Page 66
He pointed to the stairs. “Behind the staircase.”
“May I?”
“Sure. I just need to get dressed.”
“A shirt would be appreciated.”
He grinned, wagging his brows. “Can’t handle my bare chest, huh?”
She harrumphed, placed her half-empty mug down, and headed up the stairs.
He stood for a moment, listening to the thump of her sneakers on the hollow wood.
Today was turning out to be pretty damn good.
*
You’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, Felicity Graham.
The steep staircase ended in a hallway, weak light spilling through open doorways at either end. Curious, she turned right.
An alcove held an ancient washer and dryer set.
She continued, then stopped dead.
Wow. Even down to the studs, the potential was obvious.
The wall between what had once been two bedrooms was gone, temporary supports bracing the ceiling. Wooden flooring peeked out beneath protective drop cloths. Stacks of drywall leaned in one corner. Window frames — or what might even be French doors — rested against the far wall, waiting their turn.
She crossed the room and looked out over the yard below.
Several fruit trees, stripped bare. The skeletal remains of a greenhouse. A vegetable garden gone to weeds. A storage shed. Garaging.
And the frame of a … swing set.
It was a house calling for a family.
Yet a single man had bought it.
A man who wanted a family?
He clearly liked kids.
Her stomach turned. That was something she would never give him.
Just as well you aren’t marrying him. Friends. Remember.
She swung around and stalked back down the hallway, opening closed doors, peering in.
Three large bedrooms occupied the far end, along with a bathroom stripped of all plumbing, Bismol pink tiles waiting to be torn out.
She looked down the main staircase. Remembered the night she’d clung to the spindles while he drove into her from behind.
Because she’d demanded it. Because she’d needed it.
Needed him.
She wrapped her arms around her torso, rocking slightly, calling herself every kind of fool for being anywhere near the man capable of destroying her.
