The New Girl In Town. Brenda Harlen
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make sure you considered all of the options.”
She nodded stiffly, although in her heart she knew she couldn’t consider demolition as one of the options. Destroying what was left of this fabulous old building would break her heart all over again.
As they moved through the house, Mason took measurements and made notes with brisk efficiency, but he never failed to point out various flaws and defects as they moved from one room to the next through the house. She was frustrated by his incessant negativity and on the verge of telling him she would find another architect when she noticed the inherent contradiction between his actions and his words.
He warned her that the ceiling had sustained some obvious water damage, but his gaze lingered on the pressed tin squares. He claimed that all of the plumbing was horribly outdated, but she’d seen his eyes light up when he’d spotted the old clawfoot tub. And while he was complaining that someone had painted over the mantle of the fireplace, his fingers caressed the hand-carved wood.
“The frames on all of these windows are starting to rot,” he said. “They’ll have to be replaced.”
She sighed, and when she spoke, her words were infused with reluctant resignation. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just tear this place down.”
His head swiveled toward her, as she’d known it would. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is that what you want to do?”
“I’m starting to believe it’s the most logical course of action.”
“It is,” he said again, after a brief hesitation.
She smiled. “I hope you’re a better architect than you are an actor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can’t stand the thought of this beautiful building being destroyed.”
“This building is a far cry from beautiful,” he told her dryly.
“But it was once, and it can be again, can’t it?”
He was silent for a moment before finally conceding, “Maybe.”
After so much verbal disparagement, Zoe wasn’t willing to let it go at that. “You can see it, can’t you?” she pressed. “You can picture in your mind the way it used to be—the way it should be again?”
“Maybe,” he said again. “I’ve always thought it was a shame that someone didn’t step in and do something to save this house before it completely fell apart.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He gave her one of those wry half smiles. “Because as much as I can admire the graceful lines and detailed workmanship, I’m also aware of the time and money needed to fix this place.”
“I would think a successful architect would have the necessary resources for the job.”
“What I don’t have,” he warned her, “and anyone in town will tell you the same thing—is the ability to commit to any kind of long-term project.”
“Is that why you were baiting me—to determine if I was committed?”
“You had to have dropped a bundle of money already to buy this place,” he said. “I’m guessing that’s proof of your commitment. I only hope you have a bundle more, because you’re going to need it to restore this house properly.”
Anxiety twisted knots in her belly. “I’m hoping to do some of the simpler jobs myself. Patching, sanding, painting.”
“This house needs a lot more than patching, sanding and painting,” he warned.
“I know.” And she’d budgeted—hopefully enough—for the other work she knew would be required. “But I want to be involved with the project, not just writing the checks.”
His gaze skimmed over her, assessing. “You said you worked at Images magazine?”
She nodded. “As a photographer.”
“Have you ever done any home renovating before?”
“No,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Why did you leave that job to come here?”
“I don’t think that’s relevant.”
“Of course it is,” he disagreed.
“I’m committed to this restoration,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”
He studied her for another few seconds before saying, “There are a couple of good general contractors I can recommend. They’re local and fair.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing with him—she’d rather save her energy for the work that needed to be done. “You can give me their names and numbers after we take a look at the attic.”
Mason followed Zoe up the narrow and steep flight of steps that led to the attic. He tried to keep his focus on the job, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the shapely denim-clad butt in front of him. He’d been right about one thing—Zoe Kozlowski cleaned up good.
The blond hair that had been tangled around her face this morning was now tamed into a ponytail, with just the tiniest wisps escaping to frame her oval face. She’d put on a hint of makeup, mascara to darken her lashes, something that added shine to her soft, full lips. Not enough to look done up, but enough to highlight her features.
She was an attractive woman. A lot more attractive than he’d originally thought. Still not his usual type, although he enjoyed women too much to be picky about specifics. And though he enjoyed a lot of women, he never got too close to any one of them except in a strictly physical and always temporary sense.
She turned at the top of the stairs and stepped through an arched doorway and into darkness. He heard the click of a light being switched on, illuminating her slender figure standing in the middle of the attic. He felt the familiar tug of desire any unattached man would feel in the company of a pretty young woman. Emphasis on young, he thought, guessing her age to be somewhere between early-to mid-twenties. Which meant she was too many years younger than he to consider acting on the attraction he felt.
And yet there were shadows in her eyes that hinted she had experienced things beyond her years, a stubborn tilt to her chin that suggested she’d faced some tough challenges—and won. He figured she was a woman with a lot more baggage than the suitcase he’d seen tucked beside the antique couch in the living room, and that was just one more reason not to get involved. While he could respect her strength and determination, Mason didn’t do long-term, and he definitely didn’t do issues.
He liked women who laughed frequently and easily, women who wanted a good time with no expectations of anything more. He’d thought Erica was such a woman. Until, after less than three months of on-and-off dating that was more “off” than “on,” she’d told him it was time he stopped playing around and made a commitment. The night she’d said that was the last time he’d seen her.
He didn’t regret ending things with Erica. He couldn’t imagine himself in a committed relationship with any woman, and he had no intention of ever falling in love.
But he couldn’t deny there were times—times when he was with Nick and Jessica—that he wondered what it would be like to love and be loved so completely. Usually the longing only lasted a moment or two, then he’d remember his father and how losing the woman he loved had started a slow but steady downward spiral that had eventually destroyed him. No, Mason didn’t ever want to love like that.
“What do you think?” Zoe asked.
Her question jolted him out of his reverie. He glanced around the enormous room illuminated by a couple of bare bulbs hanging from the steeply sloped ceiling. There were old trunks covered in dust and cobwebs hanging from the rafters. “I think it’s dark and dreary.”
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