When Grant awakened the next morning, he knew something was different. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, and then he remembered all the events from the day before. Namely, Maurie Ledbetter. He hoped she’d be home when he arrived at her house, because he wanted to thank her for the FaceTime idea.
With his labor-intensive work, Grant didn’t bother with going to the gym or running the streets unless it was the weekend. So he showered and was ready quickly. He grabbed a coffee from the gas station on his way to Maurie’s and arrived a few minutes after eight.
As Grant climbed out of his truck, the old doubts returned. Maybe he should tell her about calling the cops on her mother. No ... he’d been over this in his mind already. It might only bring her more stress and doubts and second-guessing. Maurie was in a good place, and he didn’t want to mess that up.
Grant lugged the toolbox out of the bed of his truck and strode up the walkway. Once he reached the front door, he knocked. When no one answered, he knocked again. There was at least one light on inside, so that gave him hope. Still, what if she’d left to do something? He looked for a note, but there was nothing. So he tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.
“Maurie?” he called as he stepped inside.
The scent of something baking wafted past him. Bread, maybe? His stomach tightened, letting him know that coffee was never enough. But the house was quiet. Had Maurie left the oven on?
“It’s Grant. I’m here to start working.” Still nothing.
He glanced toward the kitchen, surprised to see the mug of hot chocolate that she’d drunk from still on the table.
“Maurie?” He moved into the hallway, and then he heard her voice.
“Grant?”
The sound came from above ... the attic? He strode toward the sound and saw the open hatch in the corner of the second bedroom.
Two feet dangled from the opening.
As he moved toward the hatch, Maurie’s legs appeared, clad in black leggings. “Can you help me down? I’m getting vertigo.”
“Okay,” Grant said, looking up. “Move as close to the edge as possible, and I’ll hold your legs while you lower yourself to the chair.”
She scooted to the edge of the hatch, and dust filtered down. Grant blinked against the dust and grasped Maurie’s legs. He tried not to think about their close proximity.
“I feel sick,” Maurie said.
“Like sick sick, or you just hate heights?” Grant asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arms more fully about her legs to give her more support. “Let go.”
She did.
Good thing Grant had braced his legs so that he didn’t topple against the wall, because he hadn’t expected her to pretty much let herself drop. She didn’t even come close to landing on the chair.
Maurie yelped, and Grant staggered but remained upright. He set her down, keeping his arms about her to steady her. “Are you okay?”
Maurie’s green eyes were wide; her dark waves had been pulled into a knot, but tendrils of curls created a wild halo about her head. Streaks of dust crossed her cheeks, and dirt stained her oversized shirt.
“Thank you,” Maurie said, her hands on his shoulders.
Her body was warm and curvy and soft in the places a woman was soft. Grant swallowed. And released her.
“What were you doing up there?” he asked.
Maurie brushed at her clothing. “I, uh—” She sneezed.
“Bless you,” he said, holding back a smile. He plucked out a wad of lint from her hair.
“You came just in time to rescue me.” She brushed something off his shoulder, and his heart tripped again. “Sorry about the dust. I was checking to see if my mom had put anything up there.”
He stepped back because they were standing very, very close. Even though she was grimy from the attic, she was even more beautiful than she had been yesterday.
“Find anything?” he asked.
She smiled. “I did. I’ve been up there for over an hour looking through old albums that my grandmother probably put together. Pictures I’ve never seen.”
“Really?” He rested his hands on his hips, trying to gauge her reaction to seeing old pictures of her family. She didn’t look upset or anything. “Do you want me to bring them down?”
“Thanks. But you don’t have to go up there.”
He lifted his hands. “Free of charge.”
She studied him as if she was doubting.
“It will take only a couple of minutes,” he said.
The edges of her mouth curved. “All right, I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” He stepped onto the chair and poked his head through the hatch opening. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. More boxes stacked. Odds and ends of furniture. The attic’s mustiness attacked, and he sneezed.
“It’s really dirty,” Maurie called up, amusement in her tone.
“I got it.” Grant braced his elbows on the edges and pulled himself up with a grunt. He slowly straightened in the cramped space, then he spotted some opened boxes. Sure enough, they contained photo albums. There were about a dozen other boxes—handmade boxes, with their taped edges and corners. A small crib that was more of a bassinet stood in one corner. And a huge stack of National Geographic magazines teetered in another corner. Grant picked up the top magazine. 1968.
He flipped through a few pages, then he picked up the box with photo albums. He crossed to the hatch opening.
Maurie was standing on the chair, waiting.
“I’ll hand down the box to you.” He knelt and lowered the box into her waiting arms. “Do you want both boxes?”
“Yep.”
“Did you see all of these National Geographics up here?”
“Yeah, I think they were my grandpa’s,” she said, gazing up at him. “He died when I was pretty young, so I don’t remember much.”
He rested his hands on his knees. “Well, if you want someone to take them off your hands, let me know.”
“You want them?” Her brows lifted.
He shrugged. “Only if you don’t.”
She smiled, and it did something funny to his heart. “They’re all yours, Grant Shelton. Hand them down too.”
So he did, right after he grabbed the other box of photo albums. By the time Grant had lowered himself down through the hatch, he was even dirtier than Maurie.
“Look at you,” she said, brushing at his sleeve. “Do you need to go home and get cleaned up?”
