Playboy Bachelors: Remodelling the Bachelor

Lily’s smile crinkled into her eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” Kelli echoed, then crossed her heart with childish fingers.

Lily looked up in Janice’s direction. “This is very, very good.”

Janice already knew that, but it was nice to hear a professional agree. “Thank you.”

Lily studied the drawing again. It looked better to her with each pass. “Have you thought of getting your daughter some professional training?”

It was one of her cherished hopes, but it was something to address in the future, not now. “She’s a little young for that.”

“How old is she?” Lily asked.

Kelli responded instantly. “I’m four and three-quarters.”

“Oh, four and three-quarters,” Lily parroted, suppressing a smile. She glanced up at Janice. “Mozart was four when he wrote his first concerto.”

“Well, he ultimately didn’t wind up very well, did he?” Janice countered. She didn’t want anyone treating Kelli like some oddity.

“Well-read, too.” Lily nodded, looking back at her son. Her comment, clearly about J.D., was for Philippe’s benefit. “You’ve given me hope, Philippe.”

“Remodeling, Mother, she’s remodeling a couple of rooms for me.”

“Four,” Janice corrected. “I’m remodeling four rooms for you.”

“Very promising,” Lily commented. Philippe could almost see his mother’s thoughts racing off to the finish line. Any protest he might offer would only make the woman believe the very opposite. This was a case of discretion being the better part of valor.

So for the time being, he kept his silence and hoped for the best. He’d survived Hurricane Lily before.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_06912618-5eaa-598d-9508-3bff5d4f1f73)

Like most people, Philippe had a temper. However, unless one of his own was being threatened, it took a great deal to nudge that particular part of his personality awake. He usually took things in stride. Being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic didn’t faze him. But deadlines that came and went, his deadlines, made him uneasy. Because he felt responsible for the failure to meet this particular deadline, he’d become progressively more irritated.

And God knew, the noise wasn’t helping.

Philippe looked accusingly at the closed door. He’d been in his office for the last three hours and it was just getting worse.

This was definitely not what he had bargained for.

Afraid of losing his work, he saved it, assigning the program’s temporary name yet another number to differentiate it from previous versions. He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

When he’d agreed to have work done on his house, he’d forgotten to consider one important thing.

The noise factor.

Right now, the house abounded with it. How could one woman create this much noise? It seeped into every crevice of the house, taking his office prisoner.

It didn’t matter if his door was open or closed. He was still very much aware of it. Sometimes the noise was loud, sometimes almost deceptively soft, making him think that perhaps he’d weathered the worst. But then it would start again. And continue.

At its best, the noise could be likened to an erratic heartbeat. At its worst, it was like the circus setting up winter quarters outside his door—with a herd of less-than-tame elephants in charge of doing all of the hammering.

It had been like this for three days.

Philippe dragged his fingers through his hair and counted to ten. And then ten again. It didn’t help. His long dormant temper had gone short-fuse on him.

Abandoning his computer and its multitude of crashes, Philippe went out into the hallway and made his way to the kitchen, the source of all this ungodly noise.

He was ready to do whatever it took to get some peace.

Wearing safety goggles and wielding a sledgehammer, J.D. didn’t seem to see him at first. For a second, despite the irritation that was close to the boiling point within his chest, he hung back, just watching her.

She swung that sledgehammer like a pro. Tirelessly. Splintering cabinets she’d already crowbarred from the wall.

He found the rhythmic movement oddly hypnotic. J.D. wore faded jeans that seemed to lovingly adhere to her every curve and a gray T-shirt that was damp in several places, obviously with her sweat.

Construction had never looked so good.

Something inside him stirred as he continued to watch her work.

One final swing and she broke apart the last of the cabinets. Now the mess just needed to be hauled away. The kitchen was gutted, barren, like the aftermath of a hurricane. He assumed the rebuilding would begin tomorrow. He’d never gotten around to picking out his new appliances. He’d left that entirely up to J.D. A small part of him couldn’t help wondering if perhaps that had been a mistake.

She had muscles, he realized as he stared at the way they moved and flexed.

Damn, he was turned on. What was that all about? Yes, she was an attractive woman, but this went beyond just acknowledgement of that fact.

He was working too hard, he told himself. And his brain was tired.

Janice sensed his presence a moment before she retired the sledgehammer. Every single muscle in her body ached from exhaustion. One more swing and she would have dropped the hammer. Her hands couldn’t hold on to the handle for another second.

She glanced up in his direction just as she wiped more perspiration from her brow with the back of her wrist. He was looking at the rubble.

“Pretty awful, isn’t it?” she commented, guessing at what had to be going through his brain. Right about now, Zabelle probably couldn’t envision that this chaos would, in the end, give way to something really nice.

Philippe nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.”

She didn’t follow him and wondered if eccentricity ran in the family. His mother had all but commandeered her last week when they’d first met, absorbing much of her afternoon. The woman seemed absolutely taken with her daughter and since both Kelli and Lily shared a love of art, she had seen that as a good thing.

But there was no denying that Lily Moreau was not your ordinary woman by any stretch of the imagination. She took getting used to. And indulging.

She wouldn’t have said that about Philippe, but then, she really didn’t know him that well. One prolonged shopping trip did not exactly make her privy to his soul.

“All right,” Janice replied, drawing out the words and hoping that Philippe would fill in the blanks.

He picked up a kitchen towel that was tossed on the table. Rather than offer it to her, he wiped away the line of perspiration that had plastered her hair to her forehead.

His hand moved in short, sure strokes along her forehead.

Their eyes met. He took a breath, realizing that his brain had vacated the premises. “I think I made a mistake.”