“Are you close?”
“Not as much as I’d like. She can be a pill.”
He grinned. “I hear that’s the job description for younger siblings.”
“Yeah, well, she could lead the union.”
Davis checked his watch and moved toward the foyer.
“You’re close to your aunt?” I asked, knowing he was. I saw it in his eyes and hers, anytime one mentioned the other.
“Grace is like a second mother,” he said. “She raised me after my mom passed. My grandparents, Mom and Grace’s parents, were in Florida. Dad’s a workaholic, and I was a grieving kid. Grace became everything I needed. Comforter, cook, chauffeur, confidant. I owe her a lot more than I can ever repay. I help with the shop whenever I can, but she mostly asks me to deal with tech related things, especially her websites and social media. When she needs me, everything else waits.”
That information didn’t dampen my crush at all.
“Do you like helping with the bookstore?” I asked. Selling books was a far cry from restoring historic homes, even if he loved the shop’s owner.
He looked almost wistful as he nodded. “I might be happiest surrounded by books.”
I set a hand on my collarbone, melting a little at his perfect words. “Me too.”
“The store’s social media, on the other hand, is going to be the death of me,” he said with a chuckle. Probably trying to lighten the mood. “It’s something Grace has no interest in doing, but it’s necessary, so I’ve been trying to build a following.”
“I met Grace online,” I said. “I’ve been talking to her for years without realizing she’s my parents’ age. Older, actually. She’s one of my favorite people.”
Davis watched me intently, seeming as if he had something to say.
When my cheeks began to heat under his stare, I started talking again. “Social media campaigns for the store are tough. I work at it all the time. Do you have to handle those things for your job too?” I asked. “Grace told me you’re an architect.”
“Did she?” His brows rose. “What else did she say?”
I shrugged, hoping to look more casual and less eager than I felt. Also wishing he’d skip dinner with his friend and stay. “She seemed quite proud. She told me you prefer to work with historic properties.” Now that I knew how much his mom had loved Hearthstone Manor, and his unimaginable loss, it was easy to understand his passion for homes like this one. “Are you any good at it?”
Davis gave a small, suppressed laugh. “I try.”
“And you’re the one renovating this place?”
He appeared conflicted for a long beat before nodding. “As soon as possible. There’s a national historic restoration competition going on right now. The winner gets their work on the cover ofArchitectural Digestand a feature story inside. The recognition would be monumental to my career. It might even remind my dad there’s value in what I do.”
Davis had followed his dad’s career path, yet his dad somehow faulted him for his restoration work? That didn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t a child’s only remaining parent work double time to foster the relationship? “Is there prize money too?” I asked instead, hoping to change the direction my thoughts had taken.
“Some,” Davis said.
“What will you do with it?” I asked, hoping to find out even more about him. In my experience, the way people treated money reflected their character, or at least their personality. Was Davis a saver? A spender? Would he travel? Buy a new truck? Maybe a new property investment? Or pay off his student loans?
“I’d donate it to the Ovarian Cancer Research Alliance.”
Davis was a giver.
My mission was doomed. How could I possibly resist a kind, handsome, successful man who loved his aunt and mourned his mom? Who followed his passion and made a difference in his community, who gave to charity and loved books?
I imagined dropping my head dramatically forward in defeat.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Looks like Clayton is canceling. Someone didn’t show up for their shift, and that puts him on duty.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Feel like sharing your cognac?”
“Absolutely.” I hurried into the other room and returned a moment later with the brandy bottle and our teacups; then I poured a little of the amber liquid into each.
“You buy the good stuff,” he said, tapping his cup to mine.
