Changing directions, he yanked open his door and followed his nose to the stench. He barreled into the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop. “What the heck are you doing?” he yelled to Maggie over the repetitive and annoying screech.
She stood on the granite countertop, waving a cookie sheet under the fire alarm. The oven door hung open, and smoke poured out. She’d opened the back door and the window above the sink. The room was cold, and he shivered, realizing he was in his pajama bottoms and nothing else.
Maggie kept her eyes on the alarm as she fanned frantically. Her face was bright red, and he’d bet money it was from embarrassment and not the effort to clear out the smoke. “I’m making breakfast!” she yelled back.
“More like,” he said in a regular voice, “burning it.” The alarm cut off and his last words hung in the air, stinking up the space between them just as badly as her burnt offering.
She glared down at him, gripping the cookie sheet. “I’m learning the oven, okay?” Her gaze dropped and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of his bare chest. She quickly took an interest in the countertop beneath her bare feet.
Cash held up a hand, offering to help her down. She scrambled to the floor on her own, and he let his hand drop. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten over whatever had made her rush out of here yesterday afternoon and not return until almost dark. She’d greeted him while dragging her suitcase to her bedroom and then locked herself in for the night. Not exactly the first night as man and wife that he’d pictured …
There were notes all over the counter, scraps of paper that were torn from a planner or pieces of used envelopes. “What’s all this?”
She frowned. “My book. Er, well, what will become my book. I’ve got to get it organized into sections.” She picked up a couple papers, glanced at the words scribbled on them, and then sighed and put them right back where they were.
Cash’s heart leapt. He could do something about this. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
“What?” Maggie asked without an ounce of trust.
“You’ll like it—I promise.” He made his way through the family room and then around to the small door situated on the back of the grand staircase.
She followed slowly behind him, keeping at least four feet between them.
He put his hand on the oddly shaped brass knob. “No one has seen this, so the space is dusty—but I’ll clean it up for you if you want to use it while you’re here.”
She squinted. “How about you work on a toilet that flushes the first time?”
He chuckled. They were sharing a bathroom because the hallway one was the only one that worked. The plumbing needed a major overhaul, which became apparent as they remodeled the kitchen. He’d managed to get the sink, dishwasher, and ice maker on the new fridge to work—for now. The plumber wasn’t optimistic about the sewer, though. They were on a septic system that would probably need to be dug up and replaced. He had months to do that, though, and only five weeks left to get this house livable. Which meant he only had five weeks with Maggie. It didn’t seem like enough time.
“It’s on the list,” he promised. “But this wasn’t.” He swung the door open and flipped on the light, casting a yellow glow over the clever office space.
Maggie leaned around him to get a look. The door had been made hundreds of years ago, when people weren’t six feet tall. He held out a hand, motioning for her to go in first. She stepped inside and spun in a small circle.
Cash cursed himself. “I should have cleaned it up before I showed you.”
She held out a hand to stop his protests. “It’s amazing.” She brushed her hands over the dusty shelves, not even wiping her hands on her pants after. For some reason, he liked that about her—liked that she wasn’t afraid to get dirty.
He tried to hold back his smile. He didn’t want her to know how much it pleased him that she could see past the dust and lack of use to find the gems in this hidden room with a history.
Stepping in, and pretty much taking all of the space, he reached over and swiped his palm over the roll-top desk. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He grabbed the knobs and heaved, rolling the top up and revealing a line of cubbyholes. “Can you use this to organize your recipes?”
She moved next to him so she could inspect the desk. Their arms brushed, and his skin prickled with awareness. She smelled like smoke and sugar, the strangest attractive combination—it brought to mind campfires and burnt marshmallows.
Inside the desk wasn’t as dusty as the outside. He leaned in, looking for signs of mice, and found none—thank goodness. Truly, there wasn’t much in this office space that a Shop-Vac and a half hour couldn’t make better.
Her hand reached out and she counted the cubbies. “Twenty-four,” she said under her breath. Leaning closer, she rubbed her hand on the wall. “Is that fabric?”
Cash touched the wallpaper; the material was soft. “I think it’s wallpaper.”
“How old is it?” she asked, rubbing a little harder to reveal a beautiful scroll pattern on a silver-blue background.
“I’m not sure, maybe original to the house.”
Moving back to inspect the desk, she pulled out a piece of wood on runners. “Oh! I think they used these for letter writing.” She rubbed at a piece of metal that looked like a nameplate. “Cash, look at this name.”
Cash leaned down, squinting. “Thomas Jefferson.” He grunted in surprise.
She stared at him. “Did you know?”
