She squints at me. “What?”
“Contractor suggested the appliances.”
“Good taste. They look like they haven’t been used.”
“Not much of a chef.”
“This kitchen says otherwise.”
“Didn’t really pick anything in here.” Not the maple cabinets. Not the black granite countertops. Not the dark gray slate flooring.
She lifts her brows at me.
I don’t know what changed since this morning—maybe getting out of the heat—but she’s not as wary right now.
And I could drown in those wide blue eyes.
Get a fucking grip, Webster.
“Was my brother’s house. He had plans. I just did what he would’ve.”
I don’t addhe died.
Just let it linger in the air between us, watching as her expression goes from curious to a sympathetic sort of kind.
I brace myself for the inevitableI’m sorry for your loss, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she runs a hand over the island countertop. “He had good taste.”
I keep my expression neutral. “His designer had good taste.”
“I see. Where’s your dog?”
Probably plotting to take over the world with one of the neighbor’s dogs. “Out back.”
“In this heat?”
The hell-beast likes it. “She has odd preferences.”
I walk over the new slate flooring to the thick back door that matches the cabinets, gesturing Ziggy out onto the covered porch first.
The sunroom is the one thing Caden finished before he got sick.
She pauses and looks up at the palm-leaf fan that looks like it belongs in a tourist trap in Florida, and then looks down at the bistro table and the 1980s-style wicker furniture with the old lady flower cushions.
“Well. This is…cozy,” Ziggy says. “Did you pick the furniture?”
“My brother did.”
She purses her lips.
Then purses them harder. “I see.”
“It’s the one room he finished before he got sick.”
“He had interesting taste.”
If he could hear her tone, he’d be equal parts amused and insulted. “He always said he was into men who loved their grandmas, so this was supposed to be his test room.”
She puts her fingers to her mouth, and those bright blue eyes start dancing. “That’s…”
