Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(19)
“It’s not the budget I’m worried about,” Zoë said, scraping the breakfast plate at the sink with unnecessary vigor. “You know I don’t like talking to strangers.”
“Alex isn’t a stranger. You’ve met him before.”
“For about thirty seconds.”
“You just went to Everett and talked with a whole bunch of strangers.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Oh.” Justine paused in the middle of loading handfuls of flatware into the dishwasher. “I get it. But I promise he’s not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable. He’ll be professional.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He’s Sam’s brother. He knows Sam would kick his ass if he offended you.”
“I suppose.”
“You talked to him on the phone to set up the meeting, right? Was he friendly?”
Zoë pondered that. “He wasn’t unfriendly …”
“But he was polite?”
Zoë thought back to the brief conversation they’d had. There had been no pleasantries, not a trace of his brother Sam’s easy charm. But yes … he had been polite. She nodded in answer to Justine’s question.
“The only way to get over your shyness,” Justine was saying pragmatically, “is to practice. You know, be friendly, make small talk. Guys aren’t all that different from us.”
“Yes they are.”
“Okay, they are different from us. What I meant was, they’re not complicated.”
“Yes they are.”
“Well, sometimes they can be complicated, but they are entirely predictable.”
Zoë heaved a sigh. She envied Justine’s confidence, and she knew that Justine was right: she did need to practice. But the idea of being alone in the lakeside cottage with a man who intimidated her on just about every level was incredibly stressful.
“You know what I do when I’m facing something I dread?” Justine volunteered. “I divide it into steps. So if I were going to meet with Alex at the cottage, I wouldn’t let myself think about the whole three-hour ordeal—”
“It’s going to take three hours?”
“More like two. So I would start by telling myself, ‘Step one. All I’m doing is getting into the car and driving to the cottage.’ Don’t worry about the rest of it, just do that. And once you’re there, say to yourself, ‘Step two. All I’m going to do is unlock the door and go inside to wait.’ And when Alex shows up: ‘Step three. I’ll let him in and chitchat for a couple of minutes.’ ” Justine gave her a self-satisfied smile. “See? None of those things are so terrible by themselves. It’s just when you view them all together that you start to feel like you’re sprinting away from a rabid tiger.”
“Spiders,” Zoë said. “I’m not stressed by the idea of a rabid tiger. Spiders are what scare me.”
“Fine, but that ruins the metaphor. No one has to sprint away from a spider.”
“Wolf spiders chase down their prey. And black widow spiders can move very fast. And there are leaping spiders that—”
“Step one,” Justine interrupted firmly. “Find your car keys.”
From the moment Alex had pulled up to the lakeside cottage, the ghost had seemed riveted. He’d stopped talking, for once, and stared in open fascination, taking in every detail.
Alex couldn’t figure out what he found so interesting. The house was small and rustic, with cedar shake siding, a covered front porch, wide eave overhangs, and a stone chimney. Craftsman details like tapered boxed columns on the porch and a fieldstone foundation made it the kind of place that, when properly restored, would have a certain amount of charm. But the cheap carport on the side was a detraction. And it was apparent at first glance that the property management company had done a mediocre job of upkeep. The landscaping was untidy and overgrown, the graveled driveway choked with weeds. If the inside had been as poorly maintained as the outside, there were going to be problems.
Since they were early and Zoë hadn’t arrived yet, Alex decided to walk around the exterior to look for mold, damaged siding, or foundation cracks.
“I know this place,” the ghost had said in wonder, following Alex from the truck. “I remember being here. I remember—” He broke off abruptly.
Alex glanced at him, sensing the wistfulness in his mood. “You lived here?”
Looking troubled, the ghost said distractedly, “No, I was … visiting someone.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“To do what?” Alex persisted.
Although the ghost wasn’t capable of blushing, his discomfort was impossible to miss. “None of your business,” came the curt reply.
“So you were boning her?”
The ghost glowered at him. “Up yours.”
Pleased at having annoyed him, Alex continued to wander around the exterior of the house. The satisfaction faded quickly, though, drowned in the awareness of a yearning so powerful and raw that it almost hurt to be near it. Did the ghost know who or what had inspired the feeling? Alex was tempted to ask him, but somehow that seemed brutish … the only way to respect that degree of unexpressed pain was to keep silent.
Lisa Kleypas's Books
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