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It was almost amusing how the color of her hazel eyes changed when she was clearly frustrated. Unfortunately for both of us, nothing about this was amusing at all. Just being there, with the house staring down at me and Charlotte, had me feeling edgy and uncomfortable. Each gaping, empty window looked out over the carriage house like some creepy, judgmental eye watching my every move.
If the house had a brain, it probably wondered what the fuck Chris had been thinking too. And if Charlotte’s thoughts ran along the same line, I had to admire her restraint in not verbalizing them.
“I’m not refusing to be involved,” I told her. “But I can’t stay either. I have other responsibilities, and I need to be back in Florida.” I pulled out my phone and sent a text to her cell number. “Whenever you manage to find your phone, you should have a text waiting from me. Let me know when you’ve found a builder.”
She made a strangled, disbelieving sort of noise. “There are a million decisions that have to be made. You can’t just leave.”
“I can, actually. But if you want my vote,” I said, leaning closer to her, “instead of making a million decisions, I think it would be easier to level the whole place and start from scratch.”
“No.” Her answer was sharp. “Easy has nothing to do with their plans for the Campbell House. If they wanted easy, they would’ve bought land and put up another stack of soulless cookie-cutter condos that they could turn around on a weekly basis.”
I thought about what Chris had said when we stood in the yard, then swallowed down the memory, banishing it somewhere far away, where it wouldn’t haunt me on a loop.
I sat back in my chair and studied her. “Catchy. Is that on your PowerPoint?”
“Is it easy to play football?” she asked. “Professionally, I mean.”
I gave her a look. “No. You a football watcher?”
“I find it barbaric and highly overrated, if you want my honest answer.”
“I’m not sure I do, actually.”
She smiled. “Then you shouldn’t have asked.”
My jaw hurt from the force of keeping it shut.
“You still playing?” Charlotte lifted one eyebrow.
Slowly, I stretched out my leg, letting the sore muscles around my knee groan in protest. “Recently retired, actually.”
“Teams ever go through a rebuilding season?”
“Occasionally.”
She set her shackled hands on top of the table and folded them together. “And did they gut the team? Cut everyone?”
I inhaled slowly, refusing to answer. I’d liked it better when she was locked to the staircase and at a disadvantage.
“Level the roster and start from scratch with all new shiny players and coaches and coordinators?” she continued. “Wouldn’t that have been easier?”
“I think we can move on from this analogy.”
“I would love to, if you think I’ve made my point.”
I gave her a grim smile. “Abundantly. I still don’t want anything to do with rebuilding a house that’s about to fall over.”
“Well ... it sounds like you don’t have much of a choice. Not if you want to respect your friend’s wishes.” She didn’t say it cruelly, and somehow that made it worse.
“I just want to know that there’s a way for me to respect his wishes and not have this take over my life.” I settled my hands on the table, mimicking her posture. Our fingers were inches apart, and I caught her staring at mine before her gaze moved back up to my face. “I want easy at this point in my life. I’ve had it hard. I’m tired. I have a family that I want to spend time with. And this”—I gestured to the house behind her—“is only going to make it worse.”
“Probably.”
“Finally, we agree on something.”
Charlotte glanced behind her, her shoulders dropping with a sigh. “So now what?”
“I’d sell it to you right now.” I held her gaze. “Then you could fulfill their dreams, since you’re the one holding the plans.”
