Of course, the moment I said that, a black cat, who looked like it had been through a few battles itself, rushed past my ankles and leapt up the stairs as though its tail were on fire. I let out a squeak that could summon a pod of dolphins and hurried to close the door before any other creatures of the forest decided to join us.
Then I turned to get the full effect of what Percy had to offer.
Even though Mrs. Goode had passed only three days prior, someone had thoughtfully covered the furniture with white sheets. Yet every surface was covered in dust and a legion of spiders had set up shop in the corners and along the walls, if their silvery snares were any indication. It made the house even eerier.
Floorboards squeaked as I took in the dusty wood floors and deep gray walls. Even the ceilings were covered with the charcoal color, including the decorative crown moldings and graceful, spider-webbed arches.
I took a careful step closer to the great room. It was huge with identical staircases on either side leading up to a common landing. Though the sheen may have worn off him, Percival had been stunningly glamorous in his time. A good scrubbing and a few hundred gallons of paint and who knew what he could be again.
Walking inside this monolith was like nothing I’d ever felt before. A rush of adrenaline slid through me, leaving no cell untouched. A lulling calmness followed. Along with a sense of nostalgia, which made no sense. I would’ve remembered something this lonely and beautiful, and I’d never set foot outside of Arizona before three days ago.
Percy felt it too. After an initial shudder of distrust, he seemed to settle around me like a warm cloak. A really warm cloak.
I realized he was hot. Too hot, especially since no one besides Mrs. Goode had lived here, according to the purple people eater. The house should be empty. Who kept the heat on?
My phone rang, the tinny sound out of place in such a marvelous tribute to days gone by.
I pressed the green dot and answered with a, “You are not going to believe this place.”
My bestie ignored me. “What I can’t believe is the fact that your rust bucket of a vehicle made it.”
Annette Osmund had been my best friend since we’d taken Coach Teague’s intro to biology in high school together. It was her mop of curly brown hair and red cat-eye glasses that initially drew me to her. It was her bizarre oxymoronic personality—irreverent yet warm—that’d kept me coming back for more. We’d had an instant connection, as though our souls knew we would still be best friends over twenty-five years later.
I walked into a side room. A room my predecessor might call a sitting room or a drawing room. I’d read enough historical romance novels to be downright giddy, the emotion racing along my spine and sparking out to my fingertips.
“Rust bucket?” I asked, appalled. “You mean my vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle?”
“Stop.”
I stifled a giggle. “What? Do you have something against my vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“You don’t respect her. What has my vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle ever done to you?”
“I swear to God, Dephne, if you say vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle one more time.”
“Vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle one more time. When does your plane land?”
“Never. I’m abandoning you in your hour of need.”
I stopped short, my fingertips lingering on a delicately carved piece of molding. “You know you can be replaced.”
She snorted. “No, I can’t.”
“I have other people in my life.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Several of whom could easily be promoted to sidekick.”
“Not true.”
“You hold that position very precariously.”
“No— Okay, that’s quite likely.”
I did a 360, dizzy with joy and inspiration and a sickly sense of dread. Even if I could keep the house, I could never afford to give it the attention it so desperately needed. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
“This house is gorgeous, Nette. It’s ancient and dank and dusty, yet it has so much potential.”
“Like your vagina?”
“What’s strange is that, even though Mrs. Goode only passed away three days ago, it’s like no one has entered it in years.”
“Oh, then it’s exactly like your vagina.”
She spoke softly to her barista as I walked through a maze of connecting rooms. I ended up in an industrial kitchen. Part of it was so outdated, it was downright historical. The other part of it looked brand new with appliances I would have killed for in my restaurant. It was an odd mix of old and new and every inch of it was wonderful.
“I’ll have you know,” I said, when she came back online, “my vagina has been entered many times over the years.” I stopped to get a better look at a woodburning stove that clearly hadn’t been used in years. I’d never seen one in real life.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Many, many times.”
“So has my Barbie Dreamhouse.”
I gasped, appalled. “Are you comparing my vagina to your Barbie Dreamhouse?”
“Pretty much. Both are about as useful in the real world.”
My vagina had never been so insulted in her entire vaginal life. “She has been entered plenty. More times than the Taj Mahal.”
“Good to know.”
“More times than the US.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
I gestured wildly, pointing at nothing in particular. “My vagina has been entered more times than a Kardashian’s pin number.”
“Keep talking, Snow White.”
Oh, that was the last straw. “Listen here, Miss My-Love-Life’s-Better-Than-Yours. A plethora of men have entered my vagina. Dozens. Possibly hundreds.” My voice rose with each syllable. “Many a warrior has stormed these gates and come back the better man for it. Don’t even think about worrying your pretty little head about my special place. What you should be worrying about is—”
I stopped talking the moment I turned and spotted a tall, shirtless man with more ink than the New York Times standing in, purportedly, my kitchen. He was drying his hands on a towel, staring me down. Much like I was doing to him. Minus the towel.
Two
Guys,
gray in the beard is sexy.
Leave it alone.
-Grown Ass Women
In all honesty, I had about a thousand more reasons to stare than he did. He was unkempt and scruffy and startlingly handsome. The kind of handsome that forces perusers to pause on a page in a magazine while absently thumbing through it. As though they had no choice. As though the glint in his eyes had demanded their attention.
In a word, he was stunning. Because nothing short of stunning would give me pause in this particular situation. I had never, in all of my forty-plus years, thought a possible intruder handsome. The mind didn’t work that way. If it did, survival of the fittest would be a moot point. All of Darwin’s work for naught.
Then again, it could have been the kilt.
I absorbed every aspect of the man in a matter of seconds. Dark red hair streaked with gold brushed shoulders wide enough to carry the world. A short beard, only a shade lighter than his hair and tinted with a silvery-gray, framed a perfectly formed face. A lean body, clearly sculpted by Michelangelo, stood solid and unabashed.