I don’t know what it’s like for anyone else, but using the past tense to talk about people we’ve lost should be its own stage of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Past Tense Usage. Acceptance.
Or maybe Past Tense Usage comes before Depression. God, I hope not.
But the past tense definitely gets Luc Valencia’s attention.
“Were?”His eyes widen a fraction, but that scary frown sharpens so that he looks both confused and horrified as things fall into place. It’s a look I’ve seen enough times over the last five months to know I’ve just made someone feel supremely uncomfortable. He glances up at the house and back at me. “That’s why—” He stops and clamps his mouth shut before visibly swallowing.
I’d feel sorry for the guy if I had the room. Or the time. But these days, feeling sorry for my sibs and myself is pretty much all I can manage.
“That’s why,” I echo because it’s true. That’s why… pretty much everything. That’s why I live in this five-bedroom house instead of an apartment like a normal twenty-four-year old. That’s why I took a part-time position at a vet clinic in Youngsville instead of looking for jobs in places I’d always thought I’d try living. Austin. Charleston. Nashville.
Nowheretoofar away, but someplace different. Someplace buzzing. With people. Music. Cool stuff to do on the weekends.
That’s why I don’t even want to so much as look at a man—especially one as stunning as he is.
“I tried calling,” he says, and I hear regret in his voice. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but…” His gaze shifts to the ground, and he lowers to pick up his dropped keys and the roll of papers he was holding.
I see it’s drafting paper, and as soon as I do, a memory smacks me across the face.
A phone call from Mom. A week or so before they left. She was excited because they were finally—after living in this fixer-upper for eight years—redoing the kitchen. Of course, I never saw the plans, but I know what this contractor is about to show me.
A breakfast nook with bench seating at the bay window. Dark stone countertops. A cobalt blue statement oven with brass knobs.
One more thing my parents were looking forward to that they’ll never get to see.
I point to the rolled up plans. “That’s the kitchen, isn’t it?”
Surprise glints in his eyes. “So you know your parents hired us?”
I shake my head. “No, but I heard about the remodel.” It’s my turn to frown. “But that was supposed to happen over the summer. Like late August, right? Why are you just showing up now?”
The look in his long-lashed eyes turns rueful. “I’m afraid we’re a few months behind schedule.” He makes a face like he’d rather be talking about anything else, but he goes on. “My father was the one to meet with your parents. He’s… uh… he’s been in poor health since the summer. It wasn’t planned, but he’s had to retire. I’m sorry that it has taken me this long to get to your parents’ project.”
I remember the older man with the cane at the soccer game. That must be his father. I shrug off his apology. “We lost them in May,” I say, my voice fading out a little. I clear my throat and press on. “They had no idea you were behind schedule. No need to apologize.”
This information doesn’t ease his expression. Not that I’m really worried about making him feel better, but his frown is back, and it’s etching deeper. I’ve never seen anyone with such dark brows. Almost black. His hair is the same. Like a raven’s wing.
And he’s staring at me like I’ve just ruined his day. “Your parents paid a deposit to secure our services and place orders,” he says stiffly.
I shrug again. “Okay?”
“I’m… we’re not in a position to pay that back.”
Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “I wouldn’t expect you to pay it back. They put down a deposit. You prepared to do the work. That money is yours.”
He tucks his chin, his gaze hardening. “That doesn’t sit well with me.”
I stare at him. “You mean when a job falls through, you don’t keep the deposit?”
“Not one from a bunch of orphans.”
On another day, I might have cried. That’s how grief is. Maudlin one day, hysterical the next. I can’t help it. I bust out laughing. It’s the wrong reaction. I can tell he doesn’t appreciate it. And no matter how many times he turned to look at me last night, I don’t think Valencia likes me very much right now.
Good.
But I shake my head, fanning away my laughter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Valencia. That’s very noble of you, but,” I look back over my shoulder at the two-story Victorian that was my parents’ pride and joy, “my parents made sure we were taken care of, and, frankly, I’m a little old to be considered an orphan.”
His expression doesn’t soften. He’s not amused in the least. Nope, he doesn’t like me very much.
