Great Restorations - 5. Chapter 5

MARC was still shaking off the lethargy of a restless sleep when the coffeepot made a burping sound, then began to hiss. Perched on a stool at the kitchen island, curled over his laptop, pretending to read, Marc glared at the insanely expensive and less-than-a-month-old machine.

“Don‘t do it,” he rasped. “I‘m begging you.”

The hissing trailed off, and the red light on the machine went dark. Water began to leak out across the countertop, first in a trickle, then in a gush. With a groan, Marc slid off his stool and stumbled across the room to investigate. As he drew near, the coffeepot burped again. The aroma of freshly brewed Columbian was frighteningly absent.

Marc struck the wet granite with his fist. “Goddamn it!”

It hardly seemed prudent to risk electrocution by unplugging the thing, but lack of caffeine—and now the promise that there would be none in the immediate future—made him surly. He yanked the cord from the wall and got a nasty shock for his trouble. At least it cleared his head a bit.

He hadn‘t stayed up long after Sawyer had left. It hadn‘t even been midnight when he swallowed the last of his beer, but he‘d made directly for bed right after, forgoing his usual rounds. His home was sprawling, too huge a space for one person, and he could go days without seeing parts of it. Last winter he‘d missed a leaking radiator in an upstairs bedroom, and it had dripped rusty water for nearly a week—long enough to buckle the cherry floor he‘d laid just the month before. It was the kind of expensive mistake he didn‘t intend to make twice.

Now each evening ended with a brief, but thorough, walkthrough of the house. Some nights he enjoyed the routine. Others, he hated being reminded of how alone he was.

Last night, he‘d avoided it altogether.

And now he‘d have to face Sawyer without coffee. He stared at his useless state-of-the-art-does-everything-but-the-windows coffeepot Karen had insisted he buy and ground his teeth.

He bet Sawyer had one that worked. He could show up over there early. Maybe rouse the man out of bed. The thought made his pulse jump and put an instant smile on his face, but it faded as fast as it had formed. Marc could envision what a morning meeting between his caffeine-deprived self and a sleepy, rumpled Sawyer might bring. Not a good idea if he wanted to keep things professional between them.

Which he did.

“Totally professional,” he said to the coffeepot. “Totally professional.” The lie hung in the air until Marc rolled his eyes and yanked the dead machine off the countertop. He was docking Karen‘s pay for every penny he‘d spent on the piece of garbage. And as for getting all domestic with Sawyer, it might possibly be the worst idea he‘d ever had.

He‘d swing through town and pick up coffee at the diner.

***

COMPLETING his morning routine, especially the shaving part, without the life-giving benefits of coffee was an experience Marc never planned to repeat. It took him twice as long as usual to make it out of the house, and by the time he‘d wound down the hill and hit Main Street, it was a solid mass of traffic. Lined with charming low-rise brick buildings, mature maple trees, and gas lanterns, downtown Edgewood had the kind of character that city folk gobbled up and raved about to their friends. No less than ten antique and craft shops lined the thoroughfare.

Marc pulled into the first parking place he found and walked two blocks to the Trade-It Horn. He stomped up to the service counter and jabbed the bell. Based on how his day had begun, he shouldn‘t have been surprised when it was Sasha who appeared. As usual, her skirt barely covered her ass and her T-shirt clung to her chest with enough gusto that the people in the next county could see she wasn‘t wearing a bra. Pretty to look at, if you went for that sort of thing.

She was sweet, actually, and not stupid. It was a shame nobody had ever helped her see that there was life after being crowned Homecoming Queen.

“Marc!” She leaned over the counter and grinned, flashing her perfect white teeth. “I saw you in here yesterday.”

“So?”

His curtness went over her head. “So,” she drawled, “nobody should come in here every single day like you do. I might have to schedule an intervention.” She winked.

“I‘m not in here every day,” Marc said, then he frowned, realizing it for a lie.

Sasha didn‘t call him on it. Just giggled and blew a big, pink bubble in his face. When it popped, doing nothing for Marc‘s nerves, she said, “Well you‘re not the only regular. We do have everything from milk to mortar. So what can I help you with?”

With Sasha, simple was better. “Coffeepot.”

“You‘re in here every day and you don‘t know where we keep the coffeepots?”

