Coast Road Read Online Free Page B

cleaned his bathroom, but he hadn't been able to con her into doing his laundry. That was why he found himself in the laundromat on a Tuesday night when Rachel came through the door.
    Those waves of blond hair were gathered up in a turquoise ribbon that clashed with her purple tank top, but her shorts and sandals were white and as fresh as the blush that stained those sun-stained cheeks when she saw him there.
    In the extra-long heartbeat that she spent at the door, he could have sworn she was debating turning and leaving. Not wanting her to do that, he said, "Hey! How're you doing? " She smiled. "Great." The blush remained. She sucked in her lips, raised her brows, and seeming self-conscious, hugged an overstuffed laundry bag as she looked down the row of washers for raised lids. "Ah, " she said, spotting two side by side. She smiled at him again and headed toward them.
    Jack's heart was pounding. He didn't know why. All she'd done was smile. There hadn't been anything remotely sexual in it. She wasn't his type at all. But he slid off the dryer he'd been sitting on, and following her, he leaned up against the machine that backed on one of those she had chosen.
    "Rococo and neoclassic art? " he prompted. He didn't want her to think this was a blind pickup, because it wasn't a pickup at a. She wasn't his type. He assumed that was why she intrigued him. It was safe.
    No risk. Just an innocuous hello.
    She acknowledged the connection with a simple "Uh-huh." She was blushing still, pushing dirty laundry from the mouth of her laundry bag into the mouth of the washer.
    He watched her for a minute, then said, "Mine's in the dryer." It was probably the dumbest line he'd ever handed a woman. But he couldn't tell her that she was pushing reds and whites together into her machine. He couldn't ask if the reds were shirts, bras, or briefs. He couldn't even look directly at those things, because she would have been mortified. Besides, he couldn't take his eyes from hers. They were hazel with gold flecks, and more gentle than any he had seen.
    "You're Obermeyer's TA, " she said as she filled the second machine with things that went way beyond red. Her current outfit was conservative by comparison. "Are you training to teach? " "No. I'm in architecture." She smiled. "Really? " "Really, " he said, smiling back. She really was a sweet thing, smiling like that. The sweetness remained even when she suddenly opened her mouth and looked around�left, right, down, back.
    Jack returned to his own possessions and offered her his box of soap powder.
    He was rewarded with another blush and a soft-murmured "Thanks." When she had both machines filled with soap, fed with quarters, and started, she asked, "What kind of things do you want to build? " The question usually came from his parents and was filled with scorn.
    But Rachel Keats seemed genuinely interested.
    "Homes, for starters, " he said. "I come from a two-bit town, one little box after another. I used to pass those little boxes on the way to school and spend my class time doodling them into something finer.
    Those doodles didn't help my math grade much."
    "No. I wouldn't think it." She shot a glance at the text that lay open on his dryer. "Is the book on home designs? " "Not yet. Right now we're into arches.
    Do you know how many different kinds of arches there are? There are flat arches, round arches, triangular arches, pointed arches. There are hand arches, back arches, groin arches. There are depressed arches. There are diminished arches. There are horseshoe arches. " She was laughing, the sound as gentle as her eyes. "I don't think I want to know what some of those are." She paused for the briefest time, said almost shyly, "I was a doodler, too." He liked the shyness.
    It made him feel safe. "Where? " "Chicago, then Atlanta, then New York. My childhood was mobile. My dad takes old businesses and turns them around. We move when he sells. How about you? " "Oregon. You won't have heard of the