“I…want to object to that, but…” Amused distress wrinkled Zane’s eyebrows and he put another entire cookie in his mouth as he looked around for something to write with.
Vicki pulled a drawer open from the coffee table and came out with some yellow construction paper and a dark purple marker. Zane examined them speechlessly—maybe because his mouth was full of cookie, but maybe because she was an adult human being offering another adult human being the writing implements a six year old would use—and then wrote his email address in nice clear blocky letters across the yellow paper. Vicki, without meaning to, chimed, “Oh, very nice! Good job, Zane!”
Horror crept over her entire body as the last words came out, but it was far too late. She had absolutely, without a doubt, praised the top designer for red carpet galas like he was a six year old. The top designer who was supposed to make her a dress. Theincredibly attractive, funny, charming, pleasant, nice-smelling top designer who was supposed to make her a dress.
It would be better if she just spontaneously combusted now, and saved them all the humiliation.
Zane was staring at her with wide, wide grey eyes, his mouth pursed like he was trying to hold back—she didn’t know what. Probably a string of offended outrage that would end in him swearing he would never make a dress for an idiot likeher.
Then he clapped both hands over his mouth and spluttered laughter into them, ending up in a cough almost as hard as hers a few minutes ago. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I was afraid I was going to spit cookie all over you. Thank you. No one’s complimented my handwriting in a long time.”
“Probably since about first grade,” Vicki said miserably. “I’m so sorry. I’m a moron.”
“You’re really not.” Zane, having tidied up the cookie mess, gave her an incredibly sincere smile that washed some of her mortification away. “You’re really rather wonderful. I’m looking forward to making your dress.”
“Really? I thought you’d decide you never wanted to see me again. I’msosorry.”
“Please. You’ve washed my clothes, fed me cookies, given me a warm cozy robe, and made me laugh. I don’t want to hear another apology.”
“None of that would have been necessary if I hadn’t fallen out a window on top of you.”
“I promise that if I’d ever thought of diving through a window to escape the media, I would have, so I can’t hold that against you either. Really, Victoria, it’s all right.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Vicki. I don’t usually use Victoria unless I’m being formal.”
“Well, then, it’ll be Vicki between you and me, but I’ll call you Victoria in the public eye. It’ll be our secret.”
Vicki’s insides melted again, gooey as the chocolate chips in the cookies. “Okay. I like that.”
“Me too.” Zane’s smile could keep her fantasies going for a month, although it disappeared into a jolt of surprise as a terrible buzzing shriek rang through the apartment.
“The washer! Ack!” Vicki vaulted the arm of the couch and ran for the utility room, slapping the buzzer off and calling, “Sorry, it sounds like a peacock being murdered so I usually try to be here when the cycle finishes but I also never use the gentle wash so I didn’t know how long it would take!”
Somebody thumped on a neighboring wall. Vicki banged back harder, yelled, “I’msorry!” and said something rude under her breath when the obviously-displeased neighbor’s answering shout was clearly unmollified. She was taking Zane’s clothes out of the washer when he got to the utility room door to say, “I should be doing that,” in apology.
“No, it’s fine, or, I mean, sure, but I think all we’re doing is hanging them up to dry, right? I know it’s winter, but believe it or not, there’s a clothes line at the back of the apartment complex, and it’s kind of windy. Would that do?”
“I could iron it all dry, actually.” Zane offered his stunning smile again while dismay cascaded through Vicki’s chest.
“Is there something about me that makes you think I own an iron?” She gestured at the yoga pants and belly shirt she’d put on after her own roll through the mud, and lifted her fingerpaint-stained nails with a rueful look. “I started my career with the idea that I would be one of those put-together and formal-looking teachers to I could establish solid boundaries between me and the kids. Instead, most days I’m lucky to find matching socks. All right, I’m not that bad, but I don’t iron anything by nature.”
Zane looked far more dismayed at the idea she didn’t own an iron than he had at having had his handwriting praised. “Oh. Um. Well, if you have some extra towels I can press a lot ofthe remaining water out of everything so it’ll dry faster on the line…?”
“Towels I can do.” Vicki squeezed by him toward the door. The laundry room wasn’t big and he filled it quite nicely. She would have been just as happy to stay there, squished up against him and inhaling his warm masculine scent, but she’d already embarrassed herself with the cookie and handwriting incident, so she thought she’d better move along.
“Thank you.” Zane’s warm voice, full of real appreciation, followed her as she opened the hallway closet and got towels. “You’ve been very kind this evening.”
“Well, you did stop me from breaking my neck. I had to repay you somehow. Oh! Hey!” Vicki emerged from the closet triumphantly, a stack of towels folded into one arm and an iron brandished in her other hand. “There was one in here! It must have come with the apartment!”
“Oh great. I’ll still press the extra water out, but I can dry everything much faster with the iron than on the line. And if you have anything you want ironed, I’d be glad to do that for you.”
Vicki paused, blinking at him. “Are you serious?”
“Completely. I love ironing, and I’m good at it.”
A thrill of suspicious delight went through Vicki. “Oh my God. Are you a unicorn?”
CHAPTER 6
