My Stubborn Heart Read Free Page B

cleaning and putting away the supplies he’d used. Other than the paint colors that she and her granddaughter had chosen for their bedrooms, he liked Mrs. Donovan’s renovation plans. She seemed to have an eye for preserving the character of the old house.
    Carrying the paint and tarp with one arm and a fresh paint pan and roller brush with the other, he made his way upstairs to the attic room. Yesterday he’d covered the layers of aging wallpaper with a light plaster texture, and this morning he’d taped off the floorboards and the crown moldings. With that done, painting the attic room wouldn’t take long—
    He stopped abruptly in the doorway.
    Mrs. Donovan’s granddaughter glanced up at him from where she stood in the center of the room.
    He waited for her to murmur something about getting out of his way, and then leave.
    Instead, she simply stood there.
    â€œI don’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said after a few moments of strained silence, “but I was going to paint in here now.”
    â€œNo inconvenience,” she said. “I’m going to help.” She bent and lifted a brand-new roller brush off the floor.
    He liked to work alone. In fact, almost everything he did in a day—eat, workout, buy food, watch TV—he did by himself. The people in this town knew that and left him alone. It unsettled him that this stranger wanted to paint with him, that he was trapped in here with her.
    Without letting his irritation show, Matt spread out the tarp, wedged the lid off the first can of paint, and stirred it carefully. The pale pink color she’d picked looked like chewed bubble gum.
    â€œOh, I love it,” she said.
    Matt glanced at her and frowned. “Is it Kate?”
    â€œYep, it’s Kate.”
    â€œYou might not want to paint in that outfit.” She had on a white tank top and black pants, the kind that ended above the ankle. He couldn’t remember what women called those. On her feet she was wearing what looked like black ballet shoes.
    â€œThis is my painting outfit,” she replied. “See?” She pulled the shirt to the side and pointed to a few flecks of paint on the fabric. “It’s all right.”
    He wanted to tell her to take her roller brush and her crazy painting clothes downstairs and out of his space, but she was his client. So instead he nodded, poured the paint, rolled his brush, and went to work.
    Out of the corner of his eye he watched her paint a big N on the wall, and then use her roller to fill the space between the two uprights. “I saw them do it like this on Designed to Sell one time.” She smiled.
    He grunted and tried to ignore her.
    After a while she paused, and he could feel her attention on him. He kept on painting.
    â€œI’m really glad you’re able to help us with this renovation.”
    He nodded.
    â€œGran has been wanting to update this place for a long time.”
    He didn’t say anything.
    â€œHow long have you been doing this kind of work?”
    â€œThree years.”
    A few moments of quiet. “So you knew my great-grandparents?”
    â€œI did. They were nice people.”
    â€œYes, they were. I miss them.”
    He kept on painting, hoping she’d drop the small talk.
    â€œYou grew up in Redbud?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    â€œJust down the road from here?”
    He nodded again.
    â€œYou know . . .” She paused, studying him. “Having a conversation with you is a lot like having one with myself.”
    He met her gaze, frowning.
    Her lips twitched, then spread into a big, wide smile. Genuine warmth glittered in her eyes.
    He . . . he wasn’t sure what to make of her. He was accustomed, in a way, to women hitting on him. But she wasn’t hitting on him. Teasing him, maybe. Whatever she was doing, he didn’t like it. Didn’t like her questions or the directness of her gaze.
    â€œYou seem to be a