by Laura Scott
No reason to start thinking about ways to spend it now.
Shaking off the idea of buying and rebuilding, he rounded the corner toward the front of the house. No cars were parked in the driveway, which wasn’t a surprise. He stood for a moment, wondering how far down the road the deputy had parked.
Too far away to see him, obviously. Which meant he’d made a good decision to sleep in the tent.
He turned and made his way back to Jazz’s house, checking that her driveway and garage were undisturbed. It occurred to him that the next target could very well be the garage. The building wasn’t attached to the house and could be accessed by anyone walking down the driveway.
Feeling a bit grim, he realized that sleeping in the tent couldn’t prevent all potential vandalism. Keeping the gazebo safe, sure, but the rest of the house was fair game. Including the garage that Jazz hoped to use as a foundation for an upper apartment.
The structure was huge, and he took a moment to pace it off to estimate the square footage of the base of the building. It was larger than he’d originally thought at sixty feet long and forty feet wide. Then he stood up against the building and tried to figure out how tall it was. The typical garage was eight feet high, maybe nine at the most. Jazz’s garage was much higher. He wondered if this particular outbuilding was made taller in hopes of storing large stuff like a recreational vehicle or a large boat. His internal architect eye guesstimated that it was easily fourteen feet tall.
If Jazz didn’t raise the roof, the apartment would be smaller in height, walls that were only six feet high instead of the normal eight feet. The cost of raising the roof may be prohibitive of getting the project done, especially since she’d hoped to do that sooner versus later.
Considering the only occupants of the apartment were likely to be Jazz’s twin and her young son, maybe they could make do with the shorter walls.
He could design it both ways so that Jazz would understand the difference.
Whoa, wait a minute. He didn’t design buildings any longer. He was a simple construction worker. Besides, even if he wanted to design something, he didn’t have a drafting table or any of his tools.
Still, he could put a few basic designs together. A starting point if not enough to build from. They could be his parting gift to Jazz. He stared at the garage again for several long moments until the chilly wind made him shiver.
Enough. He needed to get some sleep. Completing the circle around Jazz’s property brought him back to the tent where he’d started. He forced himself to crawl back inside, even though every fiber of his being begged him to go inside where it was warm and comfy.
Dalton tossed and turned throughout the rest of the night. He dozed on and off, the chill seeping through his sleeping bag bringing him awake more often than not, as if his body couldn’t seem to stand the cold for another second.
At dawn, he gave up any attempt to stay strong and pathetically crawled into the house. He made his way to the kitchen, basking in the warmth as he brewed a pot of coffee.
He didn’t want to disturb Jazz, so he carried his mug of coffee into the bathroom she’d designated for him to use and soaked in a hot shower. When he finished, he decided to launder one set of his clothes, along with the towels.
After a brief internal debate, he decided against starting breakfast, unsure what time Jazz had gone to bed. He searched through the small desk Jazz had set up in the living room until he found a pad of drawing paper and pencils.
At the kitchen table, he picked up the pencil and stared at the blank sheet of paper, envisioning the garage. The pencil felt like a natural extension of his fingers, which was a bit unnerving considering how long it had been since he’d done any drawing.
Guess it was just like riding a bike.
He quickly drew the dimensions of the garage as the starting floor plan. Then he sketched a kitchen, living area, and two bedrooms separated by a bathroom.
An hour later, he sat back, satisfied with his design. He’d added all the basic essentials, identifying exactly where the appliances would go, making sure there would be adequate closet space and enough room for a full bathroom between the two bedrooms.
He could easily imagine Jazz’s twin sister and her son living up there.
Not that he’d be around to see it for himself. He set the design aside, figuring the basic floor plan would work regardless of the ceiling height.
Hearing muffled thuds from upstairs spurred him into action. He searched in the fridge for eggs and bacon and set about making breakfast. When they’d finished eating he’d head upstairs to check the spackle he’d added yesterday, before tackling the tile in the yellow room. The old stuff had to be removed before he could estimate how much work would be needed to repair the walls behind it.
They’d lost some time yesterday after the computer issue, but he was determined to make up for it today.
“Good morning,” Jazz said as she entered the kitchen. “I thought I was dreaming when I woke up to the scent of coffee.”
He glanced over at her, his heart thudding in his chest at how beautiful she looked. Granted, he’d never seen her wearing anything but jeans and sweatshirt, but it didn’t matter. It was the light in her eyes and the brightness of her smile that drew him in.
Like a siren’s song, he found her incredibly hard to resist.
“Bacon and eggs, my favorite.” Jazz brushed against him as she moved toward the coffee pot. “But you didn’t have to cook breakfast. It was my turn considering you made dinner last night.”
He shrugged and forced himself to concentrate on the food he was making. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not keeping count. Besides, I was up early this morning.”
She eyed him curiously over the rim of her mug. “Gee, did that have anything to do with you insisting on sleeping out in the freezing cold?”
He chuckled wryly. “Probably. Have a seat, the bacon will be ready in a few minutes. The eggs won’t take long.”
