Remodeling The Bachelor. Marie Ferrarella

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      He would have made himself toast and scrambled eggs if he’d had bread. Or eggs. Instead breakfast consisted of the last of his coffee and a couple of close-to-stale pieces of Swiss cheese, the latter being part of what he’d served last night along with beer, junk food and conversation.

      Leaning a hip against the counter as he finished the last of the unexceptional cheese, he shook his head. It was time to surrender and give in to the inevitable: he needed a housekeeper. Someone who stopped by maybe once a week, did the grocery shopping and gave the house a fast once-over. That was all that was really necessary. As the oldest and the one who often was left in charge, Philippe had learned to run a fairly tight, not to mention neat, ship. The only thing in utter disarray was the desk in his home office.

      Actually, if he was being honest with himself, most of the office looked that way, what with books left open to pertinent sections and a ton of paper scattered in all four corners of the room, covering most of the available flat surfaces. He supposed, in a way, it was a statement about the way his life operated. His private affairs were neatly organized while his work looked as if he’d recently been entertaining a grade four hurricane on the premises.

      Finished eating, Philippe wiped his fingers on the back of his jeans and made his way over to the telephone. Ten minutes later, he’d placed an ad in the local paper as well as on the newspaper’s Internet site for an experienced housekeeper to do light housekeeping once a week.

      He frowned as he hung up.

      Hiring someone to invade his space, even briefly, wasn’t a choice he was happy about, but he had to face it. It was a necessary evil. Business was very good and the demand on his time was high. Aside from the weekly poker games, of late he seemed to be spending all of his time working. That left no time for the minor essentials—like the procurement of foodstuff. He needed someone to do that for him.

      He could have advertised for an assistant, Philippe thought as he made his way to the back of the house and the organized chaos that was his home office, but that would have meant a big invasion. He knew himself better than that. No, a housekeeper was the better way to go, he decided.

      Planting the opened can of flat soda he’d discovered sitting in the back of his all-but-barren refrigerator on the first space he unearthed by his computer, Philippe flipped on the radio that resided on the bookcase beside his desk. Classical music filled the air as he sat down and got to work. Within seconds, he was enmeshed in programming language and completely oblivious to such things as time and space and earthly surroundings.

      During the course of the day, when his brain begged for a break and his stomach upbraided him for abuse, Philippe made his way to the kitchen to forage for food. Lunch had consisted of pretzels, made slightly soggy by being left out overnight. Dinner had been more of the same with a handful of assorted nuts downed as a chaser. But the food hardly mattered.

      It was his work that was important and it was progressing well. He’d gotten further along on the new software than he’d expected and that always gave him a sense of satisfaction, as did the fact that he handled everything by himself. He created the programs, designed the artwork and developed the tutorial and self-help features, something that was taking on more and more importance with each software package he created.

      With a heartfelt sigh, Philippe closed down his computer. Rising to his feet, he went to the kitchen to get himself the last bottle of beer to celebrate a very productive, if exhausting, day.

      He had just opened the refrigerator door to see if perhaps he’d missed something edible in his prior forages when he heard the doorbell. Releasing the refrigerator door again, he glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. Both his brothers and his friends knew that he generally knocked off around seven. One of them had obviously decided to visit.

      Good, he could use a little company right about now. Maybe he and whoever was at his door could go out for a bite to eat.

      His stomach rumbled again.

      Several bites, Philippe amended, striding toward the door.

      “Hi,” he said cheerfully as he swung open the door.

      It took him less than half a second to realize he’d just uttered the greeting to a complete stranger. A very attractive complete stranger wearing a blue pullover sweater and a pair of light-colored faded jeans that adhered in such a way as to drive the stock of jeans everywhere sky-high. The blonde was holding the hand of a little girl who, for all intents and purposes, was an exact miniature of her.

      Like the woman whose hand she was holding, the little girl was slight and petite and very, very blond. He guessed that she had to be about five or so, although he was on shaky ground when it came to anything to do with kids.

      Philippe looked back to the woman with the heart-shaped face. He had to clear his throat before he asked, “Can I help you?”

      Eyes the color of cornflowers in bloom washed over him slowly, as if she was taking his measure. It was then that he remembered he was barefoot and wearing the first T-shirt he’d laid his eyes on this morning, the one that had shrunk in the wash. And that when he worked, he had a habit of running his hands through his hair, making it pretty unruly by the end of the day. That, along with his day-old stubble and worn clothes probably made him look one step removed from a homeless person.

      Philippe glanced at the little girl. Rather than look frightened, she was grinning up at him. But the woman holding her hand appeared somewhat skeptical as she continued to regard him. She and the child remained firmly planted on the front step.

      He was about to repeat his question when she suddenly answered it—and added to his initial confusion. “I came about the job.”

      “The job?” he echoed, momentarily lost. And then it hit him. The woman with the perfect mouth and translucent complexion was referring to the housekeeping position he’d called the paper about this morning. Boy, that was fast.

      “Oh, the job,” he repeated with feeling, glad that was finally cleared up. Beautiful women did not just appear on his doorstep for no reason, not unless they were looking for Georges. “Right. Sure. C’mon in,” he invited, gesturing into the house.

      Philippe stepped back in order to allow both the woman and the little girl with her to come inside.

      The woman still seemed just the slightest bit hesitant. Then, winding her left hand more tightly around her purse, she entered. Her right hand was firmly attached to the little girl. Philippe found himself vaguely curious as to what the woman had in her purse that seemed to give her courage. Mace? A gun? He decided maybe it was better that he didn’t know.

      “My name’s Kelli, what’s yours?” The question came not from the woman but from the child, uttered in a strong voice that seemed completely out of harmony with her small body.

      He wondered if Kelli would grow into her voice. “Philippe,” he told her.

      The girl nodded, as if she approved of the name. It amused him that she didn’t find his name odd or funny because of the French pronunciation. She had old eyes, he noted.

      The personification of curiosity, Kelli scanned her surroundings. Had she not been tethered to the woman’s hand, he had the impression that Kelli would have taken off to go exploring.

      Her eyes were as blue as her mother’s. “Is this your house?” the girl asked.

      He felt the corners СКАЧАТЬ