Standing near the top, Slade was already scraping away. Aretha Franklin was belting it out on the portable wedged into a comer. “Starting off with a little early morning soul, eh?” “Trying to beat the heat,” he answered, glancing down. “I found this ladder in my garage.” He had to school himself not to call it his father’s garage. When, he wondered, would he be comfortable with the transition? “I think it’ll work better than yours.” “Great. I’ll be back as soon as I grab a quick shower. Can I bring you out some coffee?” It seemed the least she could do in exchange for his work, though helping her had been his suggestion. Briana still wasn’t sure it was the best idea, but when she thought of herself standing on that tall ladder, her stomach became slightly queasy. “Sure. Black. Take your time.” Peering through his sun-glasses, he watched her flap the hem of her damp T-shirt in an effort to cool off as she walked around front. How was it that women managed to look good even when hot and disheveled while men just looked sweaty and tired?
