“Oh, for God’s sake, this is south Louisiana, not Alaska. It may drop below freezing one week out of the year.” Phylicia reined in her indignation, cautious of allowing her emotions to get the best of her.
Jamal held his hands up, as if he too recognized that things were getting too heated.
“Look,” he started, “I get that you’re big into restoration, but I’m just as passionate about my work. Can you at leasttryto embrace what I want to do? I promise I will not disturb the integrity of the house.”
“If you say so,” Phil replied, unable to stanch the skepticism that dripped from the words, despite her best effort. “But I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Jamal rolled his eyes, chagrin blanketing his face. “You just wait,” he said. “You’ll hardly be able to tell the difference between my eco-friendly improvements and the original structure. That’s what will be unique about my architectural firm, making the green technology unobtrusive.”
“How long before you get your firm off the ground?” she asked.
He shrugged again and stared at the house across the street for some time before answering. “Soon. I’m in no big hurry. My main priority is getting Belle Maison opened on time.” He scooted off the back of the tailgate. “Which is why we should probably get back to work.”
Something about the change in his tone gave her pause, but Phil didn’t want to dig any deeper. The less she intruded into Jamal Johnson’s life, the better.
She hopped down from the tailgate. “Were you planning to strip the paint from the woodwork in the parlor?” she asked.
“I figured I didn’t have a choice,” Jamal answered.
“Let me see what I can do,” she said. “I may be able to get it cleaned with the materials I have with me. If not, I can bring it back to my shop. Can you lay out some of that plastic sheeting over there?” She pointed to the area just off the gazebo.
He nodded, and she went inside to grab a section of the wainscoting she’d removed. As Phil dabbed at the scuff marks with her least abrasive solvent, she surreptitiously studied Jamal as he sawed through panels of strawboard. Even though it was late September, the temperature was still hovering in the upper eighties, and his sweat-soaked shirt clung deliciously to the muscles that undulated with every push of the saw.
It was mesmerizing, watching the sinuous motion of his shoulders rise and fall. Her hands itched with the need to glide along the moist, hot skin underneath.
He turned abruptly and caught her staring. Phil jumped, nearly knocking over the bottle of solvent.
“Careful there,” he called, a knowing grin pulling at his lips.
“Oh, great,” Phil muttered. Mortified, she lowered her eyes and got back to work.
A half-hour later, Phil had managed to remove every scuff mark from the wainscoting without marring a single inch. Jamal walked over to where she stood and dropped to his haunches, observing her work.
“Unbelievable,” he said with an awed breath. “How did you manage to get it clean without ruining the paint job?”
“I have my ways,” she said.
He looked up at her, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I can’t wait to see what else you can do.”
“Darling, I would blow your mind,” she said before she could stop herself.
Waywrong thing to say. Phil inwardly cringed, but she couldn’t deny the shot of molten heat that flashed through her as Jamal’s eyes took on a smoldering look. She knew she was skirting along the edges of the danger zone. After that kiss yesterday, the worst thing she could do was encourage his flirting.
Actually, that wasn’t the worst thing she could do. Theabsoluteworst thing would involve them both being naked.
Donotthink of him naked,she mentally chastised herself.
Jamal rose slowly from his crouched position, his intense gaze searing straight through her. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with want. “You can try to ignore this all you want, Phylicia. We both know it’s there.”
She didn’t have to ask whatitwas. It was so apparent, so potent, it had nearly taken on a physical form. The attraction sizzling between them was hotter than her workshop after a full day of working with the blowtorch.
Phil swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wanted to shake her head. She was dying to tell him that she didn’t want to ignore anything.
“That’s too bad,” she said, her voice so husky she barely recognized it. She cleared her throat. “Because I fully intend to ignore it.”
Those sparks of electricity, like the kind zapping between them right now, were dangerous. She’d been burned before, and fear of making those same mistakes terrified her more than Phil thought possible.
This was all too eerily familiar to the severe lapse in judgment that had already caused her so much heartache. Standing here with Jamal, in the midst of a huge home-renovation project, was like a remake of a twisted reality show:The Phylicia and Kevin Fiasco.
