Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
REECE
Meeting with an interior designer is the last thing I want to do. Well, second to last—it’s better than shopping for clothes. But Mum insisted that spending the money to get it done well would be worth the cost. If it were up to me, I would have painted everything beige, and she knows it. Hiring a designer will ensure I do the job right. Every last, boring, bit.
When Grandad passed away, he left my mum with a staggering pile of money. We didn’t know he was loaded—apparently, he’d purchased several properties in Notting Hill when it was still a slum and made a killing after gentrification.
When I was growