Chapter 8
I stepped closer to Oliver. “What do you mean, you’re cursed?”
He shifted, hands skimming a bookcase, and I let him have this moment, to make it easier in whatever way I could.
When I pictured a home, I envisioned memories that were filled with joy. I had always believed I restored people’s happiness, their past, while giving them a place for their future.
But not every memory was happy. There were deep aches. In the same way, it hurt every time I packed and unpacked my belongings, meager as they were. This was my life. My legacy would be other people’s homes and their restored memories.
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice lacked the firmness of his words. My palm reached out but didn’t close the distance between us.
“You don’t have to talk about it, but you can. I’m a random person who trespassed into your home. No judgment, no consequences.” I held my hands up as if to say I was unarmed. “And one day, I’m going to leave. You’re never going to have to see me again.”
He swallowed. “Thanks.” Even stranger, it sounded like he meant it. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Can we sit here for a while?”
No one was more surprised than me. Maybe it was my guilt, but I collapsed on the floor, my back pressed against the bed, next to his legs, which he had spread out. I didn’t have to like him to feel empathy for him.
I reached for my iPad, drawing out the layout of the west wing, making notes about my observations, priority lists, relaxing into the familiarity of it.
We sat surrounded by his memories as I roughed out an outline, marking different places I hadn’t been sure of based on the blueprints, noting measurements I’d need to take. I wouldn’t be able to complete it until I saw everything with the thick curtains opened to the sunlight, but it was a start.
“What are you’re doing?”
I glanced up. His focus was on the screen. He shifted to the floor to sit next to me. His voice was soft, the anger gone. He wasn’t apologetic, but an apology was unnecessary. The person who should apologize was his grandfather, for putting us in this situation.
I walked Oliver through my process, explaining how I designated doors, windows, support beams. How I made notes of things I would have to confirm with the contractor.
He asked a few questions, but mostly he nodded along. “You’re good at this.”
“Oh, um …” I had no idea what to do with a compliment from him, as my cheeks heated.
“Are you this good at drawing other things?”
I let out a small laugh, relieved to be on solid ground. “Not at all. This is concrete lines, drawing what I can see. One of my best friends is a professional. His art is all about imagination, soft lines. I might as well be drawing stick figures compared to him.”
“Ah.” The screen of my iPad illuminated Oliver’s face, but it offered little. I was desperate to see anything, though he never revealed much, still in hiding.
“You must be excellent at playing poker.” I blurted out.
His gaze met mine for the first time since he’d entered the room. “Not random at all.”
Fine, but he was always so circumspect. “It made complete sense to me.”
He snorted. “I’m not going to ask.”
“You’re smart, Killington. I’ll give you that.”
“You didn’t even wince when you said that.” His shoulder nudged mine, knocking my pencil off course for a moment.
“Duh, because I’d be an amazing poker player, too.”
“Don’t test that theory.” His thumb brushed along his lip. “So, do people typically stay at the house when you’re working on it?”
“Nope, most properties are already vacant, or the owners use the project as an opportunity for an extended vacation. Lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
“Ah.”
While lightly sketching, I waited for him to tell me he was going to leave. The door was open, figuratively and in reality. There were a million reasons for him to cut his losses, including the wormhole of grief I had forced him to open. It would only get worse as the project went on.
“But they miss out on all the fun parts, like knocking down walls, smashing things.” I had no idea why I was still talking; it would be best for both of us if he left.
“Great.” There wasn’t an ounce of malice in his voice this time. His head tilted back, leaning against the mattress, gaze burning through me.
I wouldn’t exactly call it comfortable between us, but I wasn’t experiencing an inclination to commit violence against him or scream, so it was something akin to progress.
“I wouldn’t mind smashing some things,” he offered.
The corners of my mouth twitched. “I think I can make that happen.”
157 Days Until the Deadline
It was here. The first day of the restoration.
In the week since I’d first explored Oliver’s secrets, I had submitted my plans for the west wing, received the final approvals I needed, and moved forward with hiring. It had been a whirlwind, and I was only getting started. But the mood in the estate had shifted as everyone prepared for the oncoming storm.
