“Working on that.” Brad carried the stepladder into the house. “Hi, Simon. Hows it going?”
“Its going okay. How come youre wearing a suit if youre carrying ladders around?”
“Simon.”
“Good question.” Brad ignoredZoe and concentrated on the boy. “I had a couple of meetings earlier today. Suits are more intimidating.”
“Wearing them sucks. Mom made me wear one to AuntJoleens wedding last year. With a tie. Bogus.”
“Thanks for that fashion report.”Zoe hooked an arm around Simons throat and made him grin.
Then they both grinned, at each other, and Brads eyes were dazzled.
“Homework?”
“Done. Video game time.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Forty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Sweet!” He wriggled free, then bolted across the room to the TV.
Now that her hands were no longer full of boy,Zoe didnt know what to do with them. She laid one on the ladder. “Its a really nice stepladder. The fiberglass ones are so light and easy to work with.”
“Quality with value—HomeMakers bywords.”
The sounds of a ballpark abruptly filled the tiny living room behind her. “Its his favorite,”Zoe managed. “Hed rather play baseball—virtual or in real life—than breathe.” She cleared her throat, wondered what the hell she was supposed to do next. “Ah… can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure, Whatevers handy.” “Okay.” Damn it. “Just, um, have a seat. Ill be back in a minute.”
What to do with Bradley Vane? she asked herself as she hurried back to the kitchen. In her house. Plunked down in his expensive shoes in her living room. An hour before dinner.
She stopped herself, pressed her hands to her eyes. It was okay, it was perfectly all right. Hed done something very considerate, and she would reciprocate by bringing him something to drink, having a few minutes of conversation.
She never knew what she was supposed to say to him. She didnt understand men like him. The kind of man who came from serious money. Whod done things and had things and gone places to get more.
And he made her so stupidly nervous and defensive.
Should she take him a glass of wine? No, no, he was driving, and she didnt have any really good wine anyway. Coffee? Tea?
Christ.
At her wits end, she opened the refrigerator. She had juice, she had milk.
Here, Bradley Charles Vane IV, of the really rich and
important Pennsylvania Vanes, have a nice glass of cow juice, then be on your way.
She blew out a breath, then dug a bottle of ginger ale out of a cupboard. She took out her nicest glass, checked for water spots, then filled it with ice. She added the ginger ale, careful to keep it a safe half inch below the rim.
She tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt shed tossed on over jeans, looked down resignedly at the thick gray socks she wore in lieu of shoes, and hoped she didnt smell of the brass cleaner shed been using to attack the tarnish on an umbrella stand shed picked up at the flea market.
Suit or no suit, she thought as she squared her shoulders, she wouldnt be intimidated in her own home. She would take him his drink, speak politely, hopefully briefly, then show him out.
No doubt he had more exciting things to do than sit in her living room drinking ginger ale and watching a nine-year-old play video baseball.