“Indulge me.”

“What kind do you want?”

“Sasha.” Marc leaned forward, praying he didn‘t look as desperate as he felt. “The kind that makes coffee.”

“You are just too adorable, Marc Wynn.” She pointed over his shoulder. “Aisle three.”

Nodding his thanks, he turned and began navigating the peeling linoleum floors and makeshift display shelves.

“Hey!” Sasha called. “Who was that cutie with you at The Pizza Pan last night?”

Marc stopped so fast he almost tripped over a card table loaded with videos. “I‘m sorry?” he stuttered.

Sasha pushed her chest forward and bent even further over the counter. “The hottie at the pizza place,” she repeated slowly, before popping her gum. “I saw him sitting with you.”

The old fear reared its ugly head before he could push it back. “Just a client.”

“Single?”

“I really couldn‘t say.” Marc spun around, and this time he did bump his thigh against the table, upending some of the merchandise. Cursing under his breath, he made his way to aisle three, agitation now warring with the fear.

Was Sawyer single? Marc had assumed so, but what did he know about how these things worked? Further rumination clouded the issue even more; Sawyer was successful, respected, and, apparently, financially well-off. And while Marc was at it, why not add gorgeous, funny, sensitive, and honorable. The bastard. Odds were he wasn‘t even remotely single.

The thought took Marc to an even darker place, and by the time he‘d picked his new coffeepot, the cheapest one in the store, just like he used to have, and paid for it, even perky Sasha risked little more than, “Thanks, come again,” before skirting away.

Mission accomplished, Marc jaywalked back across the street, ignoring the angry honking. The tiny rebellion brightened his mood slightly, and the smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting from Rachel‘s Diner helped it along. By the time he pushed through the swinging door and into the diner, he felt almost human.

The ten o‘clock coffee crowd was in—another quirk of living in a close-knit community. Since the press and noise of so many people was something Marc hated, and since showing his face usually led to some sort of gossip or another, he made sure to beat the rush most mornings.

He was craning his neck, looking for an empty seat, when someone tugged on his elbow. “This way, babe. There‘s a stool open near the back.”

Rachel Harper owned Rachel‘s, and, if one believed the rumors, Marc‘s heart. The rumor was actually true, just not in the manner most people thought. Rachel was a talker, he was a listener. They both liked campy sci-fi movies and old houses. She didn‘t want marriage, so she said, or anything too serious, and since Marc couldn‘t have agreed more, their casual arrangement had produced a status quo that neither had any desire to upset.

Marc leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You‘re a lifesaver.”

“So they tell me. You‘re late,” Rachel said over her shoulder as they edged toward the back of the restaurant. She pointed to a vacant stool right outside the kitchen doors, and Marc sank onto it. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“About a gallon of coffee.”

“That sounds like a cry for help.” Rachel flashed him an affectionate smile as she filled a mug from her carafe.

“You have no idea.” He kicked the box at his feet, and Rachel leaned over the counter to get a better look.

“What happened to that fancy one Karen made you get?”

“Self-destructed this morning.”

“Ah, that explains why you look so murderous.”

The coffee was a perfect temperature, and Marc downed the entire cup before pushing it forward for a refill. “I don‘t look murderous.” To her raised eyebrow he said, “I don‘t feel murderous.”

“Oh really?”

Marc finished the second cup in two gulps and set it on the counter. The headache he‘d had since he‘d woken up faded as the caffeine began to work its magic. “Not anymore.” He reached across the yellow Formica and squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

A light blush bloomed on her cheeks. “Anytime. Having breakfast this morning?”

“Well….” Marc glanced at his watch. Sawyer expected him in twenty minutes. If he left now, he‘d be early. If he had breakfast, he‘d be late. Not much of a quandary, sadly. God, he was pathetic. He shook his head. “No thanks. Like you said, I‘m already late. I‘m meeting a new client this morning.”

Rachel nodded, already distracted by another customer. She brushed a kiss to his cheek as she passed. “Good luck. I‘ll call you later.”

Marc grabbed his box and walked back to his truck.

***

PULLING up in front of Sawyer‘s house triggered both a powerful case of déjà vu and a small panic attack. As he‘d predicted, he was early. Taking advantage of the fact, he slouched low in his seat and willed his hands to ease their iron grip on the steering wheel. Rachel‘s coffee churned in his stomach.

