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I take the stairs and make more notes.
New railing.
New floating stairs and not these dark wooden ones where the stain has faded in places. As I reach the top of the stairs, more recessed lights illuminate another nook—a sitting area. Bookcases line the walls like a mini library. I go to the shelves and run my finger over all the spines—historical fiction, memoirs, crime novels. Not a romance book in sight.
I make a note.
Add some of my favorites to his collection.
The only time I can manage this project will be on weekends.
Upstairs has old beige carpet that flows into a living area, leading to a balcony. I walk past a bedroom, another bedroom, another, and another. The last one is the primary. It has a huge four-poster bed with the same dark mahogany wood that is throughout the house. A mottled cover is spread over the mattress, and matching bedside tables have black lamps on top. It’s depressing how dark everything is for a coastal home.
There is a large bathroom to the side with a huge window near the bath where you can bathe and relax while enjoying the view. Ugh, the tiles are deep maroon. The house is almost colonial in styling. He did say he got this house at a bargain. But why when he could have bought any place already remodeled to perfection?
I have a lot to do, and if he’s serious about my remodeling ideas, then this will be a month or two of work.
I finish off my notes and close my cell. Ready to tell him my ideas, I skip down the stairs. Only the study door remains closed. He is speaking to someone and heated words are exchanged. I lift a hand to knock, then change my mind.
I’m hungry.
I open the refrigerator. It’s loaded with food—fruit, eggs, juice, milk, almond milk, cheese, and sourdough. I take out the sourdough. To the side, there’s a walk-in pantry with dated shelves in need of replacing. I add it to my notes. I find peanut butter and spread it over a piece of sourdough. I open all the cupboards until I find a glass, fill it with cold water from the refrigerator, and sit on a stool at the kitchen island.
Being with me is easy.
I mull over Franklin’s words in my head.
Should I be more of a puzzle? Did Bernard tire of me because I was predictable and boring? I bury any thoughts of Bernard and focus on why I’m here.
This home is not what I’d expected. It has beauty, not luxurious like his cars, and I can’t wait to bring it back to life.
I finish eating and place my plate in the empty dishwasher. This home has had no love for years. My fingertips glide over the tiled countertops while taking in the feel of the room.
Franklin’s voice echoes around the house.
Shit. He is angry.
There’s another door I missed to my left—a bathroom. I add it to my notes.
After washing my hands, I contemplate leaving. I could call a cab since I’ve finished inspecting his home. After all, it is technically why I’m here. For a good ten seconds, I stare at the study door. I’m not going to leave without telling him.
There is no way I’m knocking on that door when he’s like that.
I wait.
The books.
I head upstairs to the reading nook.
As I run my fingers over the books, I choose one set in the seventeenth century.
Why would Franklin be interested in this?
I take the throw draped over the back of the chair and the book and take a seat.
After a while, my neck begins to ache. With the sound of the ocean too good to ignore, I head to the bedroom closest to the library. I open the balcony door a fraction so I can hear and smell the ocean.
Kicking my shoes into a corner, I curl up on the bed with the book and only a bedside light illuminating the room. I am mesmerized by the ocean outside the glass and find myself reading the same sentence over and over, struggling to keep my eyes open.
