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He leans against the railing, which is hopefully sturdier than it looks. “You’re right. It is looking good. And how’re you doing?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I start to shut the door. He puts his hand on it, preventing me from closing it all the way. My heart beats louder and faster in my chest, and my guard hunkers down for a battle.
My gaze darts to his hand.
He takes his hand away from the door, his expression not apologetic. “One more thing. My brothers, some friends, and I get together pretty much every Friday for our regular game night. I thought maybe you’d like to join us tomorrow. Zara will be there.”
“I don’t play cards.” The words come out flatter than a deflated bike tire.
“That’s okay. We don’t always play poker. Last week we played charades.”
I almost laugh. Troy doesn’t look like the kind of guy who plays charades on a Friday night. He looks more like the kind of man who would take out gorgeous women.
“I have plans.” Plans that involve working on my résumé, a stack of magazines, the bathroom grout, and one of the novels I bought today.
They’re the same plans I have for tonight.
“Maybe another night.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I start to close the door, but Troy stops me again. My guard rears up, claws drawn. “Would you quit doing that?”
He moves his hand, but my words roll off him, as if he’s able to repel them. He responds with a soft, humorless laugh and leans against the doorframe like he’s settling in. “Are you okay? You look exhausted. You having trouble sleeping?” His gaze searches my face, searches my wary eyes.
Dammit.Does he have to be so observant? What else has he noticed about me? Even Anne didn’t comment today on my obvious lack of sleep.
“I’m sleeping fine.” For a few hours a night, when the nightmares give me a reprieve.
“You sure? You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a couple of weeks.”
Way to sweep a girl off her feet.“That’s because I’ve been tidying the house in preparation for the renovations. And I’ve been staying up late reading too. I’ve got a really good book.” That sounds convincing enough.
“Have you hired a contractor yet?”
“No, I’m doing the renovations myself. Except when I’ll need to hire professionals, like for the electrical work. I might be crazy-ambitious taking on a project like this old house, but I’m not deluded about what I can do on my own.” I didn’t mean to say that much. Sleep deprivation is dulling my resolve to say as little as possible. Putting me at risk of being ridiculed—like my husband used to do.
“Do you have experience with home renovations?”
“I’m all for learning as I go.” The truth is, I can’t afford to spend all my money on turning this place into a beautiful haven.
Troy laughs. It’s a nice laugh, deep and nothing like my husband’s. But when I first began dating him, I’d thought he had a nice laugh too. It was only later that I recognized it for what it was. An illusion.
“Home renovations aren’t as easy as the HGTV shows make them out to be.” Troy moves away from the doorframe and pulls on his expert-opinion face. “They use professionals. And for an old house like this, you’ll need someone who knows what they’re doing. For starters, you could be facing asbestos in the insulation. Incredibly dangerous. It needs to be removed carefully. The workers have to wear hazmat gear.”
Oh, damn. I hadn’t thought of all that. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Or you could hire me, and you won’t have to worry about any of it.” He smiles the smile that no doubt has women drooling and tripping and losing their hearts.Like Zara said happens all the time.
“I’ll think about it.” When donkeys learn to fly. There’s no way I can hire him. Not if it means spending time with him. So far, he seems to be the kind of guy who’d be easy to drop your guard around. And I can’t risk that happening.
This time when I shut the door, Troy doesn’t try to stop me. But I still hear him say, “Pick you up tomorrow night at six thirty.”
* * *
After dinner,I head upstairs to the extra bedroom. I’ve already made a dent when it comes to the stacks of magazines in here, but the closet is still packed with them, and they’re preventing me from shutting the closet door.
An hour and a half later, the situation is reversed. I’ve sorted through the magazines in the closet, and most of them are now downstairs in the living room. The closet is empty except for a squat, built-in bookshelf. But it isn’t flush with the wall like it should be. One side sticks out. The other side is slightly receded into the wall.
When I was younger, I used to pretend my grandparents’ house had secret passages, some behind their bookshelves. There weren’t any, but it was a fun game to play on rainy days.
