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“What—or you’ll come after me with that pencil?” He waved at the one in her hand.
She threw it on the desk. “Damn thing was working fine, yesterday. But today—oh, I’d love to get my hands on the people who built this software!” Heading into the room, he waved her to her feet. She stood, eyeing him warily. “And what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting on the good side of my innkeeper—she might buy me dinner if I fix this mess. And when I say mess, I mean disaster.”
She blushed again. “I’m not exactly—”
“Good with the books? So Michael told me. I like numbers. They like me. And before you say it—yes, an artist can be good at math. You think Mozart was a math dummy? Or Da Vinci? Besides, you have to have something for a backup plan, right?”
She gave a reluctant smile. “I’m embarrassed to let you look at any of this. And, uh, I’ve never been great for backups. I usually just throw myself head first and then find out if it’s going to work.”
“Ah, a true downhill skier. Well, this can’t be worse than my own finances right now. So, let’s start off by getting you organized. And then I think we could both do with some fun.”
Chapter Six
Paris watched him work. He sorted through the paperwork, dividing into piles—something to do with money coming in or going out—and then by months. He coaxed the computer back into behaving, and his long fingers danced over the keyboard to make entries. In two hours, he’d gotten ten times the work she usually got entered during a week.
“Okay, Mr. Murphy—I’ve go
t you pegged. Your secret is out!” He seemed to freeze, and she didn’t get why. Had she embarrassed him? She slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re really a tax accountant pretending to be an artist. Now the only question is can I hire you?”
Turning in the office chair, he grinned up at her, looking more boy than man, his eyes gleaming with something that looked a lot like relief. His flat eyebrows tilted up in the center. “I see you have discovered my secret identify. The rest we can negotiate over dinner. I’m starved.”
She nodded to the door. “Come on. I’ve been saving some steaks.” She led the way into the kitchen. And she could feel his eyes on her. She didn’t mind. It had been too long since she’d had a man who’d admire her body—usually, they were more interested in the resort, or trying to get it from her. Or in her as a trophy—the late Jack Dylan’s wife. Yes, that’s the way many still thought of her. But Dan Murphy—he was just a guy.
Logically, she realized she’d only known him for a day, but she liked how the whisky had brought out a fun side to him. She was attracted to him. She was willing to see where that went.
In the kitchen, she lit the grill and pulled out the steaks. She checked the oven and saw Michael had put the potatoes into bake for her. She opened the fridge and took out the fixings for a salad.
Mr. Murphy held up his hands. “I hope you don’t expect me to cook.”
“How about a salad? Can you chop?”
“I can watch.”
“What fun is that?” She tossed him a head of Romaine. “Tear that up into that bowl.”
He glanced at the lettuce, holding it away as if it might bite. “Do I wash it or something first?”
“It’s been washed. Just tear. Bite-size pieces. But wash up first.” She gestured to the sink and then began to chop tomatoes. Watching him tackle the salad, she asked, “You obviously don’t cook much. Do you ski at all? Or do you like summer sports?”
“Neither.”
“What? How do you keep in shape? You must do something to…to…” She stuttered over the words. The guy looked great. Strong, lean build. She’d glimpsed hard abs under his baggy sweatshirt today in the office when he’d stood up and started to organize her files. Her cheeks heated.
“To what?” He grinned. “Are you saying I’m in good shape?”
“Round is a shape, too. Are you saying you just sit around all the time?”
“I like walking.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who looked so athletic and had no regular regime. You really should come visit during ski season. We’ve got some killer slopes.”
“I hope not literally.” He glanced into the bowl of lettuce. “Is that enough?”
She shook her head. “Keep tearing. Well, if you don’t ski, and you don’t do anything else, what are we going to talk about?”
“Uh…art?”
