“Because it sticks out like a sore thumb,” Jamal answered cautiously. “I want the house to be as authentic as possible, and the room takes away from the original design.”
“Authentic!” she screeched. “You’re putting strawboard walls in a Queen Anne Victorian, yet you’re claiming you wantauthenticity?” Her expression darkened, those smoky-brown eyes turning almost black. “Of all people, I cannot believe this house fell intoyourhands.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You are going to destroy it!”
“The house was abandoned,” Jamal pointed out. “It was already on its way to being ruined.”
“It wasnotabandoned!” she shouted. “I’m sick and tired of everyone saying the house was frigging abandoned!” She slapped her hands on the table. “I can’t do this.”
The emotion he heard clogging her voice shot a lightning rod of alarm through him. “Phylicia, what’s going on here?” he asked.
“I’m sorry.” She pulled in a deep breath. “You’ll have to find someone else to help you.”
She glanced up at him for the briefest moment, but it was long enough for Jamal to notice the sheen in her eyes. He caught her by the elbow, but she jerked away from him and half walked, half ran to her truck.
“Phylicia!” he called, but her truck was already backing out of the driveway. Jamal stood in complete shock, trying to figure out just what in the hell he’d done wrong this time.
Chapter 4
Phil pulled intoher driveway and hopped out of her truck, making a beeline for her workshop. She needed a solid hour of mind-numbing work before she could even think about doing anything else. She wanted to hit something with her mallet. Hard. But she’d passed the pounding stage on all of the projects she currently had in the works.
The blowtorch would have to do.
Phil headed for the back of the shop. She lowered the safety shield over her face and ignited the blowtorch. Moments later, she was lost in the piece she had been working on for the past few months.
With painstaking precision, she carved intricate loops and curlicues through the metal she’d found at a scrapyard, creating a lace effect. Immediately, the lace curtains that once hung in her mother’s painting room popped into her mind, and her hand slipped.
“Dammit,” Phil cursed. She released the trigger on the blowtorch and surveyed the damage her slip had caused to the metal. Nothing too noticeable, thank goodness.
“Phylicia?”
Phil nearly fell off the stool at the unexpected summons. She whipped around, the blowtorch still in her hand.
Jamal took two giant steps back, his hands raised in surrender. “Careful with that.”
She lifted the safety shield from her face but didn’t put down the blowtorch. “How did you get in here?”
“The door wasn’t locked.”
Of course it wasn’t. She lived in Gauthier. She never locked the door to her shop while she was working.
She’d have to rethink that. This was the second time he had crept up on her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I want to know what happened back at the house,” he said. “Why did you run off?”
Phil’s entire being sagged in defeat. It was no use withholding the truth from him. He would eventually find out. With the way gossip traveled in this small town, she was surprised no one had revealed Belle Maison’s previous owner to him already.
“It’s my house,” Phil said. His confused expression would have been comical if there was anything even remotely funny about any of this. “The Victorian that you have all these fancy plans for? It’s my family’s home. It’s where I grew up.”
“But the bank said they owned—”
“Yes, the bank owned it,” she cut him off. “It’s a very long story that I’m not about to get into, especially with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?Especially with me? When did I become the bad guy, Phylicia?”