Last night had ended well, but the disappointment and contempt he‘d seen in Sawyer‘s eyes at the restaurant were hard to forget. Marc had been indignant then, but not now. This morning he just felt tired. The clock on the dash read five minutes to ten. Five minutes early was acceptable. He climbed out of his truck, grabbed his duffel, and trudged up the steps onto the wide covered porch. Before he could knock, Sawyer pulled the door open and smiled sleepily at him from behind the screen. “Saw you from upstairs.”

Saw him pull in and cower in the cab of his truck for five minutes, was what he meant. Marc smiled to cover his embarrassment. “I was just making some notes. We‘ve got a lot of ground to cover this morning.”

Sawyer pushed the screen door open and motioned Marc in. “Then we‘ll need a lot of coffee. I‘m going to go put some on, okay?”

“Sure.” And some clothes while you‘re at it, Marc thought as Sawyer turned and weaved down the long hall toward the kitchen, wrinkled khaki shorts just clinging to his hips. Marc scowled and tore his eyes away. Hadn‘t the man ever heard of a belt? He blew out a steadying breath. “Mind if I take a look around?” he called.

“Not at all.” Sawyer‘s faint voice was cut off by the whir of a coffee grinder.

Marc slipped the duffel off his shoulder and toed it into an out-of-the-way corner of the foyer. Then he began to wander. This was one of his favorite parts of a renovation. The finished product took the prize, of course, but the first real look at what he‘d have to work with came in a close second. Many of the rooms on the lower floor were sparsely furnished thanks to the estate sale, though Sawyer had held back the most valuable pieces. Meaning he either had experience or luck when it came to antiquing. Marc voted for experience and—he ran his hand over a carved cherry sideboard—excellent taste.

The house had once been a classic Victorian before a series of thankfully quality additions had created wings that stretched to both sides. As those areas would be newer and not part of the original structure, Marc began with the core rooms on either side of the winding staircase. He‘d only made one circuit before his eye caught an anomaly.

“What the hell?” He backtracked a few steps through an archway into the front parlor, then walked forward again, down a short hallway into the dining room. Something was off. He was about to fetch his tape to measure it out when Sawyer appeared, wearing a shirt this time, and holding two mugs of black coffee.

“I didn‘t know if you took anything in yours.”

Marc blinked at him. “Huh?”

“In your coffee.” Sawyer arched an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Um.” Marc gestured at the wall, but a thought suddenly occurred to him, and Sawyer‘s coffee was forgotten. He swung back around the corner and started up the stairs.

“Marc?”

“Just a minute,” Marc mumbled. He went from room to room on the second floor, checking square footage, closets, clearances, noting the positions of the fireplaces, then, excitement growing, rushed back to the stairs, nearly bowling Sawyer over in the process. Sawyer caught him by the arms before they crashed down the steps.

“Marc?”

“Sawyer,” Marc said, a bit breathless. “I think you‘re going to love this.”

“What is it?”

“I‘m not going to say yet. Hang on.” He slipped out of Sawyer‘s hold and took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. This part of the house was grimy and mostly unused, but that wasn‘t what interested Marc. He paced out each room and compared it with what he‘d seen below. The whole time, he was aware of Sawyer following him, watching, but not interfering.

Finally, Marc stopped at the top of the winding staircase. “Okay, I think I‘m ready for that coffee now.” He couldn‘t stop smiling.

Sawyer opened his mouth, then closed it without commenting. His lips quirked. “I‘ll go pour some fresh.” They walked side by side down the two flights of stairs.

“Going to tell me what that was all about?" Sawyer asked when they‘d reached the kitchen. He dumped the cold coffee and refilled the mugs.

Marc dropped onto a stool. “I can‘t believe it. I almost don‘t want to say in case I‘m wrong.” He blew over the rim of his cup but didn‘t take a sip. “You visited here a lot when you were younger. Did your grandfather ever tell you about a secret passageway or a hidden room in the house?”

“Are you kidding?” Sawyer burst out laughing. “No.”

Marc grinned back. “I think there‘s one here.”

