He shook his head. “I knew he’d stayed here, but that’s all in family journals.”
“Do you think he could have owned the house?” She turned, her chest rising and falling. “No wonder the city is after this place. If you could prove he lived here, the value would go through the roof.”
Cash grinned. “I can’t believe we’re standing here.”
“I know, right? I mean, this desk …” She touched the nameplate again. “I can’t use it.”
“You have to,” Cash insisted.
“What if I spill something on it?”
“Then we’ll clean it up. But maybe don’t bring food in here.”
She giggled. “Fine. I’ll be careful.”
“You really put up a fight there.” He elbowed her side.
She laughed. “I wanted you to make me. With all my heart, I want to sit at this desk to write my book. It speaks to me.”
He leaned closer, taking in the tangy scent of smoke in her hair. “What’s it say?” he teased.
She shouldered him away. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Their eyes locked and held. “I do.”
She blinked and scowled, as if his words reminded her of something she didn’t want to think about. “I’m going to clean up the kitchen. You should … put a shirt on or something.” She waved her hand at him as if his state of undress was beyond reason.
He folded his arms, knowing it would make his biceps and chest look bigger. “Maybe this is how I walk around my house.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t expect me to join you.”
He barked a laugh as she disappeared around the doorframe. That woman … she got to him on so many levels.
They might have had a breakthrough, but she’d pulled back—again. He ran his hand through his hair. What was he doing wrong? Frustrated, he made his way back to his room to get dressed and start work. His crew would be here in a half hour anyway. He might not know how to break through Maggie’s defenses, but he knew how to fix this house. For now, that would have to be enough.
Chapter 9
Evenings were the hardest time of the day for Maggie. While Cash’s crew worked on the house, she and Cash managed to keep things at a surface level. They exchanged pleasantries, and he asked her opinion on materials and color schemes for the rooms.
Her small office was as beautiful as the kitchen. The man had a way with wood and nails like Picasso with paint and a ceiling.
Speaking of ceilings—there was something painted on hers. She wasn’t sure what it was, but in the mornings, when the sun came through the curtains just right, shapes began to appear. There might be a fleur-de-lis pattern starting in the north corner. Perhaps there were tin ceiling tiles under layers and layers of paint. If so, it could take ages to strip the paint and reveal the original beauty, and she wouldn’t be here to see the final product.
The thought kept her from telling Cash about her suspicions.
She kept to her room until the crew showed up. Then she cooked and baked and took notes and mumbled and prayed and worked until the last truck pulled out. When silence descended on the house, it felt like a weight. Like a blanket she wanted to thrash against and throw off because it was full of all the questions she wanted to ask Cash but didn’t dare. Asking made her feel vulnerable.
“Thanks, James. I’ll grab you that check for the lumber.”
“Yeah, I can drop it off on my way home.”
Maggie checked the timer on the stove. She had thirty minutes until the cinnamon chicken was done. Darn it all. She had to get this recipe right tonight, but that meant she’d have to hang out in the kitchen until it finished and she plated it. Why hadn’t she planned this better?
The two men walked into the kitchen, their noses in the air like bloodhounds. “What’s that smell?” asked Cash.
Maggie let out a disgruntled huff. “Thatsmell, as you so eloquently put it, is my latest recipe.”
Cash and James exchanged a look. “You made that?” Cash asked with an insulting amount of incredulity in his voice.
