“Just breathe, okay?”
Slowly, she nods, but she’s shaking. All over.
Under my hand that rests on her back, I feel the exaggerated filling and emptying of her lungs. Once. Twice. Once more.
Then she groans.
I shut my eyes and pray she isn’t about toss her cookies on my shoes.
But she doesn’t puke. Instead, she draws her elbows in and covers her face, her body still folded over her legs.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear her whisper, but it’s no prayer. She sounds kind of disgusted, and I fight the urge to smile.
She brackets her face with her hands and straightens up.
“Ten cuidado… Easy,” I caution.
She sniffs and clears her throat. “I’m fine,” she says.
“You sure?” I realize my hand is still on her back when she rolls her shoulder to shed it. I drop it and inch back.
Clarence steps in and noses her. Still shielding her face with one hand, she lowers the other and pats him absently.
“I’m okay, big guy,” she tells him.
She sounds better, so I get to my feet and step back, giving her space.
Her shielding hand moves to her forehead, and she looks up at me from beneath it as though shading her eyes from the sun. And then I see. She’s embarrassed.
I don’t want her to be embarrassed. It surprises me how much I really don’t want that. So I say the first thing I can think of.
“Most people don’t usually faint until they get my bill.”
Chapter Four
MILLIE
I stare at him. Blink. And then his words penetrate. A joke. I want that to be irritating. I really do. Yet it takes away the sting of my embarrassment. Just a little.
But, yeah. I fainted. Again.
At least I’m definitely not pregnant this time.
My fingers tremble when I wipe my forehead, so I ball up my fist and lower it to my knee.
“I-I’m sorry about that,” I say to my shoes. Meeting his dark-eyed gaze straight on isn’t really an option right now. “That… uh… that took me by surprise.”
My parents have been gone for five months, so there’s no way they called a contractor. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s got to be some mistake. Still, I miss them so much, I want them back so badly, just hearing their names—hearing that this man is looking for them—gives me a moment of absurd hope.
Maybe it has all been just a big misunderstanding. Maybe the Coast Guard got it wrong. Maybe they’re really fine. They’ve just been marooned on an island… like Tom Hanks in Castaway.
It can’t be true. I know that. But even the temptation of such a possibility is enough to make anyone light-headed.
“Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
I risk a glance up at him. He’s frowning down at me, and that scar through his left brow makes him look a little scary, but only until I notice concern in his dark, watchful eyes. It hits me again that he’s the guy from the soccer game. Alejandro’s brother. But I can’t process that right now. One thing at a time. Answer his questions.
The first one’s easy enough. “I’m… fine.” It’s true. I am fine. My little fainting spell has left me misted in sweat, a slight ringing in my ears, and my limbs feel like jelly, but that’ll pass in a minute.
As for the second? There’s really no one. Who would he call? Kath at the office? Aunt Pru on her Norwegian cruise ship? Harry, Mattie, and Emmett, my next of kin, are all minors.
“No, you don’t need to call anyone.” When his frown deepens, I quickly add, “I’m fine, really.” To prove as much, I push myself—carefully—to my feet.
He steps closer, as though to offer me a hand, but stops before actually touching me. Good. I don’t need to look any more helpless than I already do.
Standing, I brush my hands against my scrubs and offer one to him, pretending that nothing at all weird just happened. I didn’t just faint in a heap in front of him, and I definitely didn’t give him the stink-eye before that—when I recognized him from the soccer game and assumed he’d looked me up.
Who? Me?
Let me just say for the record that I feel like an ass for that one, but, really, who could blame me? Even after it was clear last night that Mattie had developed and insta-crush on his little brother… even after the chit-chat between his mom and Emmett, the guy kept eyeing me. Stealing glances behind those curling lashes. Checking me out.
At least, that’s what I thought.
So when I stepped outside and saw him, I was more than a little freaked out and, frankly, annoyed that he’d looked me up. If I go out of my way to avoid making eye contact with you, you’d better not show up on my doorstep the next day, looking like you just stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad.
I mean, yes, of course he’s dressed, but that T-shirt he’s wearing doesn’t look like it’s up for the job of actually keeping him decent, clinging to his muscles the way it is. I guess it’s not the T-shirt’s fault. If I were hanging on that chest, I’d probably lose all my strength too.
So that’s why I was rude to him before I even knew why he was here. Self-preservation.
And then he mentioned my parents, and I fainted. Yeah, nothing at all weird here.
But he shakes my hand anyway, still watching me closely. I willfully ignore the warmth of his hand. The way it surrounds mine.
“I’m Millie Delacroix,” I manage. “Hudson and Eloise were my parents.”
I don’t know what it’s like for anyone else, but using the past tense to talk about people we’ve lost should be its own stage of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Past Tense Usage. Acceptance.
Or maybe Past Tense Usage comes before Depression. God, I hope not.
But the past tense definitely gets Luc Valencia’s attention.
“Were?” His eyes widen a fraction, but that scary frown sharpens so that he looks both confused and horrified as things fall into place. It’s a look I’ve seen enough times over the last five months to know I’ve just made someone feel supremely uncomfortable. He glances up at the house and back at me. “That’s why—” He stops and clamps his mouth shut before visibly swallowing.
