The Very Thought of You by Carolann Camillo Page A

a month. We just need to let in some air.” The owner stepped to one of a pair of windows that overlooked the street and cranked a lever. As he forced the metal casement out, traffic noise flooded in.
    Molly, who’d moved into the center of the room, couldn’t have looked more out of place in this dump. Nick wanted to take her hand, scrap the crummy elevator, and hustle her down three flights of fire stairs to his car. From there he’d head straight to Fisherman’s Wharf where they’d stroll around like tourists and eat fresh crab and prawns out of paper cones. He gave the idea serious thought, then quashed the impulse. First, he had to prove his point: Low rent units existed in San Francisco.
    The temperature inside the apartment must have been close to ninety degrees. Molly lifted the back of her hair with one hand. With the other, she peeled the collar of her blouse off her neck and exposed skin that glowed with a pink flush. Nick knew better than to blow cool air right below where she held up a fistful of russet curls. Curls he’d discovered were infused with the scent of strawberries. Curls that invited him to plow his hands through right now.
    â€œThe apartment could use fresh paint.” A few steps took Molly to the kitchen doorway. She peeked into the miniscule space beyond. “Also, someone needs to scrub the stove or, better yet, junk it.” She turned away and let her hair fall back into place. “The whole apartment needs new carpets, and those windows … ” She shrugged and her nose twitched.
    She couldn’t have said it any clearer. The place was a hellhole. Still, Nick might be able to convince her that, if spruced up, it could become livable. Even better, at a little over seven hundred a month, clones must exist in other parts of the city. They could discuss it over lunch at the Wharf. His confidence rose.
    â€œThis here’s the bedroom.” The landlord pushed open a door and entered a room little bigger than a tool shed. He began to wrestle with the lone window. He banged on the wooden frame and coaxed it up.
    Nick sidestepped around Molly and took up a position in the doorway, which blocked the entrance. No way would he allow this guy — okay, slumlord — to maneuver her into a room with the word “bed” attached to it. She moved close behind him and he glanced at her over his shoulder. She stood on her tiptoes, which brought the top of her head even with his ear. Her breath brushed the side of his neck. While she checked out the room, he checked out the sudden increase in his heart rate.
    â€œI’d say bedroom is a misnomer, wouldn’t you?” she whispered.
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t.”
    â€œIt’s hardly bigger than a shower stall.”
    â€œIt looks adequate. How much time do people spend in a bedroom anyway?” Like her, he kept his voice low.
    â€œIn a dinky room like this one, I’d say not much. Stuck in there, a person could develop serious claustrophobia.”
    He’d made his own checklist, so he guessed where she headed. First the paint and carpet, then the stove, now the rotten dimensions of the bedroom. It surprised him she hadn’t brought up the cacophony that blasted in from the street.
    â€œAnother person might consider it cozy.” He figured the “cozy” angle was worth a try. Maybe she’d give it a second look and view it, not for its deficiencies, but as a valuable piece of real estate.
    She leaned closer. “A child would find it minuscule. You couldn’t even cram a double in there, not if you wanted to add a nightstand and a chest of drawers.”
    His gaze cut sideways to her eyes. Such serious eyes. Maybe he should try to lighten her up a little. Otherwise, how could he ever elevate this hellhole into practically move-in condition?
    â€œWhen you say ‘double,’ I suppose you mean a bed?”
    She tilted her head back and scrunched her