She was silent for a while, sifting through the papers and occasionally glancing at the bar to compare. "It's the exact look I was hoping for. And I like this wood." She gave him the sample he also preferred, and excitement ran through his veins. God, he loved starting a new project, especially one that would satisfy his soul. It wasn't often he was able to restore an antique bar.
"I agree. It works best with the brick wall background. Then I found these antique-looking booths from-"
"Booths? Wait a minute, I don't have money to renovate the entire restaurant. I still need a new roof and to fix the porch before this upcoming winter."
"Sorry, it's just I have my hands on these wooden booths and if we stained them, they'd look amazing. It's easy to rip out these right here"-he pointed to the row of six booths lined up on the right side-"and replace them. You get rid of the cheap red vinyl and it's an investment. Low maintenance, and it will last. Here's the pictures."
She studied the photos. "Wow, you're really good at this. I suck at decorating. I don't seem to have the vision like so many other women have."
"I doubt many women can make a Bloody Mary like you can."
"You're right. That's a better talent."
Dalton figured he'd save the ideas for restripping the floors for another time. Yes, the floors could wait, but he had to convince her to do the booths. "I brought up two estimates. I can give you a discount on the booths because of the bulk of the job."
"What about the time restrictions? Can you really get all this done?"
"Yes. The booths will only add two days, which will still give you plenty of time."
She tapped a fingernail against the table while she flipped through the estimates and pictures. "I love the idea. Just don't know if it's smart to lay out the extra chunk of money right now."
"I'm happy to put you on a monthly payment plan. I just think this is a move you won't regret."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Why do I feel you've used that line many times before?"
"Because I have."
"Did it work?"
This time, he gave her a playful wink. "Every time," he drawled.
She dropped the papers back onto the table and studied him. Dalton felt that touch of connection buzz through the room again. Like they'd known each other before, in another life. Not that he believed in that silly stuff. "Well, I guess your line worked again. I'll do the booths, too."
"You won't regret it. I'll make it so good for you."
This time she laughed out loud. The deep, husky sound made him shift uncomfortably in his chair with raw hunger. A sense of pride zapped through him. He wished he could make this woman laugh more often.
"How soon can you start?" she asked.
"I've cleared my schedule. I'll pick up the supplies tomorrow and start in two days. I'll need one full week for the pub to be closed."
She nodded. "I'll post it on Facebook and put out signs tomorrow so everyone knows we'll be closed. I already spoke to my staff. I've decided to do a grand reopening once the work is done. It'll draw more crowds and press, and I'll be able to unveil some special cocktails I've been working on."
"Great idea." Curiosity burned through him. "Have you always wanted your own restaurant?"
"God, no. I was going to be a movie star. I always felt like I was meant for big things."
"So your family doesn't own a chain of restaurants and begged you to run the dynasty?"
It was meant as a teasing remark, but Dalton noticed the raw grief that flickered over her face before she settled back into the familiar, distant chill. "No. My father was an artist. My aunt is an actress on Broadway. I never really knew my mother."
"Amazing gene pool. No wonder you longed for Hollywood. Do I know any of your father's work?"
"He's dead."
Dalton jerked back. Suddenly her dark eyes burned with a tinge of raw emotion and something he couldn't define. Almost as if she blamed him for asking the question. "I'm so sorry." She didn't answer, just stared at him, unblinking. "My parents are gone, too," he offered.
She dropped her gaze and studied the floor. "How?"
Now he was the one who stiffened. "Heart attack."
"Both of them?"
The lid on the memory gaped open. He slammed it closed. "Lost my father to a heart attack last year. Lost my mother a while ago in a car accident."
"I'm sorry." Her tone held . . . mockery? Anger? "Were you close to your mother?"
Oh, hell no. He never went there with anyone other than his brothers, and he planned to keep it that way. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and popped out two mini Hershey bars, deliberately closing the subject. "Want one?"