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With that thought in my head, I took the last hook on the dirt path with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
And then froze.
Because he was back.
Burke was staring up at the house like he hadn’t stormed out about an hour earlier. His hands were set on his hips—big hands and narrow hips, damn your observations, Daphne—and I could finally take a beat to study him objectively.
I didn’t want to not like him or to feel any sort of intimidation from him. Not if I was going to trust him to see this through.
So I let out a slow breath, hitched my bag a bit higher on my shoulder, and walked around the side of the house.
Even though his facial expressions weren’t clear from that distance, it was apparent when he saw me, because his entire frame went as still as a statue.
“Back so soon?” I asked.
From a solid twelve paces, I could see the annoyed pop of muscle on his stubble-covered jaw.
“Need your bank account information so that I can set up electronic pay.”
“Ahh.”
“If you had your phone, I wouldn’t have had to come back.”
I cleared my throat. “Fair enough.”
“Did you try retracing your steps?”
Briefly, I wondered if he could see my eye twitch. Had I retraced my steps? The condescension was as thick as a blanket. A blanket I was about to wrap around his neck and pull really, really tight.
“There were quite a few steps to be had the last couple of days.” I shrugged. “Pretty much all around Traverse City, and no one seems to have stumbled on it.”
“You don’t seem all that concerned.”
“I’ll find it eventually. I always do.”
We lapsed into silence, and his attention went back to the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to look around while you’re here?” I asked.
Burke stared at the fixer-upper for a few moments longer. I wondered what he saw when he did. It was almost guaranteed that he picked at different things, saw flaws where I saw history—where I saw things to be fixed and put to rights.
The faded spots on the siding where they’d removed the original shutters and never put anything back in their place.
The holes in the plaster, exposing layers of wallpaper and paint that spoke to past choices made in the home.
Dings and scratches on the floor. They didn’t make it junk—something that needed to be torn out. They showed the life that had been lived there.
“Fine.”
My eyes snapped over to his at the terse answer. “Really?”
“Might as well know what I’m dealing with before I make any decisions.”
I swallowed roughly, thoughts racing. “Let me go grab the set of plans our first builder drew up.”
He held up a hand. “No. Just ... show me the inside.”
“Okay.” I was still nodding furiously when I ascended the steps behind him. “Obviously you’re familiar with the entry. The two-story design is very common in these Colonial Revivals—”
