Chapter 13 #2
“Those are too expensive for my pay grade. I do have some suits that come from there that I inherited from my grandad, but those are reserved for special occasions, like my first day on the job. I generally prefer things that come from M and S. That way I won’t feel guilty if they get messy or destroyed. ”
“Smart.”
His lips twitch.
“Going back to the jacket, even if it’s a less expensive one, it’s black and it’ll show any speck of dust that lands on it. Do you still plan to wear it?” I challenge.
“Yes, it’s against the regulations to be dressed so casually.”
“We’re not living in the Regency era; I doubt anyone will mind if you show off your shirtsleeves.” I snicker. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“That sounds like something Angela would say.” Art sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Ma’am, I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. There are some things like these”—he opens his jacket and reveals a radio wire and black leather holster attached to his belt—“that need to be kept discreet.”
The laughter dies on my lips and my face sobers.
Although we may be joking with one another, at the end of the day, Art is a police officer.
That means like all the officers assigned to the protection division, he’s armed, and the tools of the trade he carries with him need to be kept out of plain sight.
“Oh, of course.” I clear my throat. “Let’s, er . . . go in.”
Art doesn’t let the awkwardness throw him. He moves on. “I’m curious to see how the flat’s changed since the last time we were here. What have you signed off on?”
We walk through the front gate and past a large skip filled with rotting wood, plaster, wallpaper, and other items that have been gutted from the structure. I hear the sound of hammering and drills, and men shouting to one another.
“The builders were supposed to clear away any material that was rotten or deemed unsalvageable and start on replacing the roof, pipes, and any other damage to the weight-bearing walls. I’m hoping to keep most of the layout the same as the original footprint, but with an expanded kitchen and bathrooms.”
The project manager greets us in the main sitting room. He’s eager to show us all that’s been accomplished. We spend a few minutes making small talk, then begin our walkthrough of all the ground-floor rooms as he explains what each contractor is working on.
The interior is barely recognizable. The rooms have all been stripped back to the joists. There are exposed wires and pipes everywhere I look. I’m a little shocked at seeing the flat in such a state. This wasn’t the plan.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gregory, but why has so much of the plaster been removed? We talked about restoring the building, not stripping it bare.”
The project manager removes his hat and scratches his head. “Apologies, ma’am. It was my understanding that you’d received and read last week’s report.”
“I haven’t.” I pinch my lips together. “It must still be sitting in my father’s office.” I’ll have to sort it out later.
“Last week, unfortunately, once the crew began stripping away the old wallpaper, they discovered there was more water and structural damage than was originally expected.” The muscles in his forehead crease.
“In this room, for instance, three of the four walls were infested with damp. We had to remove everything so we could clean the mold and install a waterproof membrane to prevent the same problem from occurring in the future.”
My heart sinks as he continues explaining the countless problems he’s encountered in the kitchen, and the remaining rooms on the ground floor.
It hurts to know that so much of the charm and character I’d fallen in love with has been taken away.
If I had known many of the original features couldn’t be saved, I would’ve invested in a different property. Well, it’s too late now.
“Please try and save as much of the flooring and crown molding as you can,” I urge.
“We will, ma’am. I promise.”
As we leave the building, I slowly remove my gear, tucking the vest and glasses into the hat under my arm.
“I know you’re disappointed, ma’am, but it’s not the end of the world,” Art reminds me in his deep voice.
He clicks the security lock on the car door.
“By the time the new plaster is laid, and the walls are painted, you won’t be able to tell the original materials from the new ones.
Mr. Gregory is a master craftsman for a reason. ”
I manage a nod. My thoughts are swirling inside, like a jigsaw puzzle, trying to piece together and make sense of what we’ve just seen. “Maybe not, but I’ll know,” I say softly.
We slide into the car, and Art starts the engine. We pull away from the flat. “Why is using the old material so important to you?”
“When you replace the old with something new, you lose a piece of the structure’s history.
In my flat’s case, it was somebody else’s home before it was mine.
It guts me to think that the floors where a child might’ve taken their first steps, or the walls where somebody might’ve marked how tall their children had grown, are being ripped out and discarded.