He‘d heard rumors growing up. Mr. Steinbrick‘s house wasn‘t the only one the local kids claimed was haunted or had buried treasure hidden inside. Rubbish, most of it, but behind every rumor, Marc had learned, existed a kernel of truth. Especially when it came to old houses.

Sawyer was eyeing him over the counter. “A secret room.”

Marc shrugged. “Or passageway. They‘re really not all that uncommon for houses built around the time this one was.”

“And you figured this out how?”

“The walls don‘t meet where they should.” Marc rolled the mug back and forth in his palms. “I know it sounds unbelievable. But I know what I‘m talking about.”

“I trust you.”

Marc watched Sawyer struggle to remain nonchalant. He emptied the coffee filter, rinsed the pot, and ground new beans, as if discovering his house had hidden rooms was the type of news he got every day. But finally he gave up and stared wide-eyed at Marc. “What do you think is inside? How big is it? Can we find it now?”

Marc laughed. He‘d figured the ten-year-old boy inside would eventually beat the adult into submission. “All good questions. I have no idea, hard to say, and I doubt it. Finding a way in might be tricky. Once we start the renovation, depending on what level of restoration you opt for, we stand a good chance of stumbling across it, though.” He faltered when Sawyer dropped his eyes. “What?”

Sawyer shrugged and took a sudden intense interest in his coffee.

“Sawyer?”

“It‘s nothing. I just thought it would be cool to find it together.”

Oh, sure. Marc could see it now. A dark and dusty passageway—emphasis on the dark. Crammed so close together they could barely move. Emphasis on that whole damn thought. He could taste the dust in the air. Feel the heat from Sawyer‘s body leaching into his. Imagine his hands on the waistband of those khaki shorts, testing just how loose they really were.

And now his mouth was dry despite the coffee. “It would be,” he agreed, choking on the words, “cool.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said, voice just as gruff and eyes fixed on Marc‘s.

Jumpstarting the rational part of his brain took a moment. Marc floundered, then, desperate, focused on the memory of his Aunt May scolding him for breaking his date with Rachel. His resolve flooded back, and he was able to break the stare, stand, and speak with some intelligence. “We should get to work. I‘m due at another site in an hour.”

Sawyer gathered up the empty mugs and turned to place them in the sink. “Sure thing,” he said over his shoulder. “Go ahead. I‘ll be right there.”

Marc hesitated. “You okay?”

“Fine.” The mugs were receiving a very thorough rinsing. Sawyer took a deep breath, then another, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. After one last glance, Marc headed back to where he‘d left his duffel.

***

“SO BASICALLY”—Marc consulted his notes—”you‘re giving me free rein to do just about anything I want. I‘m almost afraid to ask in case you change your mind, but are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” A flake of peeling paint caught Sawyer‘s eye.

Frustrated, Marc watched while he picked at it. Sawyer had spent the past hour managing to be both forthcoming and informative about his plans and ideas, all without once looking Marc in the eye. “I love this house,” Sawyer said. “I always have. I want to bring it to life again. I think my grandfather would‘ve approved.”

Words that warmed Marc‘s heart. Not that the blank check hadn‘t helped. “Would you like a ballpark figure?”

Sawyer brushed his hands over his shorts. “Would it be accurate?”

“Grossly understated, I‘m thinking. There‘s no telling what we‘ll find when we open up the walls.” He tapped the pen against his lips. “It‘s going to be expensive. Can I be honest with you?”

“I believe that‘s your specialty.”

And yours as well, Marc wanted to say. “It‘s extremely unlikely you‘ll recoup the full cost when you sell.”

“Sell?” For the first time in the past hour, Sawyer fixed his attention completely on Marc. “I‘m not going to sell.”

“Oh. I thought—” Marc bent down to re-pack his bag. “Never mind what I thought. It‘s none of my business. I‘m sorry.”

If Marc believed he‘d be able to maintain some kind of professional relationship with Sawyer, the last hour had proven him dead wrong. Their camaraderie was too easy and their banter far too familiar, Sawyer‘s strange mood notwithstanding. Now Marc was making assumptions when he hadn‘t the right to do so. Somewhere along the line, he‘d forgotten this was a client meeting, not a grilled steak dinner.

“No, it‘s okay.” Sawyer caught Marc‘s wrist. “It is your business if I feel like sharing it with you.”