Rue seemed to derive the most pleasure from the excitement, leaving me a rose on my breakfast tray. Rue, Ambrose, and I had reached a settlement of sorts, where I protested but let them take care of my essentials, as if I were a guest at a hotel when they gave me no other choice. It was the strangest bed-and-breakfast I’d ever stayed at. I refused to get used to it, but it was lovely being taken care of.
Standing in front of my mirror, I stuck the stem of the rose through my ponytail, straightening my suspenders, ready for what the day would bring. I could do this—knock it out of the park even.
“Bellamy!”
The moment I stepped out the front door, Jeff, the sole contractor I’d considered, pulled me into a hug.
“You weren’t joking when you said this place was a mess. I kind of hoped you were sending me pictures you found on Google, but this is … wow.” He snatched the baseball cap off his head, curling the brim, before shoving it on backward.
Jeff was ten years older than me and had been a staple for many of Dad’s projects for almost that long. He enjoyed the messier structures and leaped in without fear. Dressed in his typical vintage comic-book shirt and jeans, he was an inconspicuous expert in nineteenth-century architecture.
“You are such a weirdo. You’re happy this place is a mess.” I laughed, pleased he wasn’t scared off yet.
I’d met Jeff the summer before college. It was his first time being hired as the contractor rather than merely a member of the crew, and he’d always appreciated that Dad took a chance on him. That was his “it” project, his Killington Estate. All his baseball caps had ended up bent out of shape, curved to extremes, broken pencils surrounding him wherever he stood, but the Queen Anne–style mansion sitting at the end of the bay ended up better than any of us had imagined.
“The bigger the mess, the better the reveal at the end. This is going to be fun.” He rubbed his palms together, muscles flexing, his arms dusted with sandy-brown hair. “Come on—walk me through before the rest of the crew gets here. Knowing you, a million to-do lists are already prepared.”
He had seen much of it because of the drawings and photos I’d previously sent him, but like me, he had to experience the space to truly form his plan. Being in a place, breathing it, was always different. It was part of the reason Dad always preferred to live on-site.
“What are you thinking—a week to empty, and then jump immediately into gutting?”
The wiring, ancient copper plumbing, and lead paint all required removal and replacing. “Exactly.” I nodded.
“And the deadline?”
Oh, that little insignificant thing?I coughed as we wandered back outside to wait for the rest of the crew to arrive. “I told you—the last week of August.”
He whistled. “Even with the budget we have, that’s going to be tight.”
“Do what you can, but this is a make-it-or-break-it project for me.” I tugged on my suspenders as my heartbeat increased.
“So those rumors about you leaving the restoration world to take that cozy museum job are true?” His shoulder shoved mine as we started unloading rolls of tape and his toolbox from his truck.
I shook my head. “There’s no job.”
“Yet. Your phone will never stop ringing if this goes to plan. Most people would be scared off by a project like this.”
I rolled my eyes as he stalked off to welcome the crew as they arrived. Many were people we had worked with before, or locals hired based on recommendations. It was almost double the number of our typical crew, but because of the size of the house and the deadline, we had no other option.
As I greeted familiar faces and introduced myself to the newbies, the chatter died down to whispers, everyone turning in the same direction.
I glanced around, trying to figure out what the cause was, when the breath left my body.
Oliver jogged down the paver driveway, sweat dripping down his face, hair clinging to his scalp, his gray T-shirt soaked to the roundness of his stomach. Black jogging pants clung to those thighs. Mouth suddenly dry, I licked my lips.
Then the whispers reached me.
“It’s him, the lost Killington heir.”
“I heard he was disfigured. That’s why he never goes out in public.”
“Heard he sits around counting his money, enjoys going swimming in it.”
“My sister told me about a family curse.”
“All right.” I clapped my hands as loudly as I could. “You’re here for this house. No one’s ‘lost’ here, nor should anything or anyone else be your concern. This project is going to be tough, especially with the time frame we have. Get your assignments from Jeff. Let’s get going on emptying this place out so the real fun can begin.”
It took another moment, a few stragglers still staring as Oliver made his way to me, blatantly ignoring the looks, his face flushed. He favored his right leg, not exactly limping, but as he got closer, I could see his forehead was wrinkled in discomfort.
