Enlisted by Love (15 page)

It took only a few minutes to drive to Ian's house. She parked at the curb, the driveway having been taken up by the paperhanger's truck. The driveway was large enough for both his truck and her car but he had parked smack in the middle in the charming, clueless way of contractors everywhere. But she had already made the note to find a new paperhanger so she wasn't going to bother bringing it up to him.

She gathered up the curtains and hardware and carted them up the walk. She tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Ian to come to the front door. Shouldn't he be expecting her? How was
I'll see you in a bit
confusing?

“Hello, Greta,” he said, opening the door and stepping back to let her in. He had a smile for her, and approving gray eyes, and the fight went right out of her, which was the most irritating thing. He was fully dressed and freshly shaved, and appeared considerably more alert than he'd been the last time she'd seen him in the morning. A pity. She wouldn't have minded tormenting him a little. “The paperhanger's in the kitchen drinking my coffee. What's that?”

“Curtains for the home theater room. Tess finished them yesterday, since you are a priority client. I may as well put them up as long as I have to be here.” His smile broadened as she spoke, which meant he thought she was being overbearing, so she turned it up a notch. “Can I trust you to bring these upstairs and place them gently on the recliner, without wrinkling them, while I talk to the paperhanger?”

“I believe I am just the man for that mission,” he said, divesting her of the curtains and rods and trotting up the stairs with them.

“No wrinkles!” she called up after him, but he either didn't hear her or ignored her. She could guess which it was. For some reason, that made her smile.

Shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen and talked to the paperhanger. Tess didn't normally make simple mistakes like failing to tell a contractor what to do, but newlyweds weren't the most reliable creatures on the planet. Neither, though, were paperhangers. Greta supposed she shouldn't jump to conclusions about who was at fault.

“And I know how you feel about getting things wrong,” the paperhanger said, wrapping up his defense. “So I didn't dare — I mean, I didn't want to mix them up and then end up having to do everything all over again.”

When she was through and the paperhanger had gone out to his truck to collect his tools, she walked upstairs to the home theater room to put up the curtains. She had tried out various handymen for their curtain-hanging ability but none were as good at it as she was, because she cared about little things, like getting the curtain rod level. So she hung them herself whenever it was practical, and disclaimed all responsibility when it wasn't.

Ian had draped the curtains carefully over the back of the recliner, fabric meticulously smoothed, hems perfectly aligned. Ah. The Army influence. Or else his really annoying sense of humor. Well, good for him. Now he wouldn't have wrinkled curtains hanging from the rod. Not that he would notice one way or the other; it wasn't the kind of thing most men could see even when it was pointed out to them.

“Do you have a stepladder or a stepstool?” she asked him. “And would you mind getting the tool box from my car? I didn't have enough hands to bring it in.” Also she disliked carrying it around because no matter how careful she was, just handling it always managed to make her pantsuit dirty.

“What do you need? A drill and a screwdriver? I have those here.”

“Yes. And a pencil for marking the placement. Oh, and don't forget the level.”

“Coming right up,” Ian said, leaving the room and returning a few minutes later with the requested items. They were all suspiciously shiny, even the stepladder, like he had just bought them but hadn't had the opportunity to use them yet. Which was probably exactly true. She imagined he'd lived in bachelor quarters his entire military life, with someone else responsible for repairs and update. She very much doubted he had ever hung curtains in his life.

However, he turned out to be extremely helpful, holding tools as she marked the placement for the rod brackets, drilled the holes, and screwed the brackets in. He never distracted her from the task at hand or suggested he could handle the tools better than she. He helped thread the curtains on the rod, then held up his end of the rod without letting the curtain slide off onto the floor.

When they were done, she stepped down from the stepladder and gave a small nod of satisfaction, twitching one of the fabric panels into a better hang.

“They look good,” Ian said. “Tess really knows what she's doing.” Then: “As do you.”

“Nice save,” Greta said, an unwilling smile tugging at her lips. She turned to survey the room. With the exception of the recliner, it had all come together well. These walls had already been painted, so the curtains were the last thing on the to-do list. That made one room down — how many to go? No, she wasn't going to count. It was just a matter of Michael and Tess finalizing a few things. They would be done soon. From now on, Greta would check caller i.d. before answering the phone and she'd make Tess respond to any calls from Ian, no matter how quickly and easily Greta might be able to resolve the matter at hand herself.

Ian folded up the stepladder and brought it into the hallway, where he leaned it against the wall. She knew men worked in stages and eventually it would make its way back to the garage where it belonged but not before it had inflicted stubbed toes and hip contusions on three different people and got knocked over by the paperhanger, who wouldn't be expecting it there. But she said nothing because it was Not Her Problem. So much of the pain in life could be avoided by not getting involved in things, including men who were Not Her Problem.

She headed for the stairs, saying, “Let me know if you need anything.” She didn't tell him that she wouldn't actually be answering any of his calls and that she'd dispatch Tess for whatever he needed. Revealing one's strategies to the enemy was foolish.

“Uh, Greta.”

She stopped on the second step from the top. She eyed the front door. So close to freedom. Just a few more steps and she'd have been out the door. She sighed and glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could take you to dinner.”

Her jaw dropped. He seemed perfectly serious. She hadn't thought anything he did could surprise her, but he'd had a nice big surprise up his sleeve.

“I assure you, there's no need to thank me by taking me to dinner,” she said, deliberately casting his invitation in the most businesslike terms she could. “You pay your bills on time and that's all the thanks I need.” In fact, there'd be another bill in the mail this very afternoon, but she didn't mention that.

