Almost imperceptivity, his grip tightened. Layers and layers.
Finally, on the block behind the Governor’s Mansion, Grant pulled her to a stop in front of a blockade. Hulking concrete barriers were placed across the span of the street, and an eight-foot-tall chain link fence made a wall around the operation already in action. The house and the street in front of it were cordoned off completely, and would remain so until the major work was complete. By the time Seraphina started laying new flooring and painting, she hoped the road would be clear.
Grant pulled a key ring from his pocket and let them inside the fence after quickly unlocking a padlock. They approached a sage green carriage house, glaringly illuminated by an orange street light placed near the door. They were on a side street that didn’t cut through to the next block, but turned abruptly north. The sidewalks were cracked and neglected. Seraphina frowned. “The city is financing more than the building renovation, I hope.”
Grant’s face was a study in concentration as he counted out keys on an old ring, finally holding up a small silver one and squinting against the light. “Another company is in charge of the external beautification.”
“Well, I’d at least shoot them an e-mail. These orange lights are murder.”
The steps up to the embellished wooden door rose up right off the sidewalk, two crumbling cement blocks that must’ve been added onto the structure during the seventies renovation, likely replacing a wooden staircase. Seraphina reached into her purse for the pad and pen she kept there and made a hasty note under the poor lighting. She’d already pulled dozens of photographs of Tanbee House for her files, but she scribbled a reminder to check if the original staircase was worth replicating. It would ultimately depend on style and material.
Grant struggled with the ill-fitting metal on the ancient lock. “This week,” he grunted, “I’ll get the second set of keys to you.”
He’d answered her unspoken question. As project leader, she’d appreciate the ability to come and go at any hour. The property was hemmed in by a leaning privacy fence, but it didn’t appear to circle much area beyond the structure itself. However, out back there was an empty field, which would eventually become a cultivated garden spanning the distance between Tanbee House and the Governor’s Mansion, to make for easy passage from one building to the other. A landscaping company from Texarkana had scored the job, much to Seraphina’s disappointment. She would’ve liked Free Leaf Concepts to have picked up the contract. It might’ve meant a few weeks working with Kay, who was a delight to collaborate with.
Seraphina bit her lip. Except when she made very fine points about not sleeping with one’s boss. All too fine, Seraphina mused, casting an appreciative glance over Grant’s superbly male form, clad in loose Levi’s and a soft flannel shirt as he finally worked open the stubborn lock and pushed open the old wooden door.
It scraped loudly against the floor. Seraphina pulled a face at the dirt under her shoes, and the soft grating feel of debris being crushed into the floor. “I should’ve expected it to be this dirty.”
The darkness inside the house was absolute, until Grant flicked on a flashlight he’d had tucked into his back pocket. The light swept an arc across the room, illuminating patchwork flooring, stained, distorted walls, and the massive busted up fireplace Seraphina desperately wanted to save.
She didn’t need to see the old house to know it was wrecked. Most of the place would need to be torn down to the foundation and built back up, and not only for aesthetic purposes, but also to appease the code gods. Electrical and plumbing would have to be rerouted. The how wasn’t Seraphina’s concern, as Grant had so kindly pointed out to her in their first meeting, but the where was entirely in her hands. A small thrill went through her.
Grant had approached the fireplace. He brushed ancient dust and dirt from the mantel, which protruded a solid foot out from the brick chimney. He whistled. “You’re sure about keeping it?”
Upon seeing it, she couldn’t be more certain. She joined Grant, unable to stop a smile from playing across her lips. “It’s a monster, isn’t it? It should be preserved. So much of Tanbee House has to be redone, remade, and re-shaped. I can’t think of anything more lovely—or important—than displaying a link to its humble beginnings. We wouldn’t be proper Southerners, wallowing in our history, if we tore it down.”
“The Historical Society should’ve asked you to write the proposal.”
She winked. “Who says they didn’t?”
The flashlight beam splashed over the brick and busted wood in a vivid whiteness only an LED bulb could manufacture. Seraphina easily made out Grant’s expression in the glow of the light’s wide aura. Grant stilled as he looked at her. For a long moment, she waited, lost in her own thoughts of where his might have wandered. She had a feeling they held back as much as they dared to share.
He answered her unspoken question with a soft kiss. His lips brushed lightly across hers, but his breathing had grown labored, his manner weighted like something heavy had come over him. Seraphina didn’t ask questions. Instead, she returned the tentative kiss, matching his mood. He deepened the contact between them, sliding his tongue expertly into her mouth, inviting her to come out and play.
A distant crash broke them apart. A muffled thud followed. Seraphina was close enough to inhale Grant’s lemony scent in her startled gasp. Her hand raced to his chest in some feeble, instinctual gesture of protection, both offering and seeking.
Grant clasped her wrists and held still, his head cocked, listening. Seraphina held her breath, clutching him and straining to recall which way the noise had come from. Inside, parts of the walls had given way, exposing black sockets and littering the floor with age-old abandoned stacks of crumbled wall material, eaten and torn away from neglect, infestation, and abuse.
