Free Beach Winds by Grace Greene Page A

picked up a box. No. She tried again. The box was too heavy. She couldn’t budge it. “Books. Maybe I’ll leave these for you to move.”
    The difference in their biceps was obvious. His look made her feel foolish.
    “I’ll move them tomorrow.” He held out his hand. “The paint chip?”
    “ Oh, sure.” She went up the short hall to the kitchen. She pushed through her bag. “Here it is.” She spun back around, intending to return to the bedroom, and nearly crashed into him. At a loss, she pushed the paint chip into his hand.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have picture hanging hardware?”
    “ You mean a hammer and a nail?”
    “ This painting needs stronger hardware. I’ll pick it up when I get the paint.”
    “ Make sure you include that along with the cost of the paint in the invoice.”
    He hadn ’t moved away. He stood so close she could see a pulse beating in a vein in his neck. Her eyes fastened upon it. For a long, strained moment, they were silent.
    “ Fran. Can I ask you a question?”
    It was on the tip of her tongue to correct him, the automatic It’s Frannie, not Frances. Not Fran . But she didn’t. Frannie would sound odd somehow coming from his lips. His lips. Now her eyes were trapped again. She closed them.
    “ Fran?”
    When Brian called her ‘Fran,’ it sounded right.
    “ Okay, what?”
    “ Where do you want me to hang the painting?”
    Her eyes flew open. The words didn ’t match his posture, his position.
    “ Where do you think would be best?” Breathless.
    Still, he didn ’t move. There was this unnatural suspension, this narrow vortex they occupied, with the tension torqueing. He should leave. He must not leave.
    “ Why don’t you let me know when I come back tomorrow?”
    She nodded, unable to find words, overwhelmed by the charged air surrounding them, grateful that she appeared to be the only one aware of it.
    She was scared to realize she wasn ’t afraid. Not even of that potential third strike.

     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    What was he thinking? He couldn ’t resist teasing her, testing her, but something had changed. He stepped back. What was this in his hand? A piece of trash? No, the color chip.
    “ What color is this?”
    “ It’s called Misty Celery. It’s a lovely soft shade of green. I think it complements the green you chose for the living room.”
    “ Soft shade? It’s white.”
    “ No, see the name at the bottom?” She pointed at the chip. “See? It says Misty Celery.”
    “ It’s white.” He waved his hand. “Well, if you want white, then white it is.”
    “ It is what I want. Exactly what I want. And it’s not white.”
    “ Fine. I aim to please.”
    She crossed her arms. “No need to be sarcastic.”
    “ I wasn’t.”
    “ You were.”
    He opened his mouth to retort back and then remembered he wasn’t five. Not even fifteen. A little more than twice that, in fact. Too old for games like this. He waved the chip. “I’ll get the paint.”
    He could see it churning in her expression. She was all set to contradict him again. Brian looked at her more closely, then quickly away. That’s exactly what she was doing. She was gearing up for the next strike. Deliberately contradicting him to start a fight. He tried not to grin. Hard not to like a woman with spirit and gumption and who carried herself with a certain kind of flair.
    “ Whatever you want.” He kept his back turned, certain his amused expression would give away that he was on to her game. “Want me to hang up those drapes?”
    “ What?”
    He pointed to the windows and the sliding door. “Need help hanging those back up?”
    “ No. I like the windows uncovered.”
    He agreed with her, but he hated to spoil the fun by saying that, so he grunted.
    “Well, if you disagree, please tell me.”
    Brian shrugged to hide his smile. She could find an argument in a turnip.
    He said, “We should take down the hardware then. No need to have it hanging out and looking like we