“You’re in luck,” I tell her as I toe off my boots, careful not to get the melting snow, dirt, and garage oil everywhere. “Dishwashers are easy.”
She chuckles as she holds out her hands, waiting for me to remove my jacket. “You haven’t met one as old as mine.”
“It’s deserted outside,” I say, making small talk.
“A winter storm is coming.”
“Damn,” I mutter. I haven’t turned on the news in a few days, and I haven’t received any alerts on my phone. George and Kramer are on shift at the garage, so at least any issues that come up for motorists in the storm overnight will be covered.
“I’m over it.”
“Me too.” I long for the dog days of summerwhen the sun scorches your flesh and the only calls I get are for wrecks and flat tires. Winter causes an entirely different set of issues for drivers, and none of them are usually easy. Never mind freezing my ass off as I hook them up to the truck.
“It’s back here,” she says, walking in front of me down a long hall toward the back of her house.
As I walk, I soak in the decorations and colors. Everything is dark, almost like she’s allergic to color. I thought her place would be filled with bright colors, but boy, was I wrong.
“You like the color black?” I ask as I tilt my head up, noticing that even the ceiling is painted dark.
“I go for the moody vibe.”
“Moody,” I grumble, but if I’m being honest, I like it. Her style is a contrast to the stark-white walls of my place that the previous owners had painted. I don’t have the time or vision to change them, but this…this is beautiful.
“Do you like it?”
“I do,” I tell her as we enter the kitchen, the one room I’d assume would be the opposite of the others I’ve seen.
But the kitchen is like something out of a magazine. The cabinets are matte black and somehow feel warm with the stained butcher block countertops. The walls are the same color as the cabinets but with a slight sheen. The place is absolutely stunning and something straight out of a designer magazine.
“Wow.”
Lulu glances at me with the biggest smile on her face. “It’s my favorite room in the house.”
“I can see why.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Like doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about the space. It is magnificent. I could cook in here every day of the week and never get sick of looking at it.
“Here’s the old beast,” she says from the other side of the massive island, pointing downward. “She’s finicky.”
“That happens sometimes when you get old.”
When my gaze drops to the dishwasher, I stare at it in surprise. It’s not old. It’s been here maybe five years, tops.
“This is new,” I tell her as I set my bag of tools down next to it.
“It’s not new.”
“Sweetheart, I have appliances older than you at my place.” I kneel down, hating the way my knees ache as they hit the hardwood.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What’s it doing?” I open the door, finding the bottom filled with water.
“I turn it on, and it shuts off. Just dies and beeps at me a few times.”
“Mine doesn’t beep.”
