Chapter 8
Eight
August
I’ve visited this house several times, even stayed here that one summer. It’s never failed to impress me.
Pen’s quiet as we leave the truck and step under the shade of the porch, heading for the front door. Much like my own house, there’s a security panel in place of a lock. She punches in the code and lets us in.
The house is cool and still like it’s been waiting. Again, I’m struck by how beautiful the place is. White stucco walls reflect the light pouring in from oversize iron-framed windows.
Quietly, like she’s a visitor, Pen sets her bag on the wide plank floors and then walks farther in.
The house is a U shape branching out on each side from the main living room.
Like an old barn, the roof and ceilings are pitched, with a massive weathered beam running along the center line and smaller beams branching out like ribs on a whale all along its length.
We wander past the den with overstuffed bookshelves lining the walls, and then a pretty sitting room that reminds me of Pegs and how she’d invite me to sit on those deep cream-colored couches and tell her about my games.
The kitchen has been redone since I was here.
Instead of being dark and brown, it now has white cabinets, marble counters, and a walnut wood island.
A huge carved limestone mantelpiece that looks like it came out of a French chateau surrounds the stove area.
Skylights let light spill down on the counters.
“It’s slightly different than I remember,” I tell a silent Pen. “But I can still picture your grandmother here making those sweet orange breakfast rolls that she loved.”
“I can too. God, I’d eat so many, my stomach would ache. No regrets, though.”
“Not when it comes to those rolls.”
Along the back of the house runs a long hallway with iron framed French doors that lead out to the pool and central courtyard. We head for the main bedroom.
Pen stops just inside the big square room. There’s an adobe fireplace curving out of one corner and a set of stairs along the wall closest to us that leads to a loft room. This is the only area in the house that’s two stories and the ceiling is double height because of it.
“I left most of their things in the other rooms but cleaned out everything here,” she says.
“I’ve never been up there,” I confess, glancing at the loft.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it? Like we might get in trouble for snooping in their room.”
“I’m betting they’ll love it if we do.” With a waggle of my brows, I take her hand and lead her up.
The loft is an office, probably Pops’s, given the big ash wood desk and leather executive chair.
But the shelves have been cleaned out of books.
A set of double doors leads to a Juliet balcony and a view of the garden.
It’s a nice spot, sunny, away from everything.
“You could study in here,” I tell Pen. “Write your papers.”
She stands at the threshold of the room, just at the top of the stairs, hands clasped before her. There’s a look of such longing in her big brown eyes that my chest clenches.
“Penelope?”
She shakes herself out of wherever she went and blinks back at me before answering with exaggerated gravity, “August.”
“Cute.” A smile blooms but then fades to seriousness. “You should be here. This house is your place.”
She fits in here. Just as beautiful. Just as graceful. I see her growing old here. I want that for her.
“Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” she says, as if hearing my thoughts.
“And sometimes you can get help from your friend.”
Her nose wrinkles in confusion.
“That would be me. I’m the friend,” I add helpfully. We’ve been avoiding each other for years. Of course she doesn’t see me as a friend. That changes today.
“You want to help me.” She draws the words out as if she’s dubious.
“Yes.” And because I know she’s got more pride than she’s ever let on, I expand on my offer. “If you recall, I did propose earlier.”
Pink washes over her pale cheeks. Her full lips flatten. “Are we still on that?”
“Yes.”
“Bah.”
“Not the answer I’m looking for, Sweets.”
“I am aware.”
I lean a hip against the high pony wall that looks down on the bedroom below. “Being my fake fiancée is no cakewalk. If you do this, it’s going to be a huge hassle for you. Press can be ugly. So can some fans. I won’t ask without offering something.”
“August.” She sighs wearily. “What are you saying?”
“You pretend to be my fiancée, and I’ll give you the money to pay the taxes.”
Instantly her back is up. “You can’t— That is, it’s too much.”
“I can. I want to. How else will you get it?”
“I can’t do that. Not for that much money. If you want my help, I’ll help you. But I can’t take money for it.”
“Pen. I don’t want to see this house torn down by some money-hungry developer who will slap in another concrete-and-glass horror.”
“Then buy the house for yourself.”
“It’s your house, Penelope. You love it so much you were willing to beg your mom for it. I want to do this. Please.”
Even white teeth worry the plump curve of her bottom lip. Her gaze darts over the room. I can all but hear her working it over in her head. “The thought of taking money . . . It’s not something I can do just like that. It would eat at me . . .”
Guilt rushes in. I want her to accept, but not if it pains her this much. “Damn it. This was bad of me.”
“Bad?”
“My help shouldn’t be transactional. It’s ugly.” Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. A headache threatens around the edges of my sight. “Penelope, take the money. Forget about my proposal. Just take the money free and clear.”
For some reason, this makes her smile softly. “I know you mean well, August, but that’s not any better. I can’t accept that much from you for nothing.”
“So what you’re saying is we’re in a catch-22.”
“Not precisely. If we pretend this conversation never took place, then—”
“Too late. The knowledge is there. It’s going to prick at me. I want to help you, Sweets. More than I want to save my own ass.” I’m surprised to find it’s the complete truth. Maybe there’s hope for me, after all.
“August . . . that means a lot to me. And I want to help you too. I just don’t think I can. No one will believe it.”
For a second I just stare. She’s standing in a puddle of golden sunlight that gilds the delicate curves of her face and shines in her waving hair. Botticelli couldn’t have done better. If I had even half the talent for painting that I did for football, I would have painted her just as she is now.
“If you could only see yourself the way I do.”
A scowl twists her pink lips. “Don’t—”
“No, let me say it. No, you’re not a supermodel or an actress. And, no, I don’t care. You worry that people won’t believe it. But you’re missing the main point.”
“Which is?”
“If we make it believable, it will be.”
“H-how do we do that?”
Oh, sweet Pen, that will be the easy part. Not a single person around us will doubt how into you I am.
“We look like a real couple—don’t worry. It would only be on game days and a few public appearances.”
“Oh, well . . .” She puffs out a breath. “August. I don’t know . . .”
But she’s thinking about it now. Which is a huge step in the right direction. I have to play this right.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
The stiffness eases from her shoulders just a bit. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But I’m not promising anything.”
“Okay. Good. Thank you.” I should feel relief, but that weird relentless yearning seems to increase. “And while you’re thinking about that, please let me help you with the house. We can come up with a payment plan or whatever. But let me help you, Penelope. Please.”
“I guess I have a lot of thinking to do.”
There’s literally nothing I can do now. It’s all up to her. Releasing control isn’t something that comes easily. Football is a competitive sport; it’s in my nature to do whatever it takes to win. But this isn’t a game. It’s something much more.
Swallowing hard, I will myself to look relaxed and nonthreatening.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”