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“No. I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” His tone lifted. “I have news. Found another diamond-in-the-rough. You know the craftsman on Cedar I’ve had my eye on for years?”
I drew a blank.
“The murder house,” he said.
When we were children, everyone believed the mold-blackened building with the overgrown yard belonged to a serial killer. We listened to stories of child-eating witches, and tales of a man pushed over the edge of sanity. More than once, scrawnytween Jasper had said he’d slay whatever monster lived there and claim the house as his own.
“No.” I cocked my head sideways to get a look at Jasper’s face.
He wore a wistful expression. He was serious about purchasing the old murder house, and he couldn’t be more enchanted by it. The monsters he’d be required to slay would most likely be fungal.
“Oh yes,” he said. “She has great bones. Can't wait to strip her out of that nasty shag carpet, help her reach her gorgeous potential.”
I’d never understood his tendency to anthropomorphize houses. Renovations irrationally delighted him. Who was I to judge? My own satisfaction followed disciplined adherence to routine, and hours spent alone in my lab.
“In negotiations, disclosure is a part of the sale process, correct?” I asked. “Did you find out how many people were actually murdered there?”
He grinned at me. “Zero. It’s all a bunch of malarkey, stupid rumors.”
“Aren’t you concerned no one will want to purchase the property, based on the history—real or fictional?”
“Anyone who puts public perception over recognizing her inner beauty doesn't deserve her anyway.”
I wished everyone could see the world through that lens. Instead of focusing on how unnatural I behaved in front of the camera, I wished they could look past me to appreciate my work for its own merit.
A faint hum sounded. Jasper bolted upright and pulled out his phone. His brows shot up as he looked over the screen.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“I have to go. Gotta put out a fire.”
“In your line of work, always,” I said.
“Yes, but not what I mean.” An easy grin crossed his face. “This one’s a literal fire.”
Jasper viewed disaster as opportunity. No question, he was going to enjoy dealing with this.
“Next time,” he said, “I want an update on your merger, or details on what shade of green your algae is, or how well you’re sleeping. I promise ifyoushare something aboutyourlife with me, I’ll be gentle with my response.”
“Pistachio,” I said.
He blinked, a line forming between his brows.
“My current trial substance appears a pale shade of green, like a pistachio, or pastel spring hue,” I said.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His grin returned. He nudged my knee with the toe of his boot. “I better go put out that fire.”
“Goodbye,” I said.
He waved a hand over his shoulder as he disappeared through the bathroom door.
I tried to remember exactly where I was with the sink. A moment later, my phone dinged in my pocket.
No one from the office was permitted to bother me on the rare Sunday I spent outside of the office, and it was too soon to be Jasper, which meant the message must be from my sister.
Or worse, my corporate consultant, Pamela.
