Brenda Harlen - The New Girl In Town

He gave himself a mental shake, forced himself to focus on what she was saying rather than his imaginative fantasies.

“This will be my space,” she decided. “With gleaming hardwood floors, walls painted a cheery yellow, a four-poster bed and—”

Not wanting to think about Zoe tucked away in her bed, he interrupted quickly, “You’ll never get a four-poster bed up here. Not the way those stairs curve.”

She considered, then sighed. “You’re right. Well, the furniture is only details.”

“If you’re going to tuck yourself away up here, what do you plan to do with the rest of the house?”

“I’m going to open a bed-and-breakfast.” She smiled again, her eyes lit up with hope for her grandiose plan.

He hated to dim the sparkle in her eyes again, but someone needed to ground this woman in reality. “There are already a half-dozen bed-and-breakfasts in town,” he pointed out. “And even in the height of summer, they’re never booked to capacity.”

“I’m not looking for busloads of tourists,” she said. “But creative marketing and effective advertising will bring enough people here to make the business succeed.”

“You never did tell me what brought you here from the big city,” he said.

“Obviously I was looking to make some changes in my life.”

“Why?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Are you this nosy with all of your clients?”

“You’re not just a client, you’re also my neighbor,” he reminded her.

“That’s just geography.”

“Okay—we’ll hold off on the personal revelations until you consider me a friend.”

“Friend?” she said, with obvious skepticism.

“Does that seem so impossible to you?”

“Not impossible,” she said. “Just surprising.”

“Because most men want to skip that part and head straight to the bedroom?”

“Maybe,” she admitted hesitantly.

He grinned. “But I’m already in your bedroom.”

“So you are.” Now she smiled, and again he felt the punch of attraction low in his gut. “But only because you have a really impressive…tape measure.”

Zoe left Mason to take his measurements of the attic, heading downstairs on the pretext of needing to dust off the dining room table and a couple of chairs so they could talk about her ideas for the renovations when he was finished. The reality was that she needed some space. The oversized attic that she envisioned as her living quarters seemed far too small when he stood so close to her.

If her purchase of this house had been irrational, her attraction to Mason Sullivan was even more so. He was obviously educated and intelligent, and he was undeniably handsome, but he was also heartache waiting to happen. He was the type of man to whom flirting came as naturally as breathing.

Yeah, she knew the type. And while she couldn’t deny she was attracted, she could—and would—refuse to let it lead to anything more. She’d lost too much in the past year-and-a-half, taken too many emotional hits to risk another. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at her that made her feel young and carefree again, that made her want to be the woman she used to be—if only for a little while.

A fantasy, she knew, and a foolish one at that. And when she heard the sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs, she pushed it out of her mind and hastily finished wiping the table.

“I can’t even offer you a cup of coffee because I haven’t had a chance to get out for groceries yet,” she said apologetically.

“That’s okay,” he said, taking the seat across from her.

She linked her fingers together on top of the table, tried not to let her nervousness show. This was the moment of truth—the moment when she found out if her dreams for this house could be realized or if she’d made a colossal mistake in clearing out most of her savings for the down payment.

He opened his notebook, turned the pages until he found a blank one. His hands were wide, his fingers long, the nails neatly cut. They were strong hands, she imagined, and capable. Hands that would handle any task competently and efficiently, whether sketching a house plan or stroking over a woman’s body—

Zoe felt heat infuse her cheeks even as she chastised herself for that incongruous thought.

“You want the attic divided into three separate rooms—a bedroom, bathroom and office,” he said, reviewing the instructions she’d given him. “Four bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second level, with each bedroom having access to one of the bathrooms.”

She nodded.

“What about this floor?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t know that it needs any major changes, but the layout doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it’s been renovated and modernized,” he told her. “The space is too open.”

“What do you mean?”

“This room—” he gestured to the open flow between the dining and living areas “—is too contemporary for this style of house. You need to break it into individual rooms more appropriate to the era.”

As soon as he explained what he meant, she realized he was right. “What do you suggest?”

“A traditional center hall plan with a large foyer as you come through the front door. With this whole side as the dining area so that you can set up several smaller tables for your guests, connecting doors to the kitchen, and, on the other side, a parlor in the front, maybe a library behind it.”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to her, but now that he’d mentioned it, she was intrigued by the idea.

“You could build bookcases into the walls on either side of the fireplace, add a few comfortable chairs for guests to relax and read.”

She could picture it exactly as he described and smiled at the cozy image that formed in her mind. “You’re really good at this.”

“It’s my job.”

She shook her head. “I’d say it’s a passion.”

He glanced away, as if her insight made him uncomfortable, and shrugged. “I’ve always loved old houses.”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because of the history and uniqueness of each structure. Don’t tell Nick, or he might start looking for a new partner, but I actually enjoy renovating old buildings more than designing new ones. It’s an incredible experience—revealing what has been hidden, uncovering the beauty so often unseen.”

She didn’t want to like him. It was awkward enough that she was attracted to him, even though she was determined to ignore the attraction. But listening to him talk, knowing he felt the same way she did about this old house, she felt herself softening toward him. “It must be enormously satisfying to love what you do.”

“The key is to do what you love,” he told her.

She nodded, understanding, because there had been a time not so very long ago that she’d done just that. But somewhere along the road that love had faded, too.

“Isn’t there anything you’re passionate about?” he asked.

She expected the question to be accompanied by a flirtatious wink or suggestive grin, but his expression was serious, almost intense. As if he really wanted to know, as if he was interested in what mattered to her.

“This house,” she answered automatically.

“That’s obvious,” he said. “But what fired your passion before you came to Pinehurst?”

She shook her head, refusing to look back, to think about everything she’d left behind. “Can we focus on the house right now?”

“Okay.”

But the depth of his scrutiny belied his easy response, and she didn’t relax until he’d turned his attention back to his notebook.

“Where did you want to put your darkroom?” he asked.

The question made her realize she’d relaxed too soon.