difference did it make whether or not she approved of his house? Or him, for that matter? And yet it did. He couldn’t help wondering why, but when it came right down to it, he was almost afraid to know.

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