“This place isn’t even livable.”
“It will be.” He puffed his chest out.
She looked quickly away, as if his chest was something she didn’t want to stare at. He cocked a grin—that was adorable.
“I’m not the settling type. I don’t even have an apartment or a house or anything.” She sounded confident in her life choices, but there was a shift in her eyes.
“It’s that gypsy blood.” One side of Cash’s mouth lifted.
Maggie softened. He used to call her his gypsy lady. She’d had a thing for bangles and jewelry and flowing scarves back in high school. He’d been so in love with her that he’d thought she sounded like music. “Cash—I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Because—we tried us. It didn’t work, remember?”
He touched her long hair. “I remember a midnight picnic.”
Her eyes dropped closed as if she were trying to block out the memory of lying on their backs on a blanket under the stars, his stomach full and his head spinning from their first kiss.
“Besides …” He dropped his hand. “This is all about Grandpa’s will and nothing to do with a real relationship. We can be roommates. You have one room; I’ll take another.”
“Here?” She pointed to the house. “Is it even safe?”
“The roof is good. Her bones are solid. I’ll have her whipped into shape in no time.”
“Until then, we’d, what … camp?” She shook her head. “I have plans. Sorry.” She moved to shut the door again. “It was good to see you, Cash.” She sounded like she actually meant it.
“I’ll let you design the kitchen.” He threw the offer out there as a last-ditch effort to keep her from leaving.
She paused. Yes! He knew her weaknesses—all of them.
Her gaze drifted over to the open front door. “All of it?”
Crap. She’d want to keep the fridge. He should have hauled that thing out first thing this morning.
“Every inch.” He caught her eye and held it.
Maggie dove into his gaze. She swam around in there, like she used to. Although she was more wary this time. No longer the naïve seventeen-year-old who could be wooed by a swarthy man and his smolder.
“Here’s the deal,” she started.
Cash’s eyebrows went up.
“I need a kitchen, and I need it bad. Not just any kitchen, but magazine worthy.”
Cash bobbed his head as he listened.
Maggie continued. “I have to wrap up some appearances and will be on the road for eight days. When I get back, if the kitchen is ready, then I’ll move in—no matter what the rest of the house looks like.”
“That’s cutting my deadline pretty close.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw, making a crackling noise. He could always set up a cot in the kitchen and sleep there if he had to.
“I’m all about close deadlines these days,” she muttered. “Take it or leave it. Who knows? You could have the perfect Mrs. Diamante answer your ad tonight and be on your way to inheriting your fortunes.” The last bit was said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. The house was a dump—plain and simple. A dump with potential—yes. But trash nonetheless.
Cash held out his hand. “You have a deal.”
Maggie stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
