Fast & Loose Elizabeth Bevarly (bts book recommendations .txt) 📖

man in her life, was about to win the golden ring—in more ways than one, Bree was thinking. She’d reeled in the great white whale, the pirate’s treasure, the lost city of Atlantis, and every other prize of mythic proportions the sea of men had to offer. And Bree, who had made it her life’s work to land a guy like that, was going to wind up with…

Well. She had dinner with Rufus tonight, she reminded herself. That was something.

It was actually a lot more than something, she thought as she pushed herself away from the door. But she wasn’t allowed to think about how much more. Instead, she made her way to the bedroom to clean up the remnants of Lulu’s extemporaneous makeover. For what it had been worth. It really hadn’t taken much to bring out her features. A swipe of shadow on the eyes, a little mascara, a little bronzer, a little lip gloss. Even her hair had behaved once Bree moussed it. Lulu had so much more natural beauty than Bree did. Bree had always had to work a lot harder to look good.

She didn’t feel it necessary to do so tonight, however. Not because she didn’t think Rufus was worth the effort—au contraire—but because Rufus seemed to like the way she looked no matter what.

He really was a good guy.

She did change out of her jeans and T-shirt, though, and into a red and black print skirt and black tank edged with lace along the top. And, okay, she swiped a bit of shadow, mascara, bronzer, and lip gloss across her own features. And she wound her long black hair into a makeshift French twist and held it there with two cloisonné chopsticks. And she stepped into some strappy little black shoes that showed off her calves. It was just because the weather had gotten warmer, that was all. It had nothing to do with wanting to look nice for Rufus.

When she pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the address he had given her, she had to double-check to make sure it was the right one. Then she had to triple-check. Then she had to replay the conversation in her head again to be sure she’d written down correctly the address he’d told her to write down. The house that belonged to the address on the piece of paper just didn’t look like the kind of place Rufus would call home. She’d expected him to live in one of the older, more tired-looking apartment complexes in Crescent Hill. Or else actually live in Clifton, which abutted Crescent Hill and was just as charming but much more affordable. At best, she’d figured he would rent a nondescript duplex. But this? This was none of those things.

It wasn’t a huge house, but it was certainly more than one person needed—a two-story frame Dutch colonial whose façade was painted barn red. Half of the front yard was shaded by a massive sugar maple, and the curved walk was lined by freshly planted red and white begonias. The driveway spilled into a garage behind the house that looked to be the same age, one with doors that folded open vertically instead of horizontally. Sure enough, she saw Rufus’s old, beat-up Wagoneer parked in front of them. This was indeed his place. But it didn’t look like him at all.

Or did it? she asked herself as she strode up the walk to the front door. What did she know about Rufus, really? She’d never tried to get to know him beyond coworker status, had never exchanged any information with him other than the most cursory pleasantries. She’d always told herself it was because she didn’t care enough about him to want more than the most cursory pleasantries. After that kiss the other night, though, she’d forced herself to admit she cared about Rufus a lot more than she should. The reason she’d never asked him more about himself, she realized now, was because she hadn’t wanted to start caring for him even more than that.

Now, as she made her way to the front door, she noticed other things she wouldn’t have thought seemed very Rufus, but told her a lot about him. A white wicker swing swayed at one end of the broad front porch, a porch that also hosted a profusion of potted peace lilies and ferns. When she went to push the doorbell, she noted it was shaped like a small bronze lizard. There was even a welcome mat beneath her feet that read, WELCOME.

Maybe he inherited the place, she thought. From a fussy maiden aunt or something. Recently enough that he hadn’t had time to let the place get into disarray. Guys like Rufus too often lived like frat boys, the victims of extended adolescence. Their homes had the barest minimum of boring furniture, were overloaded with electronic and gaming equipment, had pantries empty of anything except chips and Twinkies, and fridges boasting nothing but beer.

But a look through the screen door told her that wasn’t the case here. The inside of Rufus’s house looked to be as charming as the outside. The furniture wasn’t Early American Maiden Aunt, though. It was boxy, masculine, and tailored. She hesitated before pushing the doorbell, giving herself a chance to take it all in. There was a leather sofa the color of good red wine pushed against one sage green wall, worn and buffed from years of enjoyment. Instead of looking ratty, though, it looked comfortable and appreciated. There was a big club chair in the corner to match it, and an overstuffed chair near the fireplace upholstered in a complementary stripe of burgundy, blue, and green. The rug spanning the hardwood floor was what looked like a hand-knotted Persian, and the lamps were low-key bronze. The mantelpiece over the fireplace was cluttered with guy stuff: a model of a tall ship, a bulky antique clock, a half-dozen old books, and a cluster of framed photographs.

The