“Price.” He was breathing heavily, his chest expanding with every inhale. Fingers massaging his left thigh muscle, he glanced around as the crew shifted nearby. They had returned to work, but many were still openly gawking at Oliver, the whispering more subdued but still there.
I needed to get his mind off it. “Killington.”
He blinked rapidly, his gaze meeting mine again, gray eyes focused. “So, where are the cameras?”
I bit my lip hard to hold back a smile. “Still not an HGTV show.”
“Probably for the best. This is a lot of people.”
“It is. How was your run?”
Oliver grabbed his collar, scrubbing away some of the sweat from his face, leaving behind a ruddy complexion. My gaze tracked the skin he exposed.
“It was more of a power walk. Been a while.” It was impossible to miss the way some of the sadness in his eyes, a constant, seemed lighter. “I wanted to stretch my legs, get out of the house.”
“That’s, uh … good.”
“How many pairs of suspenders do you own?” His gaze carved up from my waist to my shoulders, skimming as if his hands were on me.
I shivered in the breeze, regretting not bringing a sweater with me. “Enough.”
“Mm.”
“Well, this has been riveting, but I should …” I jerked my head to the house in a chill manner, the sounds from the crew flooding back to my ears. For a moment, it had felt like we were the only two people here, the only two people in the world.
“Yeah, I should—” Oliver reached for my shoulder, and goose bumps broke out across my skin. His hand brushed the fabric of my T-shirt before pulling away, holding a “petal.” He whispered the word, cupping the red petal in his palm before flicking it onto the grass.
“Oh, thanks.” I drew the rose tighter into my ponytail, spinning away before the flush and embarrassment overtook my body.
I ended up not needing the sweater, sweat building under my shirt, arms aching as I carried boxes, hauling away items meant for the large dumpster. The March New York air had a chill to it, but all of us were too busy to notice. Rue and Ambrose had set up a hydration station, which Nick was in charge of.
Rue directed the boxing up of the kitchen, taking one worry off my shoulders. The fine china alone would take a day to properly wrap up and another to store.
Ambrose had been running around demanding everyone be gentle with the antiques. When I suggested he ensure everything was properly packed in the truck for storage, he leaped at the chance.
I stood off to the side, watching my dream happening. My project, my plans. This would work—it was working.
“Hello?”
A car door slammed, and a tall, gangly man stood at the threshold of the estate. His suit was ill-fitting, hair needing a trim or something for that cowlick. He jumped quickly out of the way when Jeff treaded by lifting an end table I was eager to get my hands on to sand and stain.
“Hi, can I help you?” It was wrong to judge. I wasn’t exactly dressed to impress, wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized T-shirt with paint splotches from more than one project, underneath my lucky suspenders.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Oliver perched behind my shoulder.
I glanced back. “You know him?”
“My cousin,” Oliver growled out, prickling my skin. “Carter, what are you doing here?”
I shifted out of the way, just in time, as Cousin Carter barreled toward Oliver, yanking him into a hug that Oliver didn’t return, arms limp at his sides. “Can’t I visit my favorite cousin?”
“I haven’t seen you in eight years, which means Adrian sent you.”
I was glued to the spot, fascinated, observing Oliver interact with someone who didn’t call him sir.
“He might have suggested a visit, but it’s been a long time. Too long—I mean, the last time I saw you was …” Cousin Carter had a frenetic energy: bouncing on the balls of his feet and trying to brush back his hair, which had too much gel in it. “When was it? I’m trying to place it. Was it that Christmas party?”
“No.”
“The—” Cousin Carter snapped his fingers. “There was Sally’s party. I mean, I wasn’t invited, but I heard all about it and, um, I felt like I was there and—”
“No. Obviously not.”
“Wait, it was the funeral.” Cousin Carter sighed in satisfaction until the realization of what he’d just said broke across his face. I took a step forward, but Oliver stopped me, finger looped around the back of my suspender, holding me in place.
Oliver slicked back his sweat-soaked hair. “Did you come to help with the construction?”
“Oh, I’m not dressed for that, not at all. But I can’t tell you how surprised I am to find you with a girlfriend. Hiding away in your love palace, I see. Smart, very smart. Keeping out of the eyes of the paparazzi, while you two …” He made an obscene gesture with his hands that was somehow less insulting because of how completely awkward he was.
