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“I hope you don’t mind that I brought Cass.”

“Not at all,” Marcus says, looking at me as if I’m the one with the problem.

“You don’t have a film crew?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t poke the bear.

“I’ve got a phone camera,” he says with a wink. “And I know how to use it.”

Coleman unlocks the front door. Marcus stands back as if I’m walking in before he does.

“You’re the buyer,” I tell him, waving my hand to usher him in.

“And you are the lady. Ladies first.”

The way he says it. You ahhh the layydeee. Layydeees fuhhhst.

I can’t even. That accent would almost sway me to like him. Almost.

Instead, I stand still, questioning my own sanity. Why does he make me like this?

Coleman says, “Could you walk through the door? One of you? Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Fine,” I say, walking through at the same time as Marcus steps forward.

We hit the doorframe at the same moment, squeezing up against one another. My body has that allergic reaction again. All tingles and warmth where his arm brushes mine.

We pop through into the foyer and all thoughts of Marcus Delaney are swept away like cobwebs on the end of a broom.

I’m inside Seventeen Cherry Hill.

And it’s better than I had ever hoped or imagined.

My head tips up of its own accord, taking in the ceiling, which is high overhead. I admire all the mahogany woodwork, the banister of the old wooden staircase, every spindle a preserved relic of years gone by. I wish Marcus weren’t here. I’d spin like Maria in The Sound of Music, arms outstretched and head tipped back in sheer bliss and abandon.

Coleman catches my eye and smiles. He knows.

I look to my left into the sitting room. Sliding pocket doors are spread open. The fireplace on the far wall has inlaid tile—irreplacable. I can feel my smile. It’s so wide it tugs at my cheeks. I glance around and my eyes land on Marcus. He’s studying me as if he can’t decipher something.

It’s a smile. Not a secret code. I like the house. No. I love the house. Love. Love. Love.

Coleman leads us deeper in, saying, “Marcus, I’m just going to walk us through. If you have any rooms or areas you want to linger in or check out, just say the word.”

“I want to revisit the kitchen,” he says, all slow and melodic like some southern chef.

Can he cook?

Why do I care?

I don’t.

He’s probably like Declan, hiring a personal chef to bring him pre-cooked gourmet, healthy meals that have a billion calories a piece to keep up with his athletic metabolism.

Coleman walks into the kitchen and points at the high-end stove. “The seller will leave this Aga stove if you want it.”

I don’t know what possesses me to speak. I’m glancing all around the kitchen, admiring the cabinetry and the flooring—original hardwood. “He'd have to cook to need a stove.”

“Who says I can't cook?” Marcus says. “I grew up in the south. My mama taught me to cook.”

His mama. There’s something softer in his voice when he says that. Deceptively soft. I’m wise enough to know even the worst of people have soft sides. So, Marcus Delaney is soft for his mother. He’s a mama’s boy. I’m daddy’s girl. No shame in that, even at our age.