“I didn't mean it as a business dinner,” he clarified, even though she was trying to spare him the humiliation of outright rejection. Well, if he couldn't preserve himself, why should she go to any extra effort to do so? If he didn't care about his own feelings —

“And you think I should agree because?” Greta demanded, but Ian didn't seem daunted. The annoying thing was that a dinner date with Ian didn't seem half as appalling as it should. Unlike Donald, Ian was incapable of boring her into a stupor. And he had such an attractive smile that a woman could delude herself into believing he shared it only with her. And those gray eyes showed exactly how appealing he found her, which was flattering at such a basic feminine level that it was practically impossible to combat. And she would bet his kisses were neither perfunctory and dry nor wet and sloppy but just right.

She shook off that line of thinking.

“I just want to give it a chance,” Ian said, as if he were the reasonable one. “We've got this sparky thing going on and I'd like to see what it's about.”

Sparky thing
? Apparently eloquence was not his strong suit. Of the very many things that were not. “I don't even like you,” Greta said, practically daring him to contradict her, which he proceeded to do.

“Actually, I think you do like me,” he said. “It's the parts you don't know that you don't like.” He said the last as if it made sense, which it did not.

Unwillingly, unable to resist, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean, for example, I'm a retired Army officer and you think you know what kind of man that makes me.” His words might be a little muddled but now his point was perfectly clear.

“I know exactly what kind of man that makes you.”

“You may think you do.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, but that did not stop his oration. It didn't even slow him down. “You may even be right about some of it,” he conceded.

“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. She doubted he even heard her.

“But if you're honest, you have to admit that you like the parts of me that are exposed.” He paused, frowning. “I mean — ”

She marched back up the stairs to confront him. Standing toe to toe with him was necessary in this case. Necessary and exhilarating. She would show him — or at least tell him.

“You think I like what I know about you? That's quite a claim. You've hardly spent any time with me — ”

“Which is why I'd like to spend more — ”

Diverted by his interruption, she said, “You know I find you insufferable. I've told you frequently enough.” That wasn't her main point. She'd let him shake her concentration. But — she drew a sharp breath — he couldn't keep her off-track forever.

“You think I'm insufferable only because I disturb you,” he said in his insufferable way. “If I left you unruffled, like your lawyer friend, you wouldn't call me insufferable. You'd call me
dull
.”

He had a point. The point deflated some of the wind from her sails. “Dull you're not,” she agreed.

“There, you see? We have something to go on. Neither of us is dull.”

“I'm not interested in establishing a relationship with someone like you — ”

“I'm not talking about calling the caterers, Greta,” Ian said. “What would be wrong with having a little fun?”

Fun. She was taken aback. It was just a little word but it took her breath away. She gave him a measuring look. Fun. That was exactly what had happened last time. She'd had fun. And then it had stopped being fun. The rule she'd devised and abided by for so many years was to stay away from fun, and thereby avoid deep emotional pain.

“Fun,” Ian said. “Nothing more than that.”

Greta watched his gray eyes. He meant what he was saying. Fun. Why was she even tempted? If she felt her life was a little dull, then she should take a class. Or go to the theater. Babysit Belinda for the weekend. That'd liven things up. She should not go out with Ian in pursuit of fun. Or for any other reason whatsoever.

“Fun is good,” he said.

“That's your argument? ‘Fun is good'?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

“I'll think about it,” Greta said.

Fun.

Greta paced the bedroom carpet. As usual the bed was piled with materials needing her attention. Ordinarily, she would dive right in and get to work, but now she eyed the mass of paper distastefully. Finally she snatched up the phone, punched in Ian's number, which she had unfortunately memorized, and demanded, “Give me an example of fun.”

“Greta?”

Who else would be asking him a question like that? Undoubtedly every other female he knew was a good time girl who wouldn't have to ask. “Try to keep up,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. He didn't seem to take offense at the sharpness of her tone. Probably because he sensed she was weakening. Maybe if she gave in just once and went out with him, he would lose interest and find someone else to be insufferable with. He was just the type of man to be more interested in the thrill of the chase than in the prey that was at the end of it.

Bolstered by that thought, she repeated her request. “Fun, Ian. Define fun.”

“That's easy,” he said promptly, and maybe it was for a man like him. “It's Friday, which means high school football. The Firebirds are playing their crosstown rivals.”

“High school football?” she echoed. She had picked up the phone, braving the loss of her own self-image, sacrificing a good half hour's work, to be told that fun equaled a high school football game? She should have known. She hadn't even liked high school football when she was in high school.

“Wear jeans,” he said as if her capitulation were only natural. “Don't eat first. I'll treat you to a hot dog there, so bring your appetite. I'll pick you up at six.”

“A hot dog?” Wait. Of all the orders he had given her, it was the hot dog she objected to?

“You bet. Gotta support the PTO.” He paused. “You've had a hot dog before, haven't you?”

• • •

She'd had a hot dog before, just not like this one. Greta wiped ketchup from her fingers with a thin paper napkin that wasn't up to the task. She took another dainty nibble, not liking the way the relish threatened to slip off the bun. She concentrated on preventing it from plopping to the ground. Most of the other hot dog eaters were more careless, as evidenced by the spots of various condiments on the concrete patio near the stands.

She looked up. Ian didn't bother to hide the amusement in his eyes at her efforts. He ate his hot dog in three huge bites, then took a big gulp of his root beer and tossed his trash in the can near the food stand.

“You don't have to eat it if you don't want to,” he said.

“It's fine,” she said, but when he held out his hand, she thankfully surrendered the mess and let him throw it away.

“We'll try a pretzel at half-time,” he said. “I should have remembered we'd need to take this step by step. Stadium food is definitely an acquired taste.”