Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(9)

Cameron pushed the elevator call button again as he glanced at the graying, potbellied super. “That’s the plan.”

“Miss, uh, Story, she say you need a bathroom?”

“That’s right.”

Diego pursed his lips and shrugged apologetically. “Geraldo don’t do the ba?os.”

“Huh. He does kitchens and not bathrooms?” Cameron grinned. “That almost sounds prejudiced.”

“Yeah, well,” said Diego, wringing his hands together, “he no good on the bathroom work. You gotta find someone else.”

“Excuse me, Diego,” said Franklin, the doorman at the Newbury Arms, who reentered the lobby after helping another tenant into a cab. “Did you finish unclogging dryer four in the basement yet?”

Diego huffed softly and turned away from Cameron. “No, I just, uh, I need to—”

“—fix dryer four,” said Franklin. “And since I’m sure Mr. Winslow here has somewhere he needs to be, let’s stop wasting the man’s time.”

“Uh, yes. Fine, okay,” said Diego, who gave Cameron one last troubled look before waddling away.

“Hey, Franklin,” said Cameron, turning toward the elevator as it dinged its arrival. “You ever seen Diego’s cousin Geraldo doing bathroom renovations here in the building?”

Franklin took a deep breath and scratched his forehead. “Yes, sir. I believe he was here last fall working on Mrs. Montgomery’s apartment. The bathroom, if I’m not mistaken.”

“So he definitely does bathrooms,” Cameron confirmed, wondering why Diego had said differently.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Winslow. You thinking about doing some work up on your place?”

He nodded. “Mm-hm. Me and Miss Story, both. And Diego recommended his cousin to her.”

“Well, if Diego’s any indication, I’m sure Geraldo will do a fine job. Diego gets chatty now and then,” said Franklin with a chuckle, “but he’s the handiest handyman I know. I’m sure his cousin’s in high demand.”

Of course. That was probably it. Diego probably assumed his cousin’s schedule was too full. But Cameron would just as soon let Geraldo decide how much work he was interested in taking on. He could refuse Cameron’s job himself if he wasn’t interested.

“That’s great.” Cameron stepped into the elevator. “You have a good night.”

“You too, Mr. Winslow.”

***

Margaret had rushed home at seven o’clock and changed into a simple cream cashmere sweater dress, which she cinched with a brown leather belt, and matched with heeled boots the same color as her hair. For a moment, she’d considered letting her waves tumble wildly around her shoulders, but she reminded herself that Cameron wasn’t her boyfriend and this wasn’t a date. He was merely coming over to meet with a contractor and settle on a mutually convenient work schedule.

Not a date. Just a meeting. Not a date.

She’d opened the Dugat-Py as soon as she arrived home and decanted it, closing her eyes as she inhaled the complex mix of licorice, blackberries, and toasty oak. Her little vineyard would never produce a Pinot Noir, most likely—it was a difficult grape to cultivate, and Pennsylvania wasn’t an ideal climate for it—but it was her favorite wine, and with just a hint of apprehension, she hoped Cameron liked it too.

Opening iTunes to her favorite Joshua Radin album, she queued up “The Greenest Grass” and checked her reflection in the center hall mirror. She looked businesslike with her hair back and glasses on, but the softness of her dress counted for something, didn’t it? If she wasn’t mistaken yesterday morning and Cameron had found her attractive, another form-fitting cashmere outfit should confirm it for her, and she hoped, oh, how she hop—

The doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath, taking a quick peek at the soft light flooding from the living room, and opened her door.

Time stopped when I saw you . . . I could barely breathe.

Joshua Radin’s softly sung words were the perfect soundtrack for the way her breath caught and her eyes widened with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He leaned one hand against her doorway, with his body taking up most of the space in front of her. A light blue dress shirt was rolled up at the cuffs to reveal muscular arms, tan and veined, with a smattering of dark brown hair. They were strong arms that made something inside her wake up and pay attention, and she wondered what they’d feel like holding on tight to her bare skin.

“Hi,” she breathed, sliding her eyes from his arm to his face. His regular five o’clock shadow traced the line of his jaw, and she clenched her fist by her side to keep from reaching up to touch the bristles. Would they be soft or rough? Would they mark her skin if he was to drag his lips over her collarbone, to the base of her throat, pausing at the racing pulse to flick his tongue—

“Eight, right?”

“Hm?”

“You said eight, right? To talk to the contractor?”

She lifted her gaze from his lips to his eyes and felt her face flush with heat. “The contractor. Of course. Yes. Come in. Right.”

And then she promptly shut the door and pivoted around, heading for the kitchen to pour them each a glass of wine. It was only when she heard his muffled voice from behind the door call, “Meggie? Um, Margaret?” that she realized she’d just slammed the door in his face.