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“There’s a dumbwaiter? For real?” Knox gasped like a kid finding one last present on Christmas.
Damn it, why did he have to be so expressive? And why did I have to keep noticing? It was one thing when my attraction had mainly been physical, but all the ways I kept finding him appealing were distinctly unsettling. Made my back tight, knowing I’d have to spend the entire summer resisting.
“It goes all the way to the third floor.” Opening the old metal door, I demonstrated the raising and lowering features.
“Show me,” he demanded, already heading for the back stairs, another feature I liked. It always felt like using a secret passageway, the squeaky boards of the dark wooden staircase adding to that sense. Knox barely paused at the second floor to arrive at the third, a main airy space with several built-in cupboards and closets under the eaves and a small bathroom tucked into the furthest corner.
“Whoa. You gotta let me and Wallace stay up here.” Knox looked around like he’d landed in a fairytale. I tried to see the place through his eyes. Old woven hammock swing chair hanging from the ceiling, crowded built-in bookshelves, and metal storage containers full of ancient paints and brushes. There was a white daybed against the far wall with a rag rug in front of it.
“I’m pretty sure this was Aunt Henri’s distant cousin’s art studio. Aunt Henri rarely came up here because in the winter, it gets too cold, and in the summer, it gets too hot. Like sweltering,” I warned.
“This is me not caring. Look, there’s a fan.” He pointed to an oscillating one under the drawing table.
“Why do you like this room so much?” To me, it was an attic, but the way Knox’s face lit up had me wishing I could see the magic. Or perhaps be the one to put that look there—a dangerous line of thinking.
“There’s a story here. A reason for the dumbwaiter. Probably some art waiting to be uncovered and other treasures.” Knox’s voice was all breathless. “It’s got the best energy in the house.”
“It’s yours.” I couldn’t give him much, but I could give him this, and at least it smelled far better than the other guest suite, musty but not unbearable.
“Give me until pizza time, and I’ll have it livable for Wallace. You’ll see.” He grinned at me, gaze flitting around like he was already full of plans and schemes. Damn, he was adorable. And infectious.
“Okay, tell me how I can help. What do you want moved first?”
“I get to be the boss?” Knox made a show of exaggerated skepticism, eyes wide, mouth soft, hands open, and hell if I didn’t want to kiss him silly.
“I’m just coming off twenty-odd years of taking orders. And giving them. Pays to be flexible.” I realized a moment too late that it sounded dirty, and Knox laughed knowingly.
“Uh-huh. I do appreciate a flexible man.”
“Knox.” I groaned.
“Sorry. No flirting. Got it. Work only. Hi-ho, hi- ho.” He whistled softly. The attic temperature wasn’t all that was rising. It was going to be a long, hot summer, one I might not survive.
Chapter Seven
Knox
“Oooh, it’s so tight.” I grunted as my back muscles protested my awkward position.
“Knox.” Monroe’s tone was even more pained than mine.
“What?” I faked innocence. “This container is really wedged in here.” I finally pulled the last bin of art supplies free from its hiding spot under the eaves. “It’s not flirting if it’s literal.”
“We can literally put that whole box right into the trash.” He held out a trash bag. We already had a big stack of bags near the stairs, along with a smaller tower of boxes for donation.
“No way! The paint is dried up, sure, but there’s usable brushes and some things like pastels that don’t go bad.” I quickly picked through the bin, removing a few good finds from the unsalvageable bits.
“Remember, anything worth saving, you can have.” He’d made the same offer when we started our work several hours earlier.
“Thanks. We’ve found so much more than I can use by myself, so I’ll give some to Sam for teen activities with his program.” I added some colored pencils, pastels, and empty sketchbooks to a box I had going for Sam and the shelter.
“Good idea.” Monroe’s voice was just this side of too sharp.
“You don’t like Sam?” I wasn’t aware it was possible to dislike Samuel, who was kind to absolutely everyone and had a smile that was impossible not to return.
“He’s great.” Monroe made a choking sound that didn’t sound entirely involuntary. “Sorry. Dust.”
“Here, let me sweep up the dust.” Done with the bin, I grabbed the broom and swept the now-empty corner, working my way backward to the center of the large space. My internal soundtrack clicked on, and I ended up doing a second pass on most of the room as a pulsing pop tune played in my brain.
