Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

me.” He looked over at me with a meaningful expression, then delivered the zinger. “Unless you want it to.”

Had Ben sort-of-almost proposed to me? “Ben, I—”

“Let me finish.” He held a hand up. “I want to have the kids out of this house by Christmas.”

“Ben, there’s no way. It’s almost Thanksgiving.”

“And—”

“But—”

“My God, woman! Would you let me finish?”

“Sorry, sorry.” I barricaded my lips with my fingers to stop any more outbursts.

“I trust your judgment, and if I’m lucky, my house may be yours too, someday—”

Again, that sort of almost sounded like a proposal. My heart started fluttering, with fear or anticipation, or a combination of the two. “Ben—”

“Don’t get all jumpy. I said the day may come, not that it will.”

“But—”

“Will you stop being so damn difficult and let me finish?”

I clamped a hand against my mouth.

“On Christmas morning when the kids open their presents, I want it to be in a new place, where every moment isn’t compared with the times when Melody was here. Will you help me?”

“Yes,” I found myself saying. “I will.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On Monday, I backed my car up to the sidewalk outside the studio, hoping my helpers would arrive before I followed the urge to seek out Ian and throw myself at his feet. Today and tomorrow, I’d be measuring everyone for their recital costumes and taking money to place the order instead of teaching ballet classes. Two eight-foot folding tables I had borrowed from my parents covered the fold-down back seat and stuck out the back. I couldn’t carry the tables upstairs by myself, but Victoria and Keely had promised to help, having gotten permission to leave school an hour early. But they were late.

I looked at my watch again. I trusted these girls. Besides, they knew that anyone who saw them slacking off was likely to notify me, or their parents. Absently, I stroked Lizzie’s head and turned my face toward the cool breeze that wafted through the car’s open windows. Nice weather for late November. Sweater weather.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Wilson, the young man who supervised the press runs, rush out of the newspaper office. His spiky blonde hair stuck out all over his head, again reminding me of a peroxided rooster. His build wasn’t right for that analogy, though. His neck was too thick for that. Sensing he was coming out here on my account, I climbed out of the car and held the door open for Lizzie, who hopped out onto the sidewalk and shook herself.

Wilson barreled toward me with purpose. “Hi, Miss Casey.”

“Wilson, what are you up to?” I hurried around the back of my car and met him halfway.

He only shoved me aside, gently of course. “Scuse me.” A man of few words.

“Wilson, what are you doing?”

“I’m carrying your tables upstairs,” he explained, as if I wasn’t terribly bright.

“You are?” I moved aside, watching the tendons in his neck stand out while he pulled the topmost table out and put one end on the ground.

“Mr. Ian noticed your car sitting out here. He sent me.” He hefted the table, tucked it under one arm, and started toward the stairs. “Good thing these here are the narrow ones. The wide kind, I’d have to get some help with.”

It was nice of Ian to send Wilson out to help me, and I wondered what it meant, if anything. Though his “the hell I will” comment to Ben last week made me think he might call me, he hadn’t. He’d left the relationship ball in my court. Sometimes I wanted to bat it back to him, but other times I knew better than to leap off safe ground with Ben into the unknown with Ian—who, let’s face it, I didn’t know all that well in spite of the fireworks between us. For all I knew, he was still sleeping around. So instead of making a decision, I lived in a state of anxious agitation and indecision.

“Wilson, wait.” I hurried to catch up, reaching to support one end of the table, at least, as he carried it up the stairs. “I’ll help.”

“Nah.” He gave the table a tiny little jerk, so I lost my grip. “I can do it better by myself.”

I followed him up the stairs and squeezed past to open the door. Lizzie slipped by us both and took up her station under the studio’s classroom windows.

Wilson huffed into the foyer and turned in a half-circle. “Where d’ya want it?”

“Right where you’re standing will be just fine.” He flipped the table over, set up the legs, and positioned it in less than a minute. Even with the help of the two girls, it would have taken us a lot of huffing, puffing and sweating to get that table up here.

Testosterone is apparently a necessary ingredient for some activities.

“Okay, then.” He shot a surprisingly shy smile my way. “One down, one to go.”

I couldn’t help much, but felt obliged to follow and look appreciative. Coming down the stairs, we met Victoria and Keely coming up. Wilson smiled at them, and they clutched at each other, stifling giggles.

I gave them a ‘what is wrong with you?’ look, and followed Wilson down the stairs. When I trailed behind him as he carried the second table into the foyer minutes later, my supposed helpers had splayed themselves out in the center of the foyer, practicing the splits.

Showing off for my beefy-armed, rooster-haired helper.

I looked at him again. Was he what passed for cute these days? I guessed so. He was young, built, and blond. Brad Pitt’s young country cousin on steroids. I couldn’t pass judgment on the girls for showing off. Hadn’t I done the same for Ian?

My conscience sniffed. At least I’d warmed up first.

Finished, he tucked his hands into the front pockets of his tight jeans. “Is that all you need?”

“Yes, Wilson. Thank you so much.” I pulled a ten out of the cash box and offered it as a tip, but he refused, blushing and looking down