She opened the front door and the hinges groaned loudly in the cavernous space as Hunter walked in.

“Nice,” he said, looking around at the tarp-draped counters and breakfast bar, the plastic on the floors, and the dangling pieces of masking tape around the bay window.

“It has a lot of potential,” she told him, closing and locking the oak door. There was no doubt it was smaller than he’d be used to, but she was excited about living here.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, honest.” He held up a bottle of wine. “Housewarming.”

“That might be a bit premature.” She still had a lot of work to get done.

He glanced around the room for somewhere to set the bottle down. “In a cupboard?” he asked, heading for the alcove kitchen.

“Beside the fridge,” she called.

He got rid of the wine and shrugged out of his windbreaker. Then he returned to the main room in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt that were obviously brand-new.

She tried not to smile at the outfit.

It really was nice of him to come and help. Still, she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to tease him.

“You don’t do home maintenance often, do you?”

He glanced around the tarp-draped room. “I’ve seen it done on TV.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she warned.

He shot her an expression of mock disbelief. “I have an MBA from Harvard.”

“And they covered house painting in graduate school?”

“They covered macroeconomics and global capitalism.”

She fought a grin. “Oh sure, go ahead and get snooty on me.”

“Dip the brush and stroke it on the wall. Am I close?”

“I guess you might as well give it a try.”

“Give it a try?”

Her grin broadened at his insulted tone.

He bent over and pried open a paint can. “You might want to shift your attitude. I’m free labor, baby.”

“Am I getting what I paid for?”

“Sassy,” he said, and her heart tripped a beat.