They were in the main room, labeled a parlor in the blueprints from the seventies. The kitchens were a narrow room off to the right. A doorway to the immediate left of where they stood in the parlor led to a library, and in the back of the library, a small bedroom.
“Someone’s here.” Grant’s whisper was almost alarming in the aftermath of their stillness.
“I heard something after the crash. Either the canning shed or the back bedroom.” The whisper from her throat fell like a shout on her ears, and she winced.
Grant didn’t seem to notice, but nodded his agreement. “The bedroom,” he murmured.
There were no connecting doors. If they were wrong, they’d lose their man as he made his escape from the canning shed. Grant was staring at her, and she realized he was waiting for her approval. Or at least an agreement. She nodded, and he took her by the hand. As silently as possible, crouched like cat burglars, they moved to the left of the fireplace, toward the open door leading into the library.
Library was a generous term. Seraphina didn’t think the few scattered, looming bookshelves quite qualified the space for such a lofty credit. Lamps affixed in between them looked to be original thin and brittle glass. The room was long, running over half the length of the house, flanking the main parlor to the north much as the kitchens did to the south. Grant held the flashlight down and angled behind him, but there was nothing for it; the room was awash in the bright white LED light.
The bedroom, at least according to the specs Seraphina had studied, was among the smallest rooms, affixed to the back end of the library like an afterthought, and barely beating out the attached canning shed in square footage.
If someone was inside, there was nowhere for them to run.
They’d almost reached the closed door when the sharp sound of glass shattering made them freeze in their tracks.
Then Grant was gone from Seraphina’s side. He rushed at the door like a left tackle after an indecisive quarterback. The beam of the flashlight danced wildly across the room. He didn’t slow down, but met the old wooden door with his shoulder, knocking it clean off the hinges.
It bounced up and fell back, clattering against the doorway before getting wedged at an angle in the frame, preventing it from falling to the floor.
Seraphina froze for the space of a breath, waiting for what came next; a cry, a shout, or the thick sound of Grant tackling someone. When no noise came, she went forward to investigate.
Grant stood by the only window in the small bedroom. The pane had been busted out. Only jagged shards remained. Seraphina approached, scouring for any evidence left behind of the intruder. Maybe a piece of cloth snagged on the broken glass or a bloody smear from a cut so the police could gather DNA. She placed a hand on Grant’s bicep.
He was still, utterly quiet, and his face was drawn as he stared at the busted out window.
She rubbed the tensed muscle of his arm to get his attention. “I didn’t bring my phone. Let me see yours. I’ll call the police.”
Grant looked at her then, but shook his head. “Just kids. They won’t come back. Now they know someone might be here at any hour.”
His voice was stern, and while the words didn’t make him seem particularly troubled, his expression said otherwise. Seraphina blinked up at him, perplexed. “Right. Sure. Some kids vandalize your work site, damage property, and we ignore it?” She glanced around the room, awash in the light of Grant’s flashlight. The walls were intact in some places, crumbling in others, and flat out missing certain sections. Apparently, they hadn’t updated the insulation back in the seventies, because in those bare spots, only the ribs showed, along with a few old mildewed bird nests and thick cobwebs. “We should look around. Try to find out what they were doing in here.”
“No. I told you. Just kids.” Grant grunted, then left the room, shouldering past the door he’d removed from the hinges.
Seraphina stared after the retreating light with her mouth agape. Not because Grant had left her there, or because he wouldn’t even have a look around after the building had been broken into, but because Grant hadn’t spoken to her in that tone since their first meeting.
Standing there, with the room growing darker by the second, Seraphina realized the steepness of her trajectory with Grant. Somehow, they’d gone from zero to ninety in a matter of days. For the first time, she made herself look down and cast a critical eye on where she stood—on a ledge. The view was dizzying, and the fall would be devastating. Not only for her career, but for her heart. She also realized, with stunning dismay, that she didn’t really know the man at all. It had taken only a few words for him to remind her of that. It was like coming down from a strange high. By the time Grant called her name, a slight question in his voice that she hadn’t been trailing behind him all this time, Seraphina felt decidedly more sober than she had in days.
Grant was making his way back toward her as she stumbled across the library. She ran into a table she hadn’t realized was there, and almost tripped over an overturned chair.
“Those might be worth saving,” Grant mumbled, cocking his chin toward the table and chair as they met in the middle of the library. “Even if they’re from the seventies update, they’re old. Like the fireplace.” The words held a hint of suggestion, maybe even an air of apology. It wasn’t much as far as olive branches went. Maybe he hadn’t meant to leave her in the dark, but he had, and he’d been a dick, too. Bringing up her pet project wouldn’t fix what had gone askance between them.
And it definitely wouldn’t undo Seraphina’s epiphany about their relationship. She sighed in relief as the light flooded her path and didn’t answer. Right now, she’d be content to use the furniture as fire wood. She just wanted out of here. And away from Grant.
He began to move toward the exit again, this time slower, deliberately checking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure Seraphina was behind him. They made the walk back toward downtown in stony silence. Grant fidgeted. He seemed to realize he’d made some kind of mistake, but was struggling with how to breach the gulf. Seraphina was content to let the chasm grow and grow. She didn’t break the heavy silence, and when they came upon busier streets, she hailed a cab for herself. She told Grant she’d see him in the morning.