He looked down at his dusty clothing. “I’m used to these working conditions. Unless you’d rather I clean up?”
“Oh, no, you’re fine,” Maurie said. “The dust is making me itchy though, so I’m getting in the shower. Help yourself to the cinnamon rolls.”
“Did you say cinnamon rolls?” Grant asked.
Maurie laughed. “Sure did. Made them this morning.”
Grant stared at her. “Homemade?”
She brushed off her hands. “Sure thing. Got up at five to mix the dough.”
“Five in the morning?”
She set her hands on her hips. “Yeah. It’s about a two-and-a-half-hour process.”
Grant rubbed the back of his neck. “Wow. Would it be too forward if I asked you to marry me?”
Maurie grinned. “What? Your wife didn’t cook?” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, that was really rude.”
Grant wasn’t offended in the least. “Joy was really great at ordering takeout. Which was fine. I mean, theoretically I could have cooked.”
Maurie’s brows lifted. “Do you cook?”
“I can warm up chili from a can.” He winked. “And make a mean PB&J.”
She patted him on the chest and moved past him into the hallway. “Well, enjoy the cinnamon rolls. There’s milk in the fridge too.”
Grant made a beeline for the kitchen. He rounded the corner and stepped into paradise. Well, the kitchen was still a disaster, but the cleared portion of the kitchen counter was topped with a baking pan with lightly browned cinnamon rolls. It took him about ten seconds to find a spatula in a fancy floral vase, and another ten seconds to bite into the soft goodness.
He ate an entire cinnamon roll before locating a glass and pouring himself milk. Then he ate a second roll. He could have easily eaten a third, but he wondered if Maurie had plans for the others. When his mother baked, she took half to a neighbor’s. Said it helped keep her waist trim.
He’d decided to start working in the kitchen, so that part could be functional first. Besides, by the sound of it, Maurie was in the only bathroom in the house, so he couldn’t very well work there. He went outside to grab the saw table from the back of his truck. He set it up on the porch and cut new shelves for the pantry. The ones she had were unsalvageable.
When he brought them into the kitchen, the shower was running, and he tried not to think of Maurie in the shower, only a couple of walls away. Too distracting. He needed music on or something. Maybe he’d download a couple of audio books to listen to.
The shower shut off, and Grant shook his head, chasing his imagination away. Just because she was an attractive woman didn’t mean that there would be a relationship between them. He couldn’t imagine dating someone he kept such a huge secret from. And if he told her, he didn’t think she’d be as friendly.
But he liked being around Maurie, as little time as it had been. He hadn’t allowed himself to relax around a woman in a long time. Since his divorce, Grant had gone on exactly two dates—one was set up and the other a spur-of-the-moment connection. Neither had led to second dates. But now it was all that he could do to not let his imagination get away from him as he thought about what it would be like to take Maurie out for dinner, or on a long walk near the ski resort, or for a coffee at the Main Street Café.
“Snap out of it,” he mumbled as he hammered the two-by-four that would hold the new pantry shelf.
“Did you say something?” Maurie asked.
He turned to see her standing in the kitchen doorway. Her skin gleamed pink from her shower, making her eyes bright. Her hair was still wet, with small water droplets marking the shoulders of her long-sleeved shirt. She wore ratty jeans with holes at the knees, the jeans fitting her curves as if they’d been painted on.
Well. “Uh, I should have warned you,” he said, swallowing hard. “I talk to myself when I work.”
“Hmm,” Maurie said with a smirk. “I’ll be sure to stay close by then.” She crossed the kitchen, and his gaze followed her.
She cut a cinnamon roll from the pan.
“Those were delicious, by the way,” he said. “Thank you.”
She took a bite without answering, then looked over at him. “You’re welcome. There’s plenty here if you want more.” Her gaze flitted down his body.
The back of his neck heated. And ... he realized he was staring as she took another bite. He could practically taste the cinnamon and sugar himself. He forced his gaze to the pantry. Back to work.
“By the way, I FaceTimed Trent last night, and he loved it.” Grant positioned the last shelf to mark where he’d hammer in the brackets. It was a bit tricky to make the markings with one hand balancing the shelf.
“Good to hear,” Maurie said, close to his ear. “Here, I’ll hold the shelf.”
He hadn’t realized she’d crossed the room. But now she was right beside him, her peppermint scent dominating his senses.
She reached up and balanced the shelf, and he could practically feel her warmth against his skin even though they weren’t touching.
He marked the location for the brackets, wishing it took more than a few seconds to do so. “Thanks,” he said, grasping the shelf.
She smiled and let it go. He set the shelf on the floor.
“So your son liked FaceTime, huh?”
There was a small bit of cinnamon at the edge of her mouth, and Grant couldn’t take his eyes from it. “Yes. He loved it, and I loved seeing his face while we talked. Well, I sort of hated it too, because it made me miss him more. But now I don’t have to go through Joy every time I want to get in touch with my kid.”
“Nice,” Maurie said, and she moved past him, out of the pantry area.
Their arms brushed, and the hairs on his arms stood up.
“I’m glad it worked out,” Maurie said.
“Me too,” Grant said.
“I should get through my emails,” Maurie said. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in my bedroom.”
“Will do.” Grant watched her walk out of the kitchen, the feel of her arm against his still lingering. Then he went back to work before he allowed himself to get even more distracted.