Chapter 8
I don’t think the house is his vibe. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, with the updated kitchen, new flooring, and large windows, but his body language is telling me he’s not feeling it.
Some people have very specific checklists when they’re looking at houses, and some are more about the feeling.
He’s definitely a feeling guy, I can tell.
As we exit the master on the second floor, he turns to look at me, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think this is what I’m looking for. It doesn’t feel very homey.”
“I thought so,” I reply. “Well, maybe the next one.”
“An attic?” he says suddenly. I follow his gaze up to find the string hanging from the ceiling. “Let’s go look. I haven’t seen an attic like that in a long time.”
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, come on. Are you afraid?”
“Yeah, a little. Attics are notoriously creepy.” I don’t usually get spooked by many things, but for some reason this place is giving me the creeps. I’m a vibes kind of person too.
“I’ll protect you.”
My heart skips from the way he’s looking at me. “Maybe I’ll be the one protecting you.”
“Okay then. Protect me.” He steps forward and pulls on the string. It creaks a little. Then a lot.
“You can go first,” I say in a mocking tone.
He huffs out a breath that was almost a laugh and climbs up the stairs. I follow behind with hesitation in every step. The wooden steps creak beneath my boots.
The attic is bigger than I imagined, with unfinished wooden walls and sloped ceilings. And a lot of dust.
There’s one window at the far end, letting in rays of sunlight that highlight even more dust. In the corner, I notice a medium-sized wooden desk, and something about it pulls me toward it.
Its surface is worn and scratched from heavy use.
Someone once sat here often. I run my fingers along the indents.
When I turn back around, I find Jameson moving slowly through a couple of pieces of furniture covered with worn sheets.
“Nothing interesting. Bummer,” I muse.
“What were you hoping for?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Something old and cool maybe?”
“You didn’t even want to come up here.”
“True. But once I committed, I started thinking of the possibilities.”
He shakes his head, though his gaze lingers on mine for what feels longer than appropriate between a realtor and a client. Or am I imagining that?
I clear my throat again and head toward the exit in the attic floor.
Then I trip when a loose floorboard catches my boot, flinging the other end up and nearly smacking my shin. I miss it only because I fall back on my butt. I hit the ground with a loud thud.
Jameson is beside me almost instantly. “Are you okay?” he asks, kneeling next to me and placing a hand on my shoulder.
Flustered, I scramble to recover and stand. He rises with me, steadying me with a hand under my arm.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I say with a laugh. Only slightly embarrassed.
I dust my butt off absently, glancing down at the wooden plank that took me out. It’s now out of place, exposing a shallow hole—and there’s something inside.