I slid the painting toward her. In it, the parlor’s fireplace mantel—which I’d taken from a photo from the real estate website from when the house was last for sale—was draped in thick cedar garland, with brass candlesticks at varying heights, clusters of white roses, amaryllis, and eucalyptus tucked among the greenery. The arrangement on the low table in front of the sofa echoed the mantel.
“It’s beautiful,” Ava said. “Very in keeping with the house’s style.”
Relief loosened a knot between my shoulders.
“If we coordinate the front door with this—garland on the door, wreaths in every window, candles inside so the flameshows through each wreath’s center—it’ll make the whole place glow,” I said. “Your boss will be the unofficial star of the Walk. In a low-key, tasteful, not at all the center of attention way, of course.”
Her lips curved. “Luke will appreciate that.”
Would he? Hard to picture him appreciating anything that involved letting strangers tromp through his home, but he’d volunteered the house for the event, so he couldn’t hate it that much.
We moved room by room, me talking through options, Ava taking notes on her tablet. A garland staircase moment, a smaller arrangement for the library table, something simple but elegant for the dining room, just in case anyone wandered off the path to sneak a peek.
Through it all, every time I assumed Ava and I were alone, I would catch a glimpse of Luke in my peripheral vision—a shadow at the edge of a doorway, the creak of a floorboard, the whisper of a breath. And every time I turned my head, he vanished.
By the time we reached the kitchen, my nerves had settled into something halfway between annoyance and curiosity.
“Okay,” I said, leaning against the island and scanning the room. “This space is tricky. There’s a separate kitchen tour that takes place in the fall, so normally this room wouldn’t be included, but given folks will exit out that door—” I pointed toward a heavy antique wooden door that led into the back yard, we should do something. Make it feel like someone actually cooks here.”
The marble counters were spotless, gleaming as if they’d never seen crumbs. No dish towel was draped over the oven handle, no coffee cup was left sitting next to the sink. No stack of mail—mostly junk—threatening to topple over. It was the kind of kitchen you saw in magazines, where everything was styledto within an inch of its life while the caption tried to convince you a family of six lived there. Too perfect. Too staged. Too unrealistic.
“I cook here,” came a low voice from behind me.
I spun so fast my boot squeaked against the floor.
Luke stood leaning against the door jamb. From here, the faint stubble along his jaw softened the sharpness of his features. I had an uninvited flash of what it would feel like under my palms and mentally tossed that thought into a snowbank.
“Oh, uh. Hello,” I said again, cursing myself for the inept greeting. “We were just talking about decorating your kitchen so it looks like someone actually uses this space, which you have now helpfully confirmed.” I winced.
God, could I sound any more awkward? Normally, I was good at banter and professional charm. But something about Luke Byron made my usual confidence slip.
To my surprise, his mouth quirked. “Happy to be of service.”
I straightened. “Do you have any hard limits?”
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to stuff them back in. Heat flooded my cheeks. That sounded like …
Oh God.
“I mean, things you hate?” I rushed to clarify, my voice climbing half an octave. “Allergies to pine, for instance? Traumatic childhood experiences involving wreaths?”
Ava made a small sound that might have been a stifled laugh.
Luke’s gaze flicked to her, then back to me. “No wreath-related trauma that I’m aware of. And, um … no hard limits.” He cleared his throat. “I—I like what you’ve suggested. Ava showed me the photos you submitted with your proposal.”
My cheeks warmed. “Oh. Great. I’m glad.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his right leg in front of his left. “The spray with the white amaryllis andeucalyptus was … uh … nice. And the one with the blue thistles. Those were interesting.”
“Eryngium,” I said automatically. “Sea holly.”
His eyebrows lifted behind his glasses. “Sea holly. Fitting.”
It took me a heartbeat to catch the reference. “Because of my name?”
“Yes. Sorry. That sounded smoother in my head.”
“It actually didn’t sound smooth at all,” I said, then winced for the third time in as many minutes. “Wow, okay, that came out harsher than I meant.”
