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John’s phone rings. Using controls on the wheel, he rejects the incoming call. There’s another ring within seconds. With a huff, he answers, transferring the call from Bluetooth. As he listens, it’s obvious a problem has cropped up at work.
He ends the call. “I’m sorry, Hollie. I need to stop by my house for a minute. Is that alright?”
The question may have been rhetorical, but…go to John’s house? I feel my head begin to shake. I trust him, but…
He steals a couple glances. “Never mind. I’ll take you home first.”
“Where do you live?”
“About a mile down this road.”
He lives out here? Was he driving us there all along? “It sounded important.”
“It is, but…” He checks his watch. “I think I can get make it in time.”
I’m being ridiculous. “No, go ahead.”
“It won’t take long. I need to scan a document I left on my desk and send it to my secretary.”
I agree, and we turn down a smaller road. A minute later, he pulls into the driveway of a beautiful house. The structure is a combination of brick and Austin stone, with cedar posts stretching across the wide front porch. It’s one story with cute dormers across the roofline. The circular driveway is neatly blacktopped, but that’s where any attempt at aesthetics stops. There are no flower beds or shrubbery, and the lawn is a mix of weeds, rocks, and bare dirt.
If it were my house, there would always be a giant wreath on the magnificent, oak front door, one for every season.
He puts the SUV in park and looks at me. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” Though, if ever I’d pictured the stern agent’s home, this is not what I saw.
His dark brown eyes crinkle around the corners. “You’re too polite. Landscaping isn’t my thing. Besides, there seems no point.” He pauses for an intense look at the house.
No point?
He puts his hand on the door. “You want to come in?”
Yes.The frustrated nester in me jumps at the idea of getting inside, of seeing if the interior lives up to the façade’s hype, but… “I’ll wait here.”
The heartbeat of a pause is almost imperceptible. “Alright. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”
As I watch him go inside, I gnaw at my cheek. Do I really think he’s up to no good? Men are what they are, but John has been nothing but a help in my struggling desperation. Ascribing ill-intent at this point feels unfair and unkind.
Not five, but ten minutes later, he’s yet to return.
Fifteen.
I throw off my seatbelt. Does the interior match the gorgeous shell?
I pull the handle and then push. Soon, I’ll know.
The stately front door has one of those new-fangled keypads in addition to a traditional lock and key. The fragrance ofnewmeets my senses the moment I step onto the nonexistent welcome mat. New flooring, fresh paint, cut lumber. Stopping inside the foyer, I get a comprehensive view of the open-concept living area. I hear John’s irritated half of a phone conversation drifting from another room.
There’s a vaulted ceiling with a river rock fireplace whose chimney stretches to the peak. The hardwood floors are the real deal. A row of windows runs the entire width of the room, and a gorgeous kitchen, the stuff dreams and TV shows are made of, opens to one side.
The entirety of what I can see, structurally speaking, looks like something from a makeover show, but other than the high-end finish-out, the place is, well, barren. There’s a nondescript sofa, a plain coffee table, and a weathered and worn brown recliner. The only thing on any wall is a giant television detracting from the tranquil beauty of the rock fireplace.
Turning, I startle to find John watching me from the end of a hallway, studying me with that way he has, phone down by his thigh. His hair is slightly mussed and he’s unbuttoned his shirt collar.
There’s warmth in his eyes—and tightness in my chest.
What is happening here?
