“You’re asking what I want?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s your house, ain’t it?”
“Yeah… um…” My words trailed off. I didn’t know what to say. That shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Since they had diagnosed me, no one except Teagan ever asked. They just assumed and moved around me like I wasn’t in the room.
“Come to the table with me.” He walked over to the kitchen table, and I followed him, parking my chair at the corner. Quade kneeled next to my chair, his elbow brushing against mine softly. My breath hitched as the scent of his cologne invaded my nose.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said, laying the paper flat on the table and tapping the drawing. “We widen the hallways to at least thirty-six inches. Lower the countertops. Extend the sink so you can roll under it easy. Add low cabinets. The bathroom gets a major redo, the whole nine. Outside, the ramp gets replaced completely.”
I nodded slowly, trying not to let the closeness distract me. He smelled so good, down to his breath. It was almost torture not to catch a sniff of his fine ass.
“What about my art studio?” I asked.
“Art studio?”
“Yeah, I have an art room. Well, it’s really the dining room, but it needs some work.”
“Lead the way.” He stood from the table and cleared the way for me to show him. I rolled ahead, and he followed, ducking into the converted dining room where I painted. He paused at the doorway, scanning the half-finished canvas, the splatter of color, my organized chaos.
“Damn, you painted these?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You got talent.” He let out a low whistle.
I smirked. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“Nah, just impressed.” He stared at me as he continued moving around the room, admiring my work. A warm feeling bloomed in my chest at his compliment. I watched as he steppedcloser to a piece hanging in the corner. It was of a brown-skinned woman with broken wings.
“She looks like she’s strugglin’ to fly,” Quade said, brushing his hand over the painting.
“She is. That’s pretty little bird. Damaged, but still beautiful. Broken, but still able to fly.”
“You painted this after your lupus diagnosis. Won an award for it.”
I tensed up at his statement.He’d Googled me.“You looked me up?”
“Had to. Lead contractor. Comes with the job.”
“You just sayin’ that to justify being nosy.”
“Maybe.” He gave me a lazy grin.
I attempted to roll over to him, but my wheel got caught on the uneven floorboard. Quade raced over to me, giving me a push over the hump.
“You always catch your wheels here?” he asked, nodding at the spot like it’d offended him personally.
“Sometimes,” I said as if it was no big deal. I’d gotten used to adjusting, same as I did for every other little hazard in this house.
“I can fix the lighting in here,” he said slowly, like he was already planning it in his head. “Smooth out that floor, widen the doorway so you can roll in without clipping your hands, and fix that leak in the ceiling. Can’t have your masterpieces getting wet.”
I couldn’t help the small smile that crossed my face. “You sure that’s not asking for too much?”
“Not at all. I’m here to make this place livable,” he said, scribbling something in his notes before looking up at me. Our eyes locked again, and that warm feeling bloomed in my chest for the second time since he’d been here. Men didn’t look at me like that anymore, not since lupus and the chair changed theway the world saw me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pointed toward the canvas he’d been looking at.
“Livable,” I echoed. I’ve been in survival mode so long I almost forgot what that felt like. His eyes went to the painting and then back to me. There was no pity in his eyes. He didn’t say sorry, didn’t say that must be hard. He just nodded like it was a fact, not a tragedy. It was a different reaction than what I was used to, and I appreciated that more than he’d ever know.
“I’ll get the final sketches drawn up tonight,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll start pulling permits next week. I think we should start in here.”