Marc‘s pulse pounded under Sawyer‘s hold. He was bent over his bag in an uncomfortable crouch, not that he cared with Sawyer‘s fingers teasing over the back of his hand. With a sigh, Sawyer lowered himself to the foyer floor. He gave Marc‘s wrist a gentle tug, and Marc obeyed the implicit command, folding his legs in front of him as he sat.

The informality made him nervous. At least the bag was between them.

“I think my brother is expecting me to sell,” Sawyer said.

“You‘ve already lost me.” But a memory stirred: their first meeting at the estate sale—Sawyer saying he had a brother named Finn.

“Sorry. It‘s like this.” Sawyer released Marc‘s hand but maintained eye contact. “My brother hated my grandfather. Why he did is a long story, and maybe someday I‘ll share it, just not today.

“Anyway”—he ran a hand through his hair, and his voice took on an edge Marc had never heard before—”I don‘t expect he thinks I‘ll stay here, not with my job and friends and everything else in the city.”

Which was exactly what Marc had assumed. And with the right balance of structural and cosmetic changes, Sawyer could turn a pretty penny on the house. In the end, though, the place would get little more than a facelift, not what it really deserved.

The grandfather clock in the next room chimed the hour. Across town, Reba and the others would be waiting for him, wondering what was taking so long. Marc shook off the thought. “Are you thinking of staying?”

“The thing is, Marc, the way my job is, I can work from anywhere, and as for the life I‘d be leaving behind….” He shrugged. “I‘ve been feeling for a while like it‘s time for a change.”

A columnist, Mrs. Singer had said. Or some sort of famous writer, but Marc had been nosy enough for one day. He held his questions and nodded. Sawyer staying in Edgewood made him equal parts excited and terrified. He took a very shallow breath, hoping Sawyer didn‘t hear the unevenness in it.

“So I‘m sure Finn is waiting for me to dispense with the estate so he can claim a piece of it,” Sawyer said.

Marc‘s head shot up. “Did he inherit any of it?”

“No." Sawyer‘s grin turned sardonic, and Marc frowned. Up until this very moment, he hadn‘t believed Sawyer to have a bitter bone in his body. “My grandfather returned Finn‘s sentiments, believe me. He left him nothing.”

“But your brother expects a share of the estate.”

“He wants it. That doesn‘t mean I‘m going to give it to him.”

Marc had, at times, resented being an only child, though his mother and father had been as fit to parent as a couple of kindergarteners. But there had been years, in his early childhood, when he‘d longed for a brother. Never in any of those fantasies had he imagined a situation like this. “I‘m sorry.”

Sawyer blinked. “You‘re sorry?”

“It can‘t be easy. Having this between the two of you.”

The ensuing silence lasted long enough that Marc was sure he‘d overstepped, but finally Sawyer smiled. “You know, you‘re the first person to ever look at it that way.”

“That‘s hard to believe.”

“Yes, but it‘s true. I think because people are so used to this tension between us, Finn and me. They‘ve never seen us friendly.”

“Were you ever close?”

“Yes.” Sawyer swallowed, then cleared his throat. “A long time ago.” He pushed to his feet, brushed the dust from his shorts, and offered his hand. “Thanks for listening,” he said once Marc was standing in front of him. “And sorry about before.”

The apology was heartfelt, Marc could tell, but then, everything Sawyer said seemed to be. “It‘s okay. Did I say something wrong?”

“Not exactly.” Sawyer‘s low laugh wound its way down Marc‘s chest and into his belly. “It isn‘t so much what you said. It was just”—his fist tightened around Marc‘s fingers—”I was trying to keep that distance we‘d talked about.” He cringed. “Christ, this is awkward. You didn‘t upset me or anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I just needed a few minutes to myself.” He blushed, and Marc finally clued in.

It probably wasn‘t the best time to say something like I was in the same boat, or I deal with that about twenty times a day since I’ve met you, or, since he could feel his fingers curling around Sawyer‘s wrist as if they had a mind of their own, Next time don’t run away, because when it came to their relationship, they were keeping it strictly professional.

“I understand,” was what he said.