It wasn’t until Carter’s eyes landed on me that I realized who he was talking about. A snort erupted from my mouth at the thought of Oliver and me getting along enough to date, or to two-hand gesture. “Oh no, no, no.” I shook my head, giggling uncontrollably. “No, no, no.”
“Maybe say ‘no’ one more time,” Oliver grumbled.
I didn’t peek at him, aware of his annoyance at the very idea of dating me. Could two people be less compatible?
“Oh, sorry.” Carter glanced between Oliver and me, brows knitting together as his gaze shifted between us. “But it seems like things are going well, so I’ll get out of your hair.”
Oliver grabbed a box from a crew member who was relieved to have the weight lifted, before thrusting it at Carter. “You’re not going anywhere until after you’ve helped. Don’t want to give the appearance that you came here to spy on me.”
Carter’s face flushed with guilt. “Me? No, I could never, would never—”
“Save it, Carter.”
The initial intrigue of watching Oliver interact with his family was crushed. He’d been all alone in this house, his family abandoning him to it. I didn’t blame him for the way he stood tall, using the inches he had over his already tall cousin to show who was in charge here, calling Carter and his impure intentions out.
The way Carter’s knees were shaking, it wouldn’t take much for him to say “sir.” “I lack upper-body strength. My mom says …”
Oliver didn’t even blink.
“Too much, too much—understood. Maybe we can talk about what’s going on with the stock. Do you know anything about the new investment? Because if things aren’t going to turn around, do you think maybe I should cash out or, you know, buy in more, or should I—”
Oliver crossed his arms, committing to a stare down that appeared to be effective on everyone else but me.
“At least introduce me to Price, the man in charge?” Carter’s eyes drifted to the crew working around us.
Oliver lunged toward his cousin, fists clenched, my arm blocking him from—well, whatever he had planned.
“Easy there.” I thrust out my free hand toward the mess of limbs in a suit. “I’m Bellamy Price. It’s, er, pleasant to meet you, Cousin Carter.”
“Oh.” Carter fumbled with the box he was still holding as he attempted to offer me his hand and failed. “I’m Carter. Are you related to the person running this show?”
I held the snark back. “I’m in charge. Was there something you wanted?” His jaw dropped, staring at the curve of my stomach, in the familiar way that screamed I didn’t fit the idea he had in his mind of the person who should run this project—too female and too fat. After so many minor slights, each new one hurt a little less.
But I didn’t have time to humor Cousin Carter, who staggered under the weight of the box and Oliver’s scowl.
It was time to return to my task list, check in with Jeff, and see if we were on track for the day.
“Don’t you want to hear the story of how Oliver and I are related?”
Not really, no.“Uh …”
“My grandfather is his grandmother’s brother,” Oliver said flatly. “They despise each other. See? Story done.”
This time, I didn’t hold back my smile as I faced Oliver, his gaze smoldering; I needed to locate where that hydration station was.
“Well.” Carter coughed as neither of us made a move to take the box that was too heavy for him. “In its simplest form, yes.”
“Great. Well, thanks for stopping by. I have about fifty places I need to be right now.” I swiped the sweat off my brow; my muscles had been glad for the break, but the day wasn’t even half over yet.
“Right, of course. Very important. I have had similar experiences. I don’t have an official title, but I’ve done many favors for Uncle Adrian, and any day now he’s …” Carter trailed off, distracted by all the surrounding chaos, still standing in the middle of it all.
“Carter.” I clapped my hands in an effort to bring him around. Oliver grabbed my shoulders, nudging me out of the way as one of the couches was removed.
“Yes, uh, Uncle Adrian wanted me to thank you for sending over the drawings of the west wing.”
I was tempted to drop that heavy box on Cousin Carter’s head. Oliver’s fingers pulled away like he had been burned.
“This has been enlightening, Carter, but I should get this place emptied so the construction can begin.”
Carter aggressively nodded, the bravado of a man who had no idea what he was talking about but was going to fake it until he made it. “Oh, of course. I’m sure there’s much to do.”
“There is, so go drop the box off or give it to someone who will.”
Carter was all too willing to shove the box at Oliver, and I was so close to making my escape. But it seemed our gathering had attracted the Oliver Shits Pure Gold Gang.