A High-End Finish(45)

“Thanks. I love it.” I was truly proud of the work I’d done on my house and absurdly thrilled that he liked it. When I had taken over the place from my dad, I did a little refurbishing, just to put my own stamp on the place where I’d grown up. I had removed three small single-pane sash windows and their frames in order to add the large bay window Mac was talking about. It was built into the tower and the glass itself bowed gracefully around the curve. It had been a major pain in the butt to install, but the result was fantastic.

Mac climbed out of the car and jogged around to my side to assist me.

“I can walk,” I protested weakly.

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the house and back at me. “Those stairs look like killers to me.”

I frowned. Mac was right, of course. It would take me a week to climb those ten stairs in my present condition. But the reason I was frowning was that I was starting to wonder why he was being so nice to me—although why I would frown at the thought of someone being nice to me was a question for the headshrinkers. But, really, did he like hanging around murder suspects? Maybe he thought he could get some good ideas for his next crime novel.

You should just stop thinking, I thought, shaking my head.

I let him lift me out of the passenger’s seat and carry me up the stairs to my front door. He set me down and I unlocked it and turned to say good-bye.

“Can I get a tour sometime?” he asked. “I just bought a house and I’m looking for ideas.”

“You bought the old lighthouse mansion.”

“How’d you know?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah. Small town.”

“Yes. But also I’m a general contractor. When a house sells, I usually hear about it, especially when it’s one that might be up for rehab. I specialize in old Victorians.”

“You’re a contractor.”

“Yes.”

He looked around the porch again and ran his hand along the painted window frame. “You did this.”

“Yes.” I pushed open the door and stepped inside. “I won’t be able to give you much of a tour in my present condition, but if you want to see the front room, come on in.”

He followed me through the foyer, past the staircase with its impressive iron balusters, and into the living room—or what the Victorians would’ve called the front parlor. He wandered around, checking out all the classic Victorian features. Crown moldings, medallions on the ceilings, the massive fireplace, the wainscoting throughout.

Despite those touches, I hadn’t kept entirely with tradition in this room. There were no dark wood walls or heavy patterned wallpaper. No clutter on the tables or Oriental carpets, although I appreciated all those charming facets of the era. But the bay window was so big and allowed so much indirect sunlight into the room that I had decided to go with a different feeling altogether. Light taupe with white trim for the walls and coffered ceiling, and comfortably contemporary furnishings: a pale khaki overstuffed couch; two fat, comfy chairs; light wood tables. The window seat was wide enough to nap on and cushioned in a pale buttercream. I’d added splashes of color with throw pillows and artwork.

Other rooms in the house were more classically Victorian, and I loved them, as well, but this was the room I lived in most of the time. I sat down at one end of the long couch and stretched my leg out while Mac studied the elaborately beveled wood around the fireplace and the heavy marble mantel. I’d stumbled upon that unique chunk of thick marble at the landfill a few years ago and had to bring it home.

He sat down at the opposite end of the couch. There was plenty of space for him, so why did the couch and the room and everything around me seem smaller with him here?

Tiger came from out of nowhere and pounced up onto the couch. Instead of coming my way, she went immediately to Mac, and who could blame her? She stood and stared at him until he pulled her into his arms. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying Awwwww.

“What a beauty you are,” he murmured as he stroked her fur. Then he looked at me. “Her coloring is remarkably similar to yours.”

“My father picked her out for that very reason.”

“Two beautiful redheads,” he said to the cat. “How did I get so lucky?”

The lucky cat settled in his lap, her petite frame appearing even smaller than usual. Maybe it was because Mac’s imposing presence filled the room, overwhelming everything. Including me, apparently.

“So, you’re a contractor,” he said, and laughed. “I’m stating the obvious again. Sorry. I’ve just never met a female contractor before.”

“There are a few of us,” I said, struggling to sit up straighter. It was time to pull myself together and act like a professional, despite my torn jeans and grass-streaked face. He was, after all, a potential client. “I grew up working with my dad, mostly building or restoring Victorian houses.”

He scanned the room again. “Damn, I’m slow. It’s still sinking in that you did all this. You’re hired.”

I laughed. “You might want to check out a few other builders before you make your choice.”

“But I like you best,” he said, grinning boyishly.

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I do. But fine, we’ll do it your way.” He shifted in his seat and faced me directly. “Do you have a résumé I can review, with a list of your latest projects?”