Sawyer nodded. “Good.” He made a halfhearted attempt to pull his hand away, but Marc didn‘t let go. After another sharp tug, Sawyer huffed and gave up. He spun his wrist until their hands were pressed palm to palm with Marc‘s on top. He relaxed his grip, and Marc did the same. “Is this a test?” Sawyer asked.

“No,” Marc said. “Maybe.”

“For me?”

“No. For me.”

One of the most difficult he‘d ever taken. Gathering his will, he slowly pulled his hand back. Sawyer let it go, but stroked Marc‘s palm with his fingertips before the contact was broken. His eyes glittered when Marc cursed quietly and bent to pick up his bag. “So how you‘d do?”

Terrible. He hugged his duffel in front of him. “The jury‘s still out.”

Sawyer walked him to the door, then leaned against it, one hand balanced high on the frame above Marc‘s head. “What‘s next?”

“I draw up a preliminary quote. It‘ll have all the details we spoke about today and a rough timeline for the project.”

“I can‘t wait to see it. When will you have it ready?”

Tomorrow? Marc bit the inside of his cheek. “I‘m a bit swamped this week. How about Saturday?”

“Mmm. Can we do it Monday? I‘m having a friend in for the weekend. It‘s his first time out here, and I wanted to spend some time showing him around.”

Did he really? A chill swept through Marc. Well, didn‘t that sound cozy? He nodded, his smile so stiff his face ached. “Okay. Monday‘s fine.”

***

AS LUCK would have it, the Kennerdale house was on the opposite side of town from Sawyer‘s. Marc spent every second of the fifteen-minute drive concentrating on how the price of Amish oak flooring would affect which of Sawyer‘s rooms would get three-quarter plank and which would get half-inch. Anything to direct the blood back into his brain.

Once, about a mile from the site, he actually considered pulling off the road for a few minutes, but the shrill ring of his cell phone killed that idea. Karen‘s number flashed across the screen, and, resigned, Marc broke the speed limit the rest of the way up the hillside. The Kennerdales‘ house sat two hundred yards off the road, up a winding driveway that had caused Marc‘s team some serious problems with deliveries these past two months. But the worst was over. There were just finishing touches to be done now, and then it would be time to move on. To Sawyer.

Marc parked his truck behind Rick‘s and opened his door to the comforting, familiar sounds of hammering. Tim met him in the driveway. Younger than Marc by two years, Tim enjoyed playing the stupid redneck, when in fact he was one of the smartest people Marc knew.

“Yeah, but once people know that, they expect so much,” Tim had once told him over a six-pack of beer. “Who the hell wants that hanging over their head all the time?” He‘d stretched his lanky frame out across the booth they‘d been sharing and shrugged. “I‘m happy. What else could a body ask for?”

As usual, Tim‘s black hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and his clothes were clean, if tattered. When he saw Marc, he crushed the butt of his cigarette under his shoe and popped a piece of gum into his mouth. He looked Marc up and down, then cocked his head. Marc tried not to twitch; Tim had a keen eye for detail.

Marc nodded a greeting. “We missed you last night.”

“I didn‘t miss you. No offense.”

“None taken. So your date went well?”

Tim grinned. “One for the record books. You want details?”

Marc grimaced. “Pass.” Through the bay window that looked into the dining room, he could see Karen and Mrs. Kennerdale. The client was talking and gesturing, while Karen stood still as a statue, expression frozen in polite interest. “Uh-oh.”

Tim followed his gaze. “Oh yeah. She‘s on a roll this morning. Putting Karen through the wringer.”

“Oh,” Marc said, vindication warming him. “That‘s too bad.”

“Tim!” Rick called from an upstairs window. “Stop flirting and get your lazy ass up here!”

Tim clasped a hand to his heart. “Language, Rick! You‘re tarnishing our professional image.”

“Bite me.” Rick disappeared, but was back a moment later. “And bring the extra battery for my drill, slacker.”

Tim shared a grin with Marc. “Do you hear the love in his voice?” He reached into the bed of the pickup and scooped out the requested battery. “I hope he learns to tone it down. It‘s getting embarrassing.”

They walked through the front door together. Tim loped up the stairs while Reba handed Marc a coffee. He took it with a sigh. “My hero.”

“You‘re late,” Reba said, sipping from her own Styrofoam cup.

