But until then?
I shake my head.
Priscilla and Niles Foss were way too interested in my father to begin with. They knew I was the Peter Macklin’s daughter, and if I’d had my head screwed on sooner, I should’ve seen them chasing after the connections I had right from the start.
Even when they started fishing, I’d made it a point to say I don’t have any connections to researchers or wildlife refuges around the world.
My father does. Not me. Being his daughter doesn’t work like that.
A cold chill whips up my spine, making me work faster to chase the bad thoughts away.
I keep finding things to do like a domestic goddess.
Bye-bye, dishwasher. You’re unloaded, reloaded, and started.
Spotless dishes dried and put away—with everything located where I’d expect.
That tells me a woman organized this kitchen once upon a time. Perhaps his wife’s style stuck around, or maybe his mother stepped in?
My heart sinks.
Big Daddy hasn’t had an easy run, that’s for sure.
I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him.
Been there, done that, and seen what it does to a man.
After wiping down the counters and appliances, I take glass cleaner to the little fingerprints on the sliding glass door and then sweep and damp mop the tile floor.
I hit the living room last and fold up the clothes piled in a chair, all little girl stuff. I stack them in sorted heaps and then give the room a quick dusting before mopping the hardwood floors.
All in all, the house is in great shape for one growly man and two likely rambunctious little girls.
Even for its age, the place is structurally sound and looks like it’s been beautifully kept up over the years.
Yes, I appreciate old things. I love their souls and I like to see them taken care of.
The fireplace on the far wall of the living room completes the whole scene, and the marble around it makes me think it, too, was refurbished recently. It’s flipping gorgeous.
Black-and-white marble makes up the hearth, and the bricks going up the wall have the shimmer of a white oil-based paint.
The mantle for this fireplace is a large slab of wood, a foot or so square.
When I check my dust rag after swiping the top, I’m once again convinced this home is normally very neat and tidy. Hardly any dust at all turns up from the mantle.
Yep, Grady was telling me the truth when he said things were messy because he hasn’t been home much lately. Not that I’d thought he’d been lying, but...it’s nice to confirm what I already suspected.
He’s an overall decent small-town guy who offered to help me out.
Thank God. Who knows where Bruce and I would be right now if he hadn’t been at the bar last night to bring us home.
I plump the pillows on the furniture, and then satisfied with the room, I walk back to the kitchen. Having discovered the laundry room a few paces away earlier, I rinse out the dust rag and hang it over the edge of the laundry sink.
Back in the kitchen, I look at the microwave.
Cool. I’ve done all I can and it’s only nine o’clock. I suppose I could start opening doors, cleaning other rooms, but that would be intrusive even to my impulsive, stubborn, must-make-everything-spotless mind.
Still, I can’t resist opening the pantry door.
It could use a little reorganizing, but I tell myself to chill, ignore it. I’m on my way out as I notice the canister marked COFFEE.
I could use a pick-me-up, and I bet he wouldn’t turn down a fresh pot as soon as he’s up, so...
Maybe I take a few seconds more than I really need when I drop the can back off after getting our coffee on.
Maybe I can’t stop myself from grinning when I enter the large walk-in pantry, flanked with lovely shelves on both sides.
Maybe I stare longingly at an antique pie-tin cupboard on the back wall.
No judging.
I’m only snooping a teensy bit, and only with my eyes.
The cupboard makes me smile. It’s a gorgeous old piece with glass upper doors, a porcelain counter, complete with a pull-out wooden rolling board, a flour bin, and punched tin doors on the bottom. It feels like a crime to hide away a piece of furniture this unique.
No, I’m not insane enough to move it.
But I do straighten things up a bit so its beauty is more noticeable.
I’m busy organizing the canned goods by variety, when I sense I’m no longer alone.
Eep. Last I checked, that’s the sound a woman makes in her own head when there’s a tall, dark, and insanely hot slice of man nearby.
Heat fills my cheeks as I slowly turn and see Grady standing in the pantry doorway, very much the lord of this manor.
His hair is damp like he’s just stepped out of the shower.
Oh, he definitely has.
I can smell a spicy soap mingled with raw testosterone from several feet away. He’s wearing black jeans over those lethal hips and a white-and-blue striped button-down shirt, which only makes him look more handsome than the tight, black t-shirt last night.
Sweet mother of alpha pearls!
“What are you? Some kind of witch who sweeps and mops with her broomsticks instead of throwing around curses?” He smiles, then glances behind him. “Looks like a whole platoon of maids came through here on a mission. You got a few stowaways somewhere?”
Is he for real? His silly, unexpected humor makes me laugh.
“I’m sorry,” I say hurriedly as I finish arranging the canned goods. “I had to keep my hands busy. Couldn’t sleep.”
“At all?” He lifts an eyebrow. “The room wasn’t comfortable?”
Those eyes like dark-brown amber almost glow when they’re open wide.
I’m not sure if he’s joking or not.
“No, I...I slept for a few hours. The bed was perfectly cozy.” I don’t tell him the nerves were all my fault.
He backs out of the doorway and opens a cupboard.
“How long have you been up?”
“About an hour and a half, probably. I’m not the kind to lie around. Once I’m up, I’m ready to rock and roll,” I say, looking at the ground. “And honestly, when I’m nervous, I like to clean. It takes my mind off the things I’d rather not think about.”
No easy confession, and I don’t tell him I think I could clean ten more of his houses right about now.
I walk out of the pantry then, closing the frosted glass door before looking at the clock on the microwave again. Grady looks up, beaming a warm smile at me.
He’d taken two cups out of the cupboard and finishes filling them both. Handing one off to me, he asks, “You did all this in an hour and a half?”
“I mean, there wasn’t that much. Just a little dusting and—”
“Dusting? You dusted, too? Shit. Because I see you did dishes, folded clothes, swept, mopped, organized the pantry, and made coffee. You must be a morning girl on steroids.” He sits down at the table near the sliding glass door and does a double-take that makes me grin.
“It was nothing. Really.”
“Jesus. You even got the fingerprints off the door, too,” he says slowly, his eyes flicking over the glass in awe.
“Guilty,” I whisper, nodding as my cheeks flare with heat.
I swallow a long sip of coffee, amazed by how observant he is, before saying, “The dishwasher’s still running. There’s some work I can’t take credit for, if it makes you happy.”