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“I …” She squints for a few seconds. “I had no idea.”
I laugh. “Why would you?”
Okay, this chick is not playing with a full deck of cards.
She shakes her head. “Lola … uh … you met Lola. She’s my assistant. I’m Serena.”
“You’re the writer?” I pull into the driveway.
“I am.”
“I don’t know if anyone in this town has seen you … until now.”
“I don’t go out much.” She steps out of the car.
I follow her to the front door, zipping my jacket against the nippy air.
“Cash work?” She heads down the hallway. Just before taking a right into the office, she glances over her shoulder and eyes me. I think she has a tiny grin stealing her lips, but it’s hard to see in the dim light.
Do I amuse her? Is she flirting with me again?
I tear my gaze from hers and glance around more than I did yesterday. My mom is going to kill me for losing everything. Unless …
“I have a better idea,” I mumble.
She returns with an envelope. “Will two thousand cover your mailbox and your time driving me home?”
It’s a fifty-dollar mailbox. I charge seventy an hour as a plumber. Two thousand is more than generous. Or at least it would be if I didn’t need something else from her. “Listen, Serena … can I call you Serena?”
“It’s my name. Go for it.”
“What are your holiday plans?”
Her eyes narrow in distrust. “Well … my plans are to pretend it’s not the holidays.”
“Great. So you don’t have family coming into town? No big parties? Nothing like that?”
Her head eases side to side.
“I don’t want your money. I want to stay here for the holidays with my mom who will be arriving in a few days.”
Serena blinks for a good five seconds. “This isn’t a bed and breakfast.”
“I don’t need it to be a bed and breakfast. I just need it to be …” I pop my lips a few times and adjust my shoulders into the most confident posture I can manage.
“To be what?” Her head cants.
“Mine. I need it to be mine just for the holidays. Until December twenty-seventh to be exact.”
“You need what to be yours?” Her eyes narrow even more.
“This house.”
Another long series of blinks. I’m not sure if she’s in shock or deep thought.
“Why?” she asks.
“This house is called the Afina house. It has been since it was built three generations ago by my great grandfather Hermann Bechtel. I inherited it two years ago after my father died and my mother moved to Germany.”