Even if the people have long passed on and we’ll never really know exactly what happened there, I’d like to try and honor those memories by preserving the spots where they occurred.
They add heart to the home. It’s silly, I know. ”
“I don’t think it’s silly. What you’re describing makes perfect sense. You see yourself as a caretaker of the building, more than an owner.”
“Exactly.” I lower my head to hide the flush I’m sure is appearing on my face. Art is beginning to understand me on as deep a level as Bruce. Yet another reason I’m falling for him.
“I understand why you might be frustrated, but I think your judgment is clouded. You’re focused on what’s being lost, not on what is being gained.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If it were anybody else, they might’ve walked through the flat and decided to gut everything and start fresh. But you, Alice, have decided to work ten times harder to do what you can to restore the flat. You’re giving it a second life it might otherwise never have had.”
My breath hitches. Art has called me Alice.
It’s the first time he’s broken that formal barrier between us.
It’s like my veins are being infused with an IV of hot fudge.
I’m filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling. I want him to say my name again.
I’m so tired of being called ma’am. Your Highness.
Princess. Call me Alice, please, I mentally beg.
“I never looked at it like that.” A silly smile tugs at my lips. “Are you turning into Mr. Positivity?”
I’m rewarded with a flicker of one of his own elusive smiles. “That’s another secret that can stay between us, ma’am.”
“Nuh-uh. No more ma’am when we’re in private. You finally called me Alice, so that’s the name you’re going to stick to.”
The tips of his ears redden, and he grips the steering wheel tighter. “It was a slip of the tongue, ma’am. I didn’t mean for it to come out.”
“Well, it did, and now you can’t take it back. You have to call me Alice. In fact, I’m ordering you to do so. Forget whatever the rules say.”
“Ma’am . . .”
“Arthur . . .”
“Your Highness . . .”
“Arthur . . .”
“Princess . . .”
“Arthur . . .”
He groans.
“I can keep doing this all day.” I chuckle. “I have a lifetime of practice bantering thanks to my brother.”
“You’re really not inclined to drop this?”
“Nope. I tried for years to get Bruce to call me Alice. This time around, you and Angela will be converted to my ways.” I don’t mention Angela gave in a few days ago.
She didn’t even fight me about it. She shrugged it off and said she’d go along with whatever I wanted since I’m technically her boss.
Art shakes his head. “Fine. You win.”
I dance in my seat. “Victory is mine.”
“For now,” he says in a silky, sure tone.
Clicking the car’s turn indicator on, Art pulls into a car park, settles into a spot, and turns off the engine. I’ve been so distracted by bantering with him that I have no idea where he’s taken me. He exits the car and goes around to open my door.
“Thanks.”
“I just need to exchange this jacket for one in the boot. Give me just a second, then we’ll pop up into the shop.” He slips the garment off his shoulders and wrinkles his nose. “You were right about the dust.”
The dress shirt fits snugly across his broad chest. As he moves his arms, his biceps and pecs pop.
I dry swallow. I knew he was fit after seeing him in riding trousers, but now I have a complete picture.
And it’s one I won’t forget anytime soon.
I take a moment to imprint this image and add it to my mental photo gallery.
At this rate, I’ll have to open an entire wing dedicated to him.
“Is something off?” he asks, noticing my staring as he slips a fresh black coat on and buttons the top button.
“No, er . . . you just have some dust on your bum,” I fib.
“I do?” He frowns and looks behind him. Using his hands, he brushes off the non-existent specks. “Is that any better?”
“Loads.”
“Good because I don’t have a place to change my trousers.”
The tips of my ears burn, and I cough. “Where are we exactly?”
“A shop in Kensal Town.”
“Arthur.”
“Ma’am.”
“I thought we went through this.” I rub my temples.
“We did.” He closes the boot and gestures around us. “We’re no longer in private; therefore, you are ma’am, Your Highness, or Princess.”
“Fine.” I hold up my hands in defeat. “Round two goes to you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now would you mind sharing where we are?”
“I did. Kensal Town.”
It’s clear he won’t be giving me an answer anytime soon. I’ll just have to follow his lead and see where we end up.