“Are you in a relationship?” he asked. “Is that why you avoided my calls after Corey and Mya’s wedding?”
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend. But—”
“Good,” he said.
“No, not good,” she returned. “It’s none of your business.”
Jamal crossed his arms over his chest and challenged her with a direct stare. “Don’t do this, Phylicia. Don’t pretend you didn’t feel that spark between us at Mya and Corey’s wedding. We were together the entire night.”
“I was the maid of honor and you were best man,” she said. “Of course we spent a lot of time in each other’s company at the reception. But we were nottogethertogether.”
“What about after the reception? The sun was coming up by the time I brought you home. We talked for hours that night, yet when I called you the next day, it was as if you didn’t know who I was.”
“Jamal, please.” She put her hands up. “I’m not looking to get involved with anyone, even on a casual basis. If you want me to work with you on the restoration, know that it is theonlything I’m willing to undertake. I don’t mix business with my personal life. Now, what exactly are you looking for from me?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying that if I chose to see you on a personal level, you wouldn’t help me with the house?”
“Actually, you don’t have a choice. The two of us getting involved is not an option.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I said so. Now, are we going to go over these plans, or am I getting in my truck and going home?” The sharp edge to her voice brooked no further argument.
Jamal glanced at the pile of construction debris just over her shoulder, trying like hell to rein in the frustration that threatened to topple him. He was itching to make her admit that what he’d felt that night had not been one-sided. Pulling her close and kissing the hell out of her would accomplish that.
It would also guarantee that she would leave the property and likely never come back. And that wasnotan option.
“Blueprints,” he bit out.
Phylicia bobbed a curt nod and leaned over the blueprints. Jamal studied her with a mixture of frustration and disappointment—heavy on the disappointment. Catching a whiff of the soft, flowery scent that drifted from her hair only made things worse.
She pointed to the materials list. “Exactly what is strawboard, and why do you need so much of it?”
“It’s a building material made from compressed wheat and rice straw,” he answered. “I’m redoing the upstairs bedrooms with it.”
Her eyes rolled. “This is another of your environmentally friendly things, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s considered green technology,” Jamal replied with a defensive edge he’d tried, but failed, to keep from his tone. “Strawboard is as durable as plaster and drywall and more fire- and mold-resistant than either of the other materials. It also provides better sound insulation, so guests won’t be disturbed by what may be going on in the next room.”
“But what about the wainscoting in the bedrooms? It’s over a hundred years old,” Phylicia protested.
“I’m not getting rid of the wainscoting.”
“But you can damage it by removing it. And if you think bathroom fixtures are hard to find, just try century-old beadboard wainscoting.”
“That’s why you’re here,” he said. “To make sure none of this valuable original woodworking gets damaged.”
She brought both hands up and rubbed her temples. Jamal was pretty sure she wanted to strangle him.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at a spot he’d X-ed out on the blueprint.
“It’s an odd little room on the other side of the house. Looks as if it was added long after the original structure was built.”
“I know about the room,” she said. “What are you planning to do with it?”
“Get rid of it.”
Her brows spiked in shock. “Why?” she asked with enough distress to give him pause.
