Molly Harper - Better Homes and Hauntings

“Sort of dark for a seven-year-old.”

“It was,” Nina agreed. “But I was hooked, couldn’t stop watching it, which was probably not healthy for me. Dad ended up having to buy the video from the store or pay more in late fees than the tape was worth. I started reading everything I could find in the library on Greek myths. I learned all about the gods and goddesses and their symbols and alliances and powers. And I loved the idea that Demeter had a fairly wimpy power—plants not being as lethal as lightning or the sun or the ocean—but she managed to bring the whole world to a stop because she was ticked off about her daughter being taken away. I started growing beans and avocados in cups on my windowsill, which led to my next crazy phase, gardening.”

“And you turned out to be a nice, normal girl, so clearly the overindulgence in animated mythology didn’t warp you too much,” he said, grinning at her, making her insides turn all warm and fluttery. That wasn’t good.

“What makes you think I’m nice and normal?” she asked, her tone far more challenging than what was advisable.

“Extensive background checks.” Deacon’s cheeks flushed, although Nina couldn’t tell whether it was embarrassment or sunburn. “You know, I tried to send you an EyeContact request to help us keep in touch during the project, but I couldn’t find you. Even with my supersecret admin privileges.”

Nina was willing to let the background-check comment slide for now. She had expected as much, dealing with someone as rich and security-conscious as Deacon. What surprised her was that she’d passed the check. She pasted on a cheeky smile, even if she wasn’t feeling quite sassy yet. “Well, this is probably going to hurt my chances of continued employment, but I don’t have a profile on EyeDee.”

Deacon’s jaw dropped, and it was his turn to laugh.

He had a very nice laugh, Nina noted. It made his whole face relax into something just a little younger, a little less burdened. And she resolved that she would try to make that happen at least once a day, if for no other reason than that it might keep her in a job that much longer. Gardener-slash-court-jester was a perfectly respectable position, right?

“I don’t know whether to feel insulted on a professional level or worried about hiring a hermit.”

Nina scoffed. “I’m not a hermit! I just don’t have that many people I want to keep up with from high school. I have friends, and when I want to talk to them, I have this new invention, it’s called a phone. It’s like magic. I hit these little buttons, and suddenly, my friend’s voice comes out.” She pulled her thick, early-model cell phone from her pocket.

Deacon’s mouth remained open as he marveled at the relic in her hand. “Is that a Zack Morris phone? Seriously, Ms. Linden? Are you going to call for a carryout order from the Maxx?”

“It’s just a phone.” She sighed. “It works. That’s all I ask of it.”

He shook it like a faulty flashlight. “Can you even get text messages on this thing?”

She snatched the phone back and crossed her arms, peering up at him. She’d changed her mind. She wouldn’t make him smile anymore, particularly if she was to be the source of his amusement. Because right now, that smile was doing funny things to her belly and making her knees all jellied. And surely, throwing herself at her boss while shouting Flash Gordon quotes was not the mark of a composed professional.

She needed to think of something else to talk about, something business-related, something that would catch his somewhat scattered attention and redirect it from her cave-phone.

“Why did you hire me?” she blurted out. “There were much larger firms up for the job. Firms that have more of a track record with large estates. Why me?”

Really, brain? She huffed internally. That’s what you came up with? Making him question why he hired you in the first place?

And there was the boyish grin again. “Plant samples. You were the only landscaper I met who thought to bring plant samples, so I could grasp what the gardens would smell like. I liked that. It showed an attention to detail I thought was lacking in the other presentations.”

“Oh.” She chuckled, surprised and pleased that he’d noticed. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at his feet. “And is there a reason you haven’t hired a security staff? If nothing else, I’d assume that you’d be a prime kidnapping target. What with the Forbes top ten entrepreneurs list and everything. I mean, if I were a criminal, I would kidnap you.”

Oh, dear God, brain, we are not friends anymore. Clearly, my id is going to take the wheel from here.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, you’ve isolated yourself out here in the middle of nowhere without protection. Why not keep the security team on site?”

“It seemed unfriendly,” he said. Nina snorted, which made him smile. “Not that many people know I’m out here. Besides, before we arrived, I had a security system installed. It’s armed every time the day crews leave the island. Any motion within twenty yards of the shoreline sets off the sensors, and I get an alert on my phone, which includes a live feed from a nearby video camera. There’s a panic room installed just behind my office. There are cameras focused on every square inch of the property. And this little button on my watch? There’s a private SWAT team standing by at an undisclosed location on the mainland who can make it here in six minutes by helicopter.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

“Maybe a mix of both?” he suggested. “You could be imperrified.”

Nina laughed. “That’s awful. I hereby forbid you to create portmanteaus. It’s for the greater good.”

“Well, you know what the word ‘portmanteau’ means, which is one up on, oh, ninety percent of the population.”

“So if we have the SWAT team on the six-minute call window, why can’t Anthony stay on the island? Surely, scary military personnel could handle a medical evacuation.”

Deacon nodded. “They could. And I added a medical rescue service when I found out about Anthony’s heart condition. He’s the best, and he came highly recommended by Jake, so I wanted him. But his wife, Marie, would worry herself sick if she couldn’t see him every day, and that seemed cruel.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“Not really,” Deacon protested. “Marie brought three dozen of her indescribably awesome Italian lemon-drop cookies by my office and promised me another two dozen every week for the next year if I let her Tony stay at home while he worked on my ‘little house project.’ ”

“Really?” Nina cackled. “She bought you with cookies?”

“Every man has his weakness,” he said. “Mine happens to be delicious homemade baked goods.”

“Well, if I ever foul up the flower beds, I’ll just whip up a batch of snickerdoodles.”

An expression of pure want flashed across his eyes, and Nina felt vaguely insulted that said expression centered on cookies. He pressed his hand over his heart. “Don’t toy with me, Ms. Linden.”

“I never joke about my snickerdoodles,” she said, her voice dropping to a seductive, teasing octave that even she didn’t recognize.

Tugging at his collar, Deacon cleared his throat. “Jake said you’ve been uneasy about the house?”

Nina’s flirty tone disappeared. She cleared her throat. “I thought I saw something yesterday, but it was probably just a trick of light or a hallucination brought on by seasickness meds. Really.”

“I know the house has a reputation,” he said, carefully placing his hand on her shoulder. And then, remembering his own scrupulously written corporate policies on sexual harassment in the workplace—even if that workplace was his own backyard—he quickly pulled his hand away and held it behind his back. “And that can put people on edge, make them misinterpret things or see things that aren’t there. But really, it’s just an old, beat-up house on an old, beat-up island. There’s nothing supernatural going on here.”