And the whole morning, blissfully forgotten for a few minutes, came rushing back. A wave of heat crashed through his body. Jealousy followed, and on its tail, like a little red caboose, agitation. But no matter how many times he told himself that Sawyer‘s business (or pleasure) wasn‘t his concern, his head wouldn‘t listen.

Reba waved a hand in front of his face. “Marc?”

“What?”

“You‘re late.”

“Yes, I am.”

He felt her withdraw and reassess. Christ, did everyone he‘d hired have to be so perceptive?

“So,” Reba ventured, watching him from the corner of her eye. “How‘s Sawyer?”

Marc‘s teeth ground together. He willed his jaw to unlock so he could sip his coffee. “Fine.” And expecting company. For the whole weekend.

“You‘re certainly a fountain of joy this morning.”

With a sigh and an almost physical effort, Marc banished Sawyer from his thoughts. “Sorry. Didn‘t sleep well. It really did go fine. We‘ve got carte blanche, as far as I can tell, though that may change. I‘m drawing up the prelim this week.”

Reba punched the air. “I can hear the screams and gunfire already. It‘ll be a PS5 Christmas.”

From the dining room, Mrs. Kennerdale‘s voice rose. Karen‘s conciliatory one echoed it. Reba snorted. “You better get in there and rescue Karen.”

Vengeance, Marc discovered, tasted a bit like coffee. “Let her suffer a bit more.”

A few moments later Mrs. Kennerdale came bursting into the foyer, her yappy black poodle on her heels. “Good morning, Grace,” Marc said, bowing slightly.

She sniffed at him. “Hello, Marc. Excuse me, please?” She clacked by in her three-inch heels and started up the stairs. Rick, on his way down, plastered himself to the wall until she passed. The poodle growled as it trotted by, and Rick snarled back, then jogged down the last few steps.

“If I get a chance to step on that thing before we finish here, I‘m taking it. Just letting you know.”

“Get in line,” Reba said.

Upstairs, Mrs. Kennerdale was calling, “Tim! Tim!”

“Next victim,” Rick crooned. He punched Marc on the shoulder. “Where have you been? Booty call?”

“Leave him alone.”

Rick glared at Reba. “What are you, his mother?”

Karen stumbled out of the dining room, unbuttoning her suit jacket with one hand and massaging her temple with the other. “Kill me.”

“Don‘t tempt me,” Marc grumbled. To her raised eyebrow he said, “Your fancy yuppie coffeepot died on me this morning.”

“What? What did you do to it?”

It figured Karen would take the machine‘s side. “I made coffee.”

Karen swiped a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it neatly back into her bun. “You must have done something. Those machines don‘t just die.” Marc‘s eyes narrowed at the implied you idiot. Karen sighed. “Don‘t worry, I‘ll get you another. And this time will you please read the instructions? I know it‘s not the macho thing to do, but I promise I won‘t tell anyone.”

Marc crushed his Styrofoam cup in his palm and tossed it into the trash bin by the door. “Don‘t bother. I‘ve already replaced it.”

“You didn‘t pay full price, did you? I could‘ve got you a twenty percent discount.”

“As a matter of fact, I did pay full price. Got the deluxe model too.” Karen‘s look of horror did wonders for his mood. “Picked it up at the Trade-It Horn this morning: the Mr. Coffee deluxe model. In black. Set me back twenty bucks.”

Karen gave a jolt when Rick burst out laughing. “Heathen,” she hissed at him.

“Oh, hurt me, Barbie.”

“Marc!” Tim called.

Marc leaned back over the banister. Tim‘s pale face greeted him from the floor above. “Man, you have to talk to Mrs. Kennerdale. She decided she wants me to paint the molding in the library.” He gripped the railing. “It‘s freaking mahogany.”

There was a collective gasp. “I‘ll talk to her,” Marc said.

Karen cradled her head in her hands. “Thank God we‘re almost done here. Two weeks. Lord, give me the strength for two more weeks.”

The others echoed her sentiment, and Marc found himself once again battling an upsurge of complex emotions. Two weeks until they could start the Steinbrick renovation. Two weeks until he saw Sawyer every day. How the hell was he going to handle that?

Fourteen days. Suddenly, it didn‘t seem like enough time at all.