Perfectly Reasonable Video and Sneak Peek

Perfectly Reasonable 1st Chapter Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

Margo MacMillan wished she could take the job. Look at that view.

Beyond the picture window and down eighteen floors, waves lapped against the Lake Ontario shore despite frigid January temperatures. Above, it was all blue skies and sunshine. Very Zen.

This side of the window, it was blue eyes and sun-streaked hair. Trace, the pheromone-radiating, sweet-boy-next-door of her current client, was very . . . unZen.

“It has to be done by Tuesday,” he insisted.

Fat chance of that happening, considering it was already Friday afternoon. Too bad. He really was . . . breathtaking. “No can do. I have another client lined up for next week.”

“Bump them.”

Her eyebrows winged up. “I can’t do that. They’re waiting for me, and I promised to start Monday.”

“Trades do it all the time.”

She frowned at him. “Not me. If I say I’m going to start a job on Monday, I start on Monday. You’ll have to find another painter.” Her curls bounced as she turned to go.

“Wait.” He touched her arm, and Margo felt a zing of electricity shimmer through her. “You could do it this weekend.”

“I don’t work weekends.”

“I’ll pay double.”

Margo looked him in the eyes. Eyes that were icy pale blue, almost silver, and too intense to focus on, except they were set in a chiseled face with a square jaw and the most disarming smile.

Her fees were already pretty high. What could possibly be so urgent that he’d pay twice what it was worth?

She glanced around the room. Big open space and pristine beige walls. Sleek leather furniture. Glass, metal, and a zebra-skin rug. And staged for a cover shoot.

What was the deal? Was he desperate to erase the memory of a girlfriend? It was more than possible with the combination of those low-slung jeans, gray T-shirt showing off broad shoulders and flat abs, and that close-cropped blond hair. He towered over her, and she was taller than average. Yeah, it was definitely possible. Or maybe a new ladylove he had to please? She raked her gaze over him. Nah. He wouldn’t need a new paint color for that.

She sighed and thought of the student loan she had yet to pay off. If she prepped the walls that evening, she could probably get the painting done by Monday. “All right. But I’d have to start tonight and come back early Saturday and Sunday.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Not a problem. I can be here.”

“Have you chosen the paint color?”

“No, but it has to be blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yes. Pale blue, gray-blue, dark blue, I don’t care. Just as long as it’s blue.”

She shrugged. “Okay then. I’ll bring over some paint chips later and you can choose. You’ll have to make a decision tonight, so I can stop on my way tomorrow to pick it up.”

“I can do that. And I’ll invite some of my buddies over to move the furniture.”

“That would be great. Just push everything to the center of the room. I can cover it with plastic.”

Trace nodded. “Thank you for this. I really appreciate it. I’ve heard you’re the best.”

She smiled. Charm and good looks. He’ll go far. “You’re welcome. I’ll finish the job next door and come back at about seven.”

“Works for me. See you then.”

***

Margo let herself into the condo next door, calculating how much time she’d need to finish, clean up, and grab a bite to eat. The rich aroma of a spicy stew almost masked the paint fumes.

“How’d it go?”

Margo looked up. “It went well, Mrs. Crombie. I got the job.” She gave a crooked smile. Lost her weekend, but cash was cash. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“Oh. I’m going tell all my friends about you, no doubt about that. I love what you’ve done here. But actually it was Trace who recommended you to me.” Green eyes twinkled in a round face surrounded by waves of white hair. Mrs. Crombie wore an apron over her practical tweed skirt and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon.

“Really?” That was the first time she’d met him. How did he know her?

“Yes, dear. I decided I wanted a change. I was a bit worried about having a stranger in my home, and my friend, Emma, had a painter who was absolutely dreadful. Left a mess everywhere. Didn’t show up half the time. Charged her more than they agreed. It was a nightmare. One day I mentioned it to Trace. He’s such a sweet boy. I tell you, if I was fifty years younger . . .” She wiggled her eyebrows and laughed. “Anyhow, he gave me your name. Said you were excellent. A bit pricey . . .”

Margo winced.

“But excellent. And I’m very happy I called you. It was worth every penny.” Mrs. Crombie smiled broadly.

Margo smiled back. “Thank you very much. I’ve enjoyed working here the past couple of weeks. And I’m glad you’re pleased with the result.”

“Oh, yes. It’s absolutely lovely. I’m sorry it’s done. I’m going to miss your company.”

“Me, too. I’m going to have a hard time going back to paper-bag lunches. You spoiled me.”

Mrs. Crombie threw her head back and laughed. “That’s my specialty. After so many years of cooking for six, it’s hard to scale back for one. Trace is always happy to take a share. He comes over to do the odd job for me, and I send him home with the leftovers. He’s a sweetie.”

Margo nodded. “I’m glad he’s looking out for you.” Made her feel better about giving up her weekend. “I promised I’d start his place tonight.”

“Well, I have a nice stew simmering. By the time you get all cleaned up, it will be ready. We can have one last meal together. And I’m going to write down the number of the soup kitchen you mentioned. What did you call it?”

“Breaking Bread.”

“Yes. I’d like to get out more, and cooking for others would be a pleasure.”

“Definitely. They’d love your help.” She’d become attached to Mrs. Crombie. The elderly woman was lonely and had spunk to spare. “And I can vouch for your delicious cooking.”

Mrs. Crombie beamed. She waved the spoon in her hand. “Oh, get away with you.” She smiled and winked. “I have time to make some apple spice muffins. You could share them with Trace.”

Margo smiled. Matchmaking? She couldn’t say she minded and hey, bonus, homemade baked goods. “Sounds wonderful.”

There’s more to come . . .

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