“Uh-huh.” She let the subject rest while she stowed the perishables, then leaned back against the counter, folded her arms, and tackled it again. “Okay. Spill it. You have something on your mind. Are you trying to figure out how to unload your houseguest? Am I beginning to stink, like Ben Franklin’s fish?”
That earned her a grin. “You don’t stink, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You liven up the place.”
“Thank you—I think. But that doesn’t explain your look.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he stirred more vigorously. “I, uh, had an interesting conversation with Frank this morning.”
Huffing, she rolled her eyes. “You’re not back in matchmaking mode, are you? We had that discussion already.”
“I know, and I’ve hung up my cupid bow and arrow. As you made clear after the Hope House meeting, I stink at that.”
“I don’t recall being quite that blunt.”
“Nevertheless, I got the message. But your name did come up while Frank and I were shutting down for the day.”
“In what context?”
“I mentioned you might be willing to help paint at Hope House, and he was a bit taken aback.”
Not what she’d expected.
“Why would that surprise him?”
Zach put the lid on the pot and faced her. “Can I be honest?”
“By all means. It’s easier to tackle situations if all the data is on the table.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, as if he was uncomfortable. “I don’t want to butt in here, but I’m pretty certain he likes you. Problem is . . . he thinks you’re out of his league.”
Stephanie did her best to maintain an impassive expression as Zach gave her his take on Frank’s concerns—including the man’s manicure comment—along with a smattering of personal background that helped explain them.
After he finished, she examined her freshly polished nails. “He’s wrong about me, you know. I’m not averse to rolling up my sleeves and getting dirty. In fact, I did most of the renovations in my apartment myself.”
Zach’s eyebrows rose. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. After the mental gyrations I went through in my job, I found working with my hands relaxing.”
“Can I be honest again? You’ve never struck me as the prima donna type, but I can’t quite envision you dressed in overalls and brandishing a wrench.”
“Let’s not get carried away. I don’t gut bathrooms or fool with major electrical issues. Those are out of my league. But I’m a whiz at drywall mudding and taping, I wield a mean paintbrush, and I know how to use a miter saw and install crown molding.”
“I’m impressed—and Frank would be too.” He gave the contents of the pot another stir. “The issue he has may go beyond what he said, though. A fair number of men can be intimidated by high-powered, successful women.”
“Only if they’re insecure—in which case they’re not worth my time. I don’t think Frank falls into that category. I get the feeling he’s comfortable in his skin and with his place in the world.”
“That’s a fair assessment.”
“Factoring in everything you’ve told me, I suspect he has a couple of concerns. First, he’s afraid I’m a high-maintenance woman who expects to be waited on hand and foot, and second, he’s worried our different backgrounds and experiences are incompatible.”
“I’d say that’s spot-on.”
“Well, it’s garbage.” She propped her fists on her hips, her delivery growing more impassioned as she warmed to the subject. “I don’t believe the world revolves around me, nor do I have to run every show. And as long as two people are in sync on the levels that matter—intellectual, emotional, spiritual, philosophical—background and experience are secondary.”
“Hey—don’t kill the messenger.” Zach grinned at her. “If you can toss a smidgen of that sass in this pot, I won’t have to add any hot sauce.”
“Ha-ha.”
But he was right.
She was getting too riled up.
And for a woman who’d held on to her cool in every conceivable corporate situation, from hostile clients to tense negotiations to unwanted personal advances, this was out-of-pattern behavior.
She needed to calm down.
“Personally, I like a feisty woman.” Zach’s tone was tinged with humor.
“I prefer the term spirited.” She managed to conjure up a smile. “And I do appreciate the insights on Frank.”
“I thought it was only fair for you to know the obstacles he’s put in the path—assuming you’re also interested.” He stopped stirring and looked over at her. “And now I’m fading into the background and letting you take it from here. Or not. We’re eating in half an hour.”
“Works for me. What are we having?”
“Cioppino, featuring shellfish and halibut straight off the wharf. I picked up the ingredients after the boats came in.”
“I’m glad I had a light lunch. Give me a few minutes to freshen up and I’ll set the table.” She grabbed her purse and escaped to the guest room.
Once behind her closed door, she walked over to the bed, dropped onto the edge, and took a slow, calming breath.
This was nuts.
She was getting all worked up about a man she barely knew. Acting like an adolescent schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush.
But she wasn’t an adolescent—and neither was Frank. If they were attracted to each other, they should behave like mature adults and address the situation.
Scratch if.
She was definitely attracted to Frank—and she’d be willing to bet a hefty chunk of her lump-sum retirement package the feeling was mutual.
Yet so far, neither of them were handling this in a way that reflected their age and experience. Frank was backing off due to incorrect assumptions—and she was letting him.
That wasn’t her style.
After all her years in the business world, she’d learned how to take control of a situation and get results. If she wanted to test the waters with Frank, she ought to dive in. Make the first move.
The real question was whether that was wise.
She flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
If she did pursue Frank, what would be the point? A brief vacation romance held no appeal, and the geographic challenges to a longer-term relationship were formidable. Frank had found his niche in Hope Harbor, and after living in small towns for most of his life and enjoying the wide-open spaces of national parks on vacations, a move to New York wasn’t likely in his future.
Meaning she’d be the one who’d have to upend her life to accommodate a relationship.
Hope Harbor was terrific, and the Oregon coast was magnificent, but living here? That would require major alterations to the plans she’d laid out for retirement and a seismic shift in mindset.
Nevertheless . . . it seemed foolish to pass up what felt like a heaven-sent opportunity without doing due diligence. Men like Frank didn’t come along every day. And while she’d long ago written off romance, perhaps God hadn’t.
Was it possible he’d been saving it for a stage in her life when she had the time to give a man her full attention?