She also wasn’t up to working with Jamal Johnson. Ever.
She acknowledged that her aversion to him was wholly unwarranted, and probably a bit irrational, but that didn’t change the circumstances. A burst of angry resentment flared up just at the thought of Jamal and his noble contribution to Gauthier’s budding tourism industry.
Whatever.
All he’d done was crush her dream of making up for her stupid mistakes. She had been less than five thousand dollars away from securing enough money for the down payment to buy back her family’s home when Jamal decided he wanted to buy it, with some crazy idea of turning it into a bed-and-breakfast.
A bed-and-breakfast, for God’s sake!
The thought of countless strangers sleeping in the room her parents once shared made Phil sick to her stomach. For more than a century that house had belonged to the Dufresne family. Her great-great-grandfather had built it with his own two hands. And because of her, a bunch of strange people who probably didn’t even care about the home’s rich history would now occupy it.
She was not going to help them get there. Jamal would just have to find someone else to work with him.
Recalling the changes he’d made to that gorgeous Georgian he’d bought on Pecan Drive, Phil cringed to think of the Victorian’s wonderful interior falling prey to his so-called innovative ideas. That man shouldn’t be allowed within a ten-mile radius of a historic structure.
She exhaled a weary, bone-deep sigh, giving herself a few more seconds to wallow in the mess she’d made of this entire situation. Not for the first time, she was actually grateful that her mother’s dementia-laden brain would prevent her from ever knowing that Phil had lost their family’s home.
She swiped at an errant tear and lowered the safety shield back over her face. The more work she got done, the sooner she could get the monkeys off her back. Though now that there was no chance of buying back the Victorian, the motivation to work wasn’t as strong.
Phil spent the next hour removing the caked-on paint inch by inch. The rich, caramel-colored oak she unearthed was absolutely breathtaking. Who in their right mind had thought to mask such handsome wood?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Phil’s head popped up. She shut off the sander and pushed the face shield up again as she walked to the side door of her detached garage, which she’d converted into a workshop when she bought this house five years ago.
As she swung the door open, a balled fist came barreling forward, straight for her head. It stopped just in time.
“Oh, sorry. Hi.” Jamal Johnson stood before her in a pair of khaki deck shorts and a light gray T-shirt. A swath of sweat made a V from his neck to his navel, and dark rings circled under the arms. Apparently, he’d been hard at work…ruining her house.
And looking good while doing it. The bastard.
“I hope it’s okay that I dropped by,” he started. “I was on my way to the hardware store and decided to drive over. Can I come in?” he asked, then moved past her and into the workshop before she could react.
“So, this is the mastermind’s laboratory, huh?” he asked, his gaze roaming the shelves she’d custom-built for the countless bottles of varnishes, paint thinners, and other materials she used daily. He turned to her. “I left a message on your voice mail. I wasn’t sure if you got it.”
“I did,” she answered stiffly.
His brows rose. “So, will you be able to help? I really need it. I’m renovating that abandoned Victorian over on Loring Avenue.”
It wasnotabandoned!she wanted to yell. Even though no one had lived there since she’d had to put her mother in a special care facility three years ago, Phil had still occasionally checked on the old house. She hadnotabandoned it.
“I realized today that I’m in way over my head,” Jamal was saying. “This job is a bit different from the work I did on my house. I gutted most of that one, but I’m trying to preserve the Victorian’s woodwork.”
His words nearly caused her to slump against the door in relief. Phil had pretty much convinced herself that the next time she drove by the house, she’d find rows of solar panels lined up like garden vegetables on the side lawn.
“I apologize for not returning your call,” she said. “But I’ve been busy today. That’s also why I won’t be able to help you. I’ve got several restoration projects lined up,” she lied. She had only one small project, to restore a wooden 1931 Crosley antique radio. She had bids in on several larger projects in the River Parishes, but not one was guaranteed.
“Tell me you’re kidding me,” Jamal said with a frustrated groan.
Seeing the anguish on his face, Phil almost felt sorry for him. As far as she knew, Jamal had no idea that it was her house that he had bought right from under her. But that didn’t matter to the irrational part of her brain that thought of him as the enemy.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I can’t help you.”
Still standing next to the door, Phil opened it wider, a clear invitation for him to leave.
He brought a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement caused his damp T-shirt to stretch across his chest, and Phil found herself in desperate need of ice-cold water.
“Do you at least have a timetable of when you’ll be available?” he asked.