He stared at her. She had one foot in the cab when he finally managed a coherent sentence. “Um, so, I was thinking. Kathleen mentioned she’d like to meet you. Are you free tomorrow?”
Seraphina ducked into the cab, gave her address to the driver, and then looked at Grant one last time. “I don’t think I am.”
* * * *
A tap at her office door jarred Seraphina into the present. All while getting ready for work that morning, she’d been going over the weekend in her head, trying to figure out at what point things had turned completely upside down. She’d forgotten the delicate gold necklace she liked to wear with today’s ensemble, and she felt out of sorts. Part of her had been waiting for Grant to appear, even though she seldom saw him outside of his office. He hadn’t summoned her, either. The man had a job to do, she reminded herself sternly. A company to run. And besides, she didn’t know what she had to say to him, anyway.
The man who’d knocked was a handsome stranger; a more than welcome distraction from her repetitive, useless thoughts. “Hello,” she said, offering an inviting smile to the man’s apologetic one.
“Hey, there. I’m Marc Curry. General contractor. I’m running the Tanbee House dismantling, as it were.”
“Oh. Of course. Nice to meet you. Please, come in.”
Marc swaggered inside—really no other way to describe that lingering stroll in those faded deep blue denim jeans. His lazy smile was charming, and his brown eyes were lit with interest. There was a shyness in his manner she found utterly likeable. Shame she hadn’t met this guy first. Maybe she’d have never lost her mind over Grant Gallagher. Too late now. For all his good looks and charm, Marc Curry lacked Grant’s sheer presence. His eyes were nice, but they didn’t zero in on her very soul.
Still, Seraphina caught herself returning Marc’s smile. “What can I do for you?”
He swept a thick forefinger into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small key ring. “Just met with Mr. Gallagher. He asked me to bring you these. One for the padlock that’s on the gate surrounding the site. The smaller, older one opens Tanbee House.” He held out the keys to her.
Seraphina took them with a frown. She bit her lip. “Did he mention the window?”
Marc’s eyebrows went up. They were fine and straight, light brown like his hair. He was better looking than Grant. More open. “The broken one? Yeah, no worries. We were going to replace it anyway.”
He didn’t mention how the window had been broken, and Seraphina didn’t want to push. She might have some sway, sleeping with the boss, but she wouldn’t make a liar out of him by giving the general contractor a different story about the window. “Thanks, Marc.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll see you around the site, huh?”
She eyed the keys in her hand. “Maybe you will.”
For several minutes after Marc left, she stared at the keys, wondering if she had the guts. If she hadn’t embarked on a completely inappropriate relationship with Grant, would she even question her next move? Would Neve or Kay hesitate? Not in following their instincts, no. If Seraphina needed convincing, she’d found the means.
She stood up, then came to a dead halt as Brendan Berkley stepped nonchalantly into her office. “Brendan. What a pleasure.”
He smirked at her dry greeting. “That’s kind of you. But don’t fake it on my behalf, please. And my apologies for tracking you down before you’ve even had time to plow through your first cup of coffee.”
She let her brittle, forced smile drop. Her hands clenched at her sides. “What do you want?”
He took a step closer. His hair was brushed back in the trendy, current style, shaved close on the sides. The thick black frames of his glasses hid his eyes well, and made him difficult to read. He wore a checkered button-up tu
cked into impossibly tight black jeans. Not exactly office attire, but Grant wasn’t a stickler about such things. “Look, Seraphina, I’m here asking you for a fresh start. A clean slate. This morning, Roper told me I’ve been assigned to shadow Ophelia to get a wider feel for the company before I begin looming over Annie’s shoulder. Apparently, I need some pretty steep inside knowledge to best facilitate smooth operations as Mr. Gallagher’s assistant. Since Ophelia has been assigned to you, it appears we’ll be working together for the next several months.”
Her mouth fell open. She quickly closed it, refusing to let Brendan see that he had one up on her. Information was power. “Should prove interesting.”
Brendan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Please. Grant took a huge risk hiring me. I have more to prove than any other person working for him, and no one else in this city has been willing to give me so much as a chance. Hell, he was the only one who even interviewed me after what the LRPD put me through. I know you’re friends with Oliver and Kay. I know how determined Oliver is that I’m hiding something. But if it were true, don’t you think I’d have skipped town? Or sued Oliver for harassment? I could get his badge taken away. But I don’t want that. I just want to move on with my life and my career.”
Seraphina considered. Brendan Berkley was almost certainly involved in the drug ring Oliver had taken down inside Free Leaf Concepts, but the evidence simply wasn’t concrete. She loved Kay and believed in Oliver, but for the first time, a small sliver of doubt shimmied up her spine.
But then she recalled how Brendan had somehow known there was an undercover agent at Free Leaf. He’d mistakenly believed it was Kay, and tried to convince her he was also working undercover to entice her to share privileged information. There were coincidences, and then there were clues, and it didn’t do to confuse the two.
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