Jazz nodded and dropped into a chair. “What is this?” she asked, pulling his drawing toward her.
He could feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. “It’s, um, just a sketch of what the garage apartment might look like.”
“A sketch?” Her tone was incredulous. “It’s more than that, it looks like an actual floor plan.”
He stirred the scrambled eggs, wishing her admiration didn’t mean so much to him. “It’s rough because I don’t have my tools.”
“Tools?” Her confusion was obvious, and he mentally smacked himself upside the head for saying anything.
“The eggs are just about ready,” he said in a weak attempt to change the subject. “How many slices of bacon would you like?”
“Three. I’m starving.” Jazz waited until he’d filled two plates with food and carried them over to place one in front of her. “What kind of tools?”
He sighed, sensing she wasn’t going to let it go. “Drafting tools.”
“Drafting?” She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“They’re small instruments used by architects to design buildings. They have measurements along the sides that convert inches to feet so drawings can be made to scale.”
“You’re an architect!” Jazz exclaimed. “I should have figured that out before now. No wonder you know so much about doing construction.”
“I was an architect,” he corrected. “I don’t design stuff anymore. Now, I’m a handyman.”
She frowned. “Once an architect, always an architect.”
“No.” The denial came out stronger than he intended. “Enough poking into my past, Jazz.”
She looked taken aback, but then reluctantly nodded. “Okay, sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” He dug into his meal, intending to eat as quickly as possible so he could start ripping out tile.
But he couldn’t help but notice the way Jazz continued to gaze at his sketch with blatant admiration. And for the first time in over a year, he found himself miss
ing the work and career he’d walked away from.
10
Architect. Dalton O’Brien was an architect. She stared in awe at the floor plan he’d created for her. The garage apartment design that Dalton had drawn was so precise, Jazz couldn’t believe he’d done it freehand.
Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about his career any more than he’d wanted to talk about how he’d lost his wife and young son.
She wished she understood why the two subjects caused him so much pain. Well, she understood how losing a wife and son would be incredibly painful, but how did being an architect factor in? The two issues didn’t seem connected, at least from what she could tell.
They finished their breakfast in silence, each apparently lost in their thoughts. Jazz took small comfort in the way Dalton had opened up, even a little bit, about his past. The picture in her head was becoming clearer with every breadcrumb that he dropped.
He’d grilled out for his family, probably on the weekends. He’d loved his wife and son and seemingly enjoyed a great career as an architect.
What sorts of buildings had he designed? Did architects specialize in one thing or another? They must, because designing a skyscraper office building had to be very different from laying out a hospital or school.
She wanted to ask, but Dalton had point-blank told her not to poke her nose into his past, so she held back.
Dalton finished his breakfast before she did. He rose to his feet and took his dirty dishes to the sink. “I’d like to start tearing out the old tile this morning, if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh, sure. Although I can do that if there’s drywall stuff that has yet to be done.”
“The spackle is dry, and the walls are ready for primer,” he acknowledged. “I figured that might be an easier job for you to tackle. Unless you’re a whiz at caulking tile?”
She almost choked on her coffee. “Um, no. I’m not a whiz at caulking tile. I’d like to learn how to do it, though.”
He shrugged. “It’s actually not that hard, but first we have to get the old stuff down. Peeling away the ceramic is easy, but getting rid of the old mud behind it will take quite a bit of elbow grease.”
“That and sheer determination and thinking about my grandpa as I work is how I made it this far,” Jazz said. She popped the last piece of bacon in her mouth, then stood. “Tell you what, you start on the tile in the blue room, and I’ll work on the bathroom in the yellow room.” She flashed him a cheeky grin. “We’ll race to see who gets finished faster.”
“No contest,” he scoffed. “I’ll have you beaten by hours.”
“You think so, huh?” She liked the lighter teasing side of Dalton. “Don’t be too sure. I tend to imagine my ex-fiancé’s face when I do demolition work.”
He burst out laughing at that. “Duly noted. Let’s wash the dishes together first, before we tackle our respective bathrooms. We have to be sure we start at the same time so there’s no cheating.”
She huffed out a breath. “I never cheat.”
His eyes gleamed. “Me either. But I like to win.”
Washing the breakfast dishes didn’t take long, and they both walked up to the second-floor bedrooms together. Jazz armed herself with a putty knife and disappeared into the yellow room. The moment she began chipping away at the old tile she could hear the same sound coming from the blue room.
The race was on.
Jazz hadn’t considered herself to be competitive by nature, but she attacked the tile with a frenzy, determined to give Dalton a run for his money.
Not that they had any money on the table, this little race to the finish wasn’t about that.
Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure what the point was.
But that didn’t stop her from putting every ounce of effort into the task. Within twenty minutes she found a good rhythm. Until she ran into a tiny problem. The high tiles were difficult to reach, and she wasted several precious minutes fetching a ladder so she could get at them.
Two hours later the last tile fell away, and she rushed out of the yellow room to find Dalton.
“I’m finished,” she announced as she poked her head into the blue room bathroom.
Dalton was literally on the last tile, and it hit the floor of the tub with a resounding crack. He stared at her in surprise. “I can’t believe you beat me!”
“Well, I did.” She did a little dance, not the least bit embarrassed to gloat. “Loser buys lunch.”
“We didn’t bet on lunch,” he protested with a smile. “But that’s okay, I don’t mind buying.”
She leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly feeling exhausted, her arm muscles aching from the exertion. “I’m surprised there isn’t any black mold behind the tile in here,” she observed. “The walls in the yellow bathroom look good, too.”
“Added bonus,” Dalton agreed. “We can sand down the wall to get rid of the old grout, then reseal it before putting up new tile. Should look great when it’s all finished.”
She nodded, easily picturing it in her mind’s eye. “I already have a belt sander, so that’s good. But I would like to head into town to buy new tile and grout. Plus, I’d like some new fixtures, ones that look old-fashioned enough to fit in with the antique feel of the house.”
“Understood.” Dalton stretched, and she found herself mesmerized by the way the T-shirt clung to his chest. What was it about Dalton’s muscles that she found so attractive? She really needed to get a grip. “Grab the belt sander for me, will you? We may need additional supplies for it.”
“Sure.” She tore her gaze away from his chest and turned to find the sander he’d left in the main bedroom. She stood for a moment, willing her heartbeat to return to normal.
This ridiculous adolescent-like crush she had on Dalton had to stop. Hadn’t she been hurt enough by Tom’s betrayal?
Emotions in check, Jazz brought over the sander to Dalton. He plugged it in and used it on one portion of the wall. It worked great, but she could tell that the old grout would wear through the belts far more quickly than it had the drywall seams. They needed more to get through two bathrooms.
“I’ll add belts to the list,” she said. “Tile, grout, sandpaper, and fixtures. The lights are decent, so I’m not swapping those out yet.” She swept a gaze over the partially demolished bathroom. “Anything else?”
“Do you have paint for the blue room? And enough for the respective bathrooms?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll add that. I want to do one wall navy blue, the rest white in both the bathroom and the bedroom. The furnishings will be mostly white with navy-blue accents.”
“Nice,” Dalton said with approval.
She smiled. “Thanks. The green room was my favorite growing up, but by the time I’m done in here, I might like the blue room better. Let’s hit the hardware store so I can put another big dent in my renovation budget.”
There had to be something wrong with her, because the hardware/home-improvement store was fast becoming her favorite place to hang out. She sent Dalton off to find the sandpaper belts while she mulled over paint chips. When she’d found the navy blue, white, and soft yellow paint she needed to finish up the two rooms, she wheeled the cart over to the bathroom tile.
There were way too many choices, but she found the perfect design for the blue room right away. The next choice took longer, and Dalton had joined her by the time she picked out the tile she liked for the yellow room.
“White grout is probably best,” he said. “Harder to keep clean, but we’ll seal it well enough that it should hold up without a problem.”
“White grout it is.” She added that to her cart. “Next up, plumbing fixtures.”
Another area full of difficult choices, but she managed to find what she wanted. At the checkout counter, she tried not to wince at the total.
“Where would you like to go for lunch?” Dalton asked once they were in the truck. “Back to Daisy’s Diner?”
“Sure.” She drove
down Main Street and turned into the diner. Seeing the ATM machine made her realize how much she still owed Dalton for the work he’d put in over the past few days. “I’ll meet you inside, okay?”
He nodded and slid out from the passenger seat. She darted across the street toward the ATM, returning moments later. Dalton waited outside the diner but waved her away when she tried to pay him. “That’s too much. The way you’re feeding me, I can’t accept what we originally agreed upon.”
“That’s ridiculous. Having you at the house has been a tremendous help. I wouldn’t be even close to being finished without you.”
His face was set in a stubborn line. “Cut the amount in half and we’ll call it a day.”
He was letting her off easy, but she sensed he wasn’t about to change his mind, so she did as he asked. He tucked the bills into the pocket of his jeans and then opened the door.
The diner wasn’t as full as it had been the previous day, but she still stopped short when she recognized Leon Tate seated at one of the booths. There was a familiar woman seated across from him, and it took a moment for Jazz to place her.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered.
Dalton misinterpreted her reaction. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay far away from that jerk.”
“From both of them.” At Dalton’s confused expression she tipped her chin toward the couple. “See that woman across from him? I’m not sure what her relationship is to him, she looks too young to be his wife. Anyway, she rammed her cart into me at the grocery store, hard enough to knock me off my feet.”
“What? Unbelievable,” Dalton said in a harsh tone. “That’s assault.”
“Yeah, well, she denied it anyway.” He moved toward Leon Tate’s table, but she grabbed his arm in a tight grip. “Let it go, Dalton. They’re not worth it.”
He finally agreed and led the way to an empty booth. She took a seat across from him, curious about who the younger woman was. A daughter? A niece? Surely not his wife.
If Leon Tate was competitive with her father, the way Mrs. Cromwell claimed, that only explained his crabby attitude. She still couldn’t figure out how the old man’s anger would transfer to the younger woman.