“What about your brothers and sister?” The words and the hard edge to his voice do the trick on the last of my laughter. Harry, Mattie, and Emmett are orphans. No doubt about it.
I clear my throat. “Like I said, my parents left us in good shape.”
The early days of my parents’ marriage may have been tight financially, but after that my dad had been a successful heart surgeon for more than a decade. And maybe it was because he had the four of us, or maybe it was because he knew how fragile life is, or maybe he was a sucker for a good sales pitch, but Dad believed in life insurance and monetary trusts. Even before my parents died, the house was paid for and so was college and grad school for all of us. The rest will see my brothers and sisters safely into adulthood.
I worry over a lot of things these days, but money isn’t one of them. Maybe I’ll never forgive my parents for being out on the water when the weather forecasted storms, but I’m grateful every day for their careful planning. I don’t know how we’d manage otherwise, and I don’t want to know.
“May I ask what your plans are for the house?”
The question knocks me off balance. I realize this guy’s dark eyes are still fixed on me with a brooding stare.
“What do you mean?”
He purses his lips together in a way that, to my annoyance, makes me notice again how full and perfect they are. “I mean do you plan to stay in the house or sell it?”
The thought of selling our house is like a splash of ice water. “We’renotselling it.” My tone is indignant. Offended. His brows twitch in response.
“Okay.” His tone softens, and he lifts a hand in a placating gesture. I blush, embarrassed over the force in my response. It’s not like he was threatening to take the house from us. I shift my weight on my feet, wanting to shake off this awkward moment.
“My brother Emmett is eight,” I say finally. “He’ll grow up here. After he comes of age, the four of us will decide what to do with the house.”
The lines across Luc Valencia’s brow smooth out, the corners of his flawless mouth turn up, and I remember his perilous dimples the instant before they reappear. My breath halts at the sight.
Dammit.
“In that case, Miss Delacroix, what do you think about moving forward with the renovation?” He’s grinning now, just a little, but it feels like sunlight on my face.
Wait, what is he asking?
“Move forward?”
He nods. “I haven’t seen it, of course, but the plans and my father’s notes suggest your kitchen is pretty outdated. Even if you don’t take appliances and décor into consideration, the wiring and plumbing are probably barely keeping up with your needs.”
I press my lips together and say nothing. He’s right. We can’t make a smoothie, brew a pot of coffee, and run the toaster at the same time without tripping the breaker. And the décor is circa 1980. All subway tile and honey oak cabinets. Pretty much straight out of Steven Spielberg'sPoltergeist—except the chairs don’t move by themselves.
But that kitchen has been the heart of this home as long as we’ve been here. I doubt the twins even remember the rent house we had when they were little, and Emmett has never lived anywhere else. Sometimes, I still feel like I can come through the garage into that kitchen and find Mom at the stove, fighting with one of the burners.
Now I’m the one trying to finagle the safety lighter with one hand while cranking the gas with the other just to boil a pot of pasta.
Yet the popping sound of that crappy stove is the sound of Mom. And home. And family dinners. What would it feel like for that to be silent too?
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say.
I realize I’m clutching my elbows, my go-to self-soothing stance, and Luc Valencia is watching me again like he has no idea what to say.
I get that a lot lately. I’m almost used to it.
He narrows his eyes on me. “Would you…” He hesitates, and I blink to let him know I’m listening. “Would you consider letting me take a look and going over the plans with you?”
Now I double-blink. “What? You mean right now?”
The dimples are back.Christ Almighty.
“Well, I’m here now,” he says, stating the obvious in a way that is cuter than it should be. And then he has the good grace to look abashed, and dammit if that isn’t cuter. “If now is good for you.”
I worked this morning and basically just walked in the door before he pulled up. I’m still in my scrubs. Tuesdays are surgery days, so I hope he doesn’t notice the light brown stain on the front of my top because it isn’t blood. It’s canine anal gland musk from the sacculectomy I performed. If you’ve never smelled the contents of a canine anal sac, count yourself lucky. The odor is just this side of lethal. I scrubbed the spot with alcohol after the surgery, but if he gets too close, he’ll probably still smell it.
On second thought, maybe I want him to smell it. One whiff, and he’d keep his distance for good.
