“Um . . .” He flipped to a new page and started sketching. “Could you repeat the part about the walls? Which ones are we changing?”
I went through each section of the kitchen again, and tagged every cabinet with blue painter’s tape and a notation about its new home. I trusted Riley, but I also knew he was likely to lose that notebook.
“You two are comedy.” Pivoting, I saw Magnolia in the doorway. “Listening to you bitching and snapping at each other on a dreary Friday morning is better than candy.”
“Gigi,” Riley called, his deep voice booming.
She approached, immediately leaning in for a hug and brushing her lips over my cheek, and though I’d defended this exact behavior a couple of days ago, it felt different now. The embrace she offered Riley was quick, and then she shifted toward me, smiling.
“What about the backsplash? Tearing that out too?” she asked. It was covered in a thick layer of glue and decades of dirt, but there was something pristine under it all.
“No, that just needs some attention,” I said, purposefully stepping away. “It can be cleaned up, and it will look better and last longer than anything we could replace it with.”
She peered at the tile, nodding. “Sounds good. What else are we looking at today?”
“There’s a plumbing issue, a fireplace issue, and a flooring issue. Take your pick,” Riley said.
“I love plumbing,” she said, shooting a wink in my direction. “I always like getting my hands on the pipes.”
I led the way to the second floor, taking two steps at a time while Magnolia and Riley recounted last night’s football game. They were both New England sports fanatics, yet held very different views on players, coaches, and game strategy.
“Here’s the issue,” I said, interrupting their playoff prediction debate. “The pipes throughout the property need to be replaced; we knew that. At every other junction, we have rotted or missing floors and it’s very easy to install new supply lines. But we have immaculate penny-drop tile in here, and we’re not disturbing it.”
“Now we’re trying to find a magician plumber,” Riley said.
“Yeah,” she said, squatting to trace the black-and-white tile pattern. “You’d never match these, not unless you found a box in the attic or something. These were custom.”
“I want to go in through the first floor ceiling,” I said, ignoring Riley’s shuddering groan behind me. This wasn’t his preferred plan. “It’s a standard flat ceiling, and cutting into it is the only way to retrofit the plumbing and preserve these floors. I don’t care if it’s a pain in the ass or really fucking expensive; it’s the best solution.”
Magnolia leaned back on her haunches, her lips pursed as she considered this. “I never would have thought of ripping out a ceiling to save a floor, however . . .” She wrapped her hand around my forearm to pull herself up, but she didn’t retreat. “It sounds like your best bet. What’s left? Fireplaces and flooring?”
“It’s fine,” I stammered, backing out into the hallway. “The fireplaces just need servicing, and maybe some new flashing before we get a heavy snowstorm.”
Magnolia paced the hallway, her fingers running over the bird’s-eye oak walls. “Flooring?”
“The genius here wants to cannibalize the planks from one room to make up for the ones we’re missing in the dining room and main parlor,” Riley said.
She sidled up beside me, elbowing my bicep. “Which room?”
“Fourth floor. The maid’s room,” I said. She was close, well into my personal space with her body angled toward mine in a manner that spoke of intimacy and heat. I didn’t know how I’d missed this before but I was seeing it now. “We can’t replicate the original flooring on the first floor, and I’d rather repurpose the wood upstairs and replace it with a near-match, unless you see an alternative.”
We traipsed all over the property, examining the floors, debating solutions, and eventually prying a plank from the fourth floor to confirm that it matched. Magnolia was always nearby, her fingers brushing mine as we climbed the stairs, her hand on my shoulder for balance when she studied a delicate sconce, her body crowded against mine to inspect a section of wood.
“I have some appointments on the North Shore this afternoon, but I’m going to be back in town around seven.” Magnolia lifted her brows, the question obvious in her eyes. “Up for dinner? Drinks?”
Oh, holy fuck.
Riley was right. She might not be planning the wedding, but at the minimum, she was under the impression we were flirting. And Ididlike her—not in the “I’m tearing your panties off now” way, but as a friend and colleague, the “let me pick your brain about some design challenges” way.
“Not tonight,” I said. I should have mentioned that I was seeing someone but I was more concerned with finishing this visit. Soon enough, she’d notice I wasn’t reciprocating, and there was no sense making it awkward for her.
Magnolia accepted this without discussion, and departed after another hug and cheek-kiss. When I glanced up from shuffling the bluelines into their proper order of disciplines, Riley was leaning against the kitchen sink, a smug grin stretched across his face.
“Believe me now?” he asked. “About Gigi?”
He played the part of the barely-reformed stoner man-child, but the kid was insightful. He understood people and situations, and he knew how to boil it all down to its most essential pieces. He didn’t put much of this wisdom to good use, of course.
“Don’t we have other properties to see today? If you have time to be pompous, I’m not giving you enough work.”
