Page 40 of Covert Operation

“I still have to put the curtains up, but I need to dig my step stool out of the other side of the garage, because I’m not quite tall enough to hang the rods.” Savannah explains what still needs done.

And I don’t want her to have to wait. I want her to have one place that’s exactly the way she wants it. “I can help.”

Her brows lift. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“No plans, remember?”

I wish that was the only reason I offered to help. In truth, after seeing this room, going back to my place holds absolutely no appeal. Not when it’s the exact opposite of what’s surrounding me now.

Savannah rocks onto her toes, beaming up at me. “I really appreciate it.” She spins for the door. “Hang on. I’ll go get my toolkit and I’ll be right back.” She darts from the room and hurries down the stairs, leaving me alone in the space.

I can’t seem to stop myself from moving toward the bed, running a hand along the soft fabric covering it before picking up one of the plush pillows. The rough calluses of my hand snag against the velvety surface as I test its texture and give.

How long has it been since I’ve had something soft in my life? More than a decade. Over ten years of hard edges and empty spaces. And it’s been fine. The best I expected it would ever be. I’ve had a job I’ve enjoyed, a roof over my head, and money in the bank. Somehow I thought I would find a way for all that to be enough.

But maybe I’ve been fooling myself.

“I’m back.” Savannah breezes into the room, her warmth illuminating the space even more than the lamp. “I think it should be pretty simple, but I guess it depends on what we drill into.”

“I’m pretty sure we can handle whatever comes our way.”

I take the small cordless drill from her hand then follow her directions as she tells me where to hang the brackets that will support the thick wooden rod. As I work, she threads a pair of long curtains onto the dowel. When the brackets are secure, I hang the drapes into place, standing back to look over our work. “They look good.”

Savannah gives me half a smile, one brow angled as if she doesn’t believe me. “I didn’t expect florals to be your taste.”

Neither did I, but there’s something about this room that calms me. Makes me feel settled. Relaxed. “Surprise, surprise.”

Savannah’s half smile blooms into a wide grin. “It’s a good surprise too.” She hands over the next set of brackets. “Most guys don’t love my taste.”

I frown. “Most guys?”

Savannah continues on, oblivious to the sudden turn in my mood. “You know, guys I dated before. When they came to my house, they all thought it was too much.” She begins threading the next set of curtains onto their rod. “They said my place was too girly for them to be comfortable in.” Her eyes flick to the bed. “And they hated all my pillows.”

My frown deepens, because how could anyone not love her pillows? They’re pretty and soft and comfortable looking. Makesme think those guys didn’t appreciate Savannah the way they should have since she’s also pretty and sweet and soft.

She finishes putting the curtains onto the dowel and shrugs. “But screw them, right?”

I’d agree but I’m too busy scowling. Assholes telling Savannah they didn’t like her home. I’d love the opportunity to put my fist through their faces. Show them exactly what I think of their dumbass opinions.

I continue to stew over the men in Savannah’s past as I hang the next set of brackets and put the curtains in place. While I do that, she brings in some sort of little machine and starts waving a little hand-held portion over the other set of curtains. I watch for a few seconds, before finally asking, “What is that?”

“A steamer.” Savannah runs it down the length of the curtain. “It might be one of my favorite inventions ever.” She finishes with one panel and moves on to the next, using the moist heat to work out the wrinkles pressed in from being packed up for a year.

“I love wearing dresses, but they aren’t super easy to iron, and a lot of my favorite fabrics get really wrinkly.” Her brows pinch together, lips pursing as she continues working on the curtain. “A lot of guys didn’t like that I always wear dresses either. They didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just wear jeans and a T-shirt sometimes.” She sighs. “Some people don’t understand what we wear is reflective of who we are.”

I look over Savannah’s dress. It’s colorful and pretty. Soft and feminine. Definitely reflective of who she is, providing some weight to her theory.

But if that’s really the case, I’m not sure what I wear says anything flattering about me.

Savannah must be thinking the same thing, because her lips quirk as she looks me over, reaching out to smooth a hand down the center of my chest. “But I don’t think that’s true in your case.”

She turns away, and I lift a hand to press against the spot where she touched me, the point of contact still warm. “I think a lot of people would argue with you.”

Savannah peeks at me before facing the curtains again as she says, “That’s because they don’t look beyond what you give them.”

SEVENTEEN

SAVANNAH