I’d feel sorry for the guy if I had the room. Or the time. But these days, feeling sorry for my sibs and myself is pretty much all I can manage.
“That’s why,” I echo because it’s true. That’s why… pretty much everything. That’s why I live in this five-bedroom house instead of an apartment like a normal twenty-four-year old. That’s why I took a part-time position at a vet clinic in Youngsville instead of looking for jobs in places I’d always thought I’d try living. Austin. Charleston. Nashville.
Nowhere too far away, but someplace different. Someplace buzzing. With people. Music. Cool stuff to do on the weekends.
That’s why I don’t even want to so much as look at a man—especially one as stunning as he is.
“I tried calling,” he says, and I hear regret in his voice. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but…” His gaze shifts to the ground, and he lowers to pick up his dropped keys and the roll of papers he was holding.
I see it’s drafting paper, and as soon as I do, a memory smacks me across the face.
A phone call from Mom. A week or so before they left. She was excited because they were finally—after living in this fixer-upper for eight years—redoing the kitchen. Of course, I never saw the plans, but I know what this contractor is about to show me.
A breakfast nook with bench seating at the bay window. Dark stone countertops. A cobalt blue statement oven with brass knobs.
One more thing my parents were looking forward to that they’ll never get to see.
I point to the rolled up plans. “That’s the kitchen, isn’t it?”
Surprise glints in his eyes. “So you know your parents hired us?”
I shake my head. “No, but I heard about the remodel.” It’s my turn to frown. “But that was supposed to happen over the summer. Like late August, right? Why are you j
ust showing up now?”
The look in his long-lashed eyes turns rueful. “I’m afraid we’re a few months behind schedule.” He makes a face like he’d rather be talking about anything else, but he goes on. “My father was the one to meet with your parents. He’s… uh… he’s been in poor health since the summer. It wasn’t planned, but he’s had to retire. I’m sorry that it has taken me this long to get to your parents’ project.”
I remember the older man with the cane at the soccer game. That must be his father. I shrug off his apology. “We lost them in May,” I say, my voice fading out a little. I clear my throat and press on. “They had no idea you were behind schedule. No need to apologize.”
This information doesn’t ease his expression. Not that I’m really worried about making him feel better, but his frown is back, and it’s etching deeper. I’ve never seen anyone with such dark brows. Almost black. His hair is the same. Like a raven’s wing.
And he’s staring at me like I’ve just ruined his day. “Your parents paid a deposit to secure our services and place orders,” he says stiffly.
I shrug again. “Okay?”
“I’m… we’re not in a position to pay that back.”
Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “I wouldn’t expect you to pay it back. They put down a deposit. You prepared to do the work. That money is yours.”
He tucks his chin, his gaze hardening. “That doesn’t sit well with me.”
I stare at him. “You mean when a job falls through, you don’t keep the deposit?”
“Not one from a bunch of orphans.”
On another day, I might have cried. That’s how grief is. Maudlin one day, hysterical the next. I can’t help it. I bust out laughing. It’s the wrong reaction. I can tell he doesn’t appreciate it. And no matter how many times he turned to look at me last night, I don’t think Valencia likes me very much right now.
Good.
But I shake my head, fanning away my laughter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Valencia. That’s very noble of you, but,” I look back over my shoulder at the two-story Victorian that was my parents’ pride and joy, “my parents made sure we were taken care of, and, frankly, I’m a little old to be considered an orphan.”
His expression doesn’t soften. He’s not amused in the least. Nope, he doesn’t like me very much.
“What about your brothers and sister?” The words and the hard edge to his voice do the trick on the last of my laughter. Harry, Mattie, and Emmett are orphans. No doubt about it.
I clear my throat. “Like I said, my parents left us in good shape.”
The early days of my parents’ marriage may have been tight financially, but after that my dad had been a successful heart surgeon for more than a decade. And maybe it was because he had the four of us, or maybe it was because he knew how fragile life is, or maybe he was a sucker for a good sales pitch, but Dad believed in life insurance and monetary trusts. Even before my parents died, the house was paid for and so was college and grad school for all of us. The rest will see my brothers and sisters safely into adulthood.
I worry over a lot of things these days, but money isn’t one of them. Maybe I’ll never forgive my parents for being out on the water when the weather forecasted storms, but I’m grateful every day for their careful planning. I don’t know how we’d manage otherwise, and I don’t want to know.
“May I ask what your plans are for the house?”
The question knocks me off balance. I realize this guy’s dark eyes are still fixed on me with a brooding stare.
“What do you mean?”
He purses his lips together in a way that, to my annoyance, makes me notice again how full and perfect they are. “I mean do you plan to stay in the house or sell it?”
The thought of selling our house is like a splash of ice water. “We’re not selling it.” My tone is indignant. Offended. His brows twitch in response.
“Okay.” His tone softens, and he lifts a hand in a placating gesture. I blush, embarrassed over the force in my response. It’s not like he was threatening to take the house from us. I shift my weight on my feet, wanting to shake off this awkward moment.
“My brother Emmett is eight,” I say finally. “He’ll grow up here. After he comes of age, the four of us will decide what to do with the house.”
The lines across Luc Valencia’s brow smooth out, the corners of his flawless mouth turn up, and I remember his perilous dimples the instant before they reappear. My breath halts at the sight.
Dammit.
“In that case, Miss Delacroix, what do you think about moving forward with the renovation?” He’s grinning now, just a little, but it feels like sunlight on my face.
Wait, what is he asking?
“Move forward?”
He nods. “I haven’t seen it, of course, but the plans and my father’s notes suggest your kitchen is pretty outdated. Even if you don’t take appliances and décor into consideration, the wiring and plumbing are probably barely keeping up with your needs.”
I press my lips together and say nothing. He’s right. We can’t make a smoothie, brew a pot of coffee, and run the toaster at the same time without tripping the breaker. And the décor is circa 1980. All subway tile and honey oak cabinets. Pretty much straight out of Steven Spielberg's Poltergeist—except the chairs don’t move by themselves.
But that kitchen has been the heart of this home as long as we’ve been here. I doubt the twins even remember the rent house we had when they were little, and Emmett has never lived anywhere else. Sometimes, I still feel like I can come through the garage into that kitchen and find Mom at the stove, fighting with one of the burners.
Now I’m the one trying to finagle the safety lighter with one hand while cranking the gas with the other just to boil a pot of pasta.
Yet the popping sound of that crappy stove is the sound of Mom. And home. And family dinners. What would it feel like for that to be silent too?
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say.
I realize I’m clutching my elbows, my go-to self-soothing stance, and Luc Valencia is watching me again like he has no idea what to say.
I get that a lot lately. I’m almost used to it.
He narrows his eyes on me. “Would you…” He hesitates, and I blink to let him know I’m listening. “Would you consider letting me take a look and going over the plans with you?”
Now I double-blink. “What? You mean right now?”
The dimples are back. Christ Almighty.
“Well, I’m here now,” he says, stating the obvious in a way that is cuter than it should be. And then he has the good grace to look abashed, and dammit if that isn’t cuter. “If now is good for you.”
I worked this morning and basically just walked in the door before he pulled up. I’m still in my scrubs. Tuesdays are surgery days, so I hope he doesn’t notice the light brown stain on the front of my top because it isn’t blood. It’s canine anal gland musk from the sacculectomy I performed. If you’ve never smelled the contents of a canine anal sac, count yourself lucky. The odor is just this side of lethal. I scrubbed the spot with alcohol after the surgery, but if he gets too close, he’ll probably still smell it.
On second thought, maybe I want him to smell it. One whiff, and he’d keep his distance for good.
“Sure, I guess now is fine.”
He nods. “Let me just grab the project board from my truck.”
I watch him go, dragging my eyes over the broad expanse of his back and the tight nipping in of his waist. It isn’t until I see him pull the large board with paint samples, pieces of tile, and pictures adhered to it that I come out of my daze.
“Come on in.” I turn and mount the steps, snapping for Clarence to join me, but when I reach the front door, I halt. I look back at him over my shoulder, chewing on my bottom lip.
“Something wrong?” he asks, those dark brows drawing together.
I nod, picturing the state of the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. The kitchen’s a mess f
rom breakfast,” I explain in a rush. “Getting three kids and myself out the door in the morning isn’t always easy.”
Those brows relax, and I could be wrong, but I may see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Is he laughing at me? Judging me?
And so what if he is? If we actually decide to redo the kitchen, and this guy is in my house for months on end, what’s wrong with him thinking I’m a rude slob who wears Eau du Dog Anus and has an attack Great Pyrenees? He certainly won’t look at me the way he did last night.
“I’ve seen worse than a lived-in kitchen.” His tone is as dry as paper.
“You’re right,” I hear myself say. Why am I still talking? “A few dirty dishes and a bit of dried scrambled egg isn’t all that scary.”
“Especially since I don’t have to clean it up.” As he says this, his mouth quirks and a dimple dances on one cheek.
It takes me a good three seconds to realize I’m staring at the dastardly dimple, and then I turn on my heel and practically sprint toward the kitchen.
I could take him past the stairs and through the so-called dining room, but old habits die hard. We never used the formal dining room, opting instead for the farmhouse table in the kitchen. In fact, in recent years the dining room was where my parents kept the treadmill and a spare TV. So instead, I lead him from the foyer past the entrance to the master suite and Dad’s study on our left and through the family room.
“This is a great house,” he says, and I turn to find him taking in the fireplace, the French windows, and the original wide-plank flooring. “Folk Victorian. When was it built?”
I stop moving because he’s standing still, head craned back, taking in the bones of the house. “In 1901.”
He lifts a hand and points to the wall right where the family room ends and the kitchen begins. “There used to be a wall here,” he says, sounding certain. I’m surprised. My parents tore the wall down even before we moved in, making a clear view from the kitchen table to the family room fireplace. I barely remember the wall’s existence.
“That’s right,” I say. “Mom said she didn’t understand why the two rooms were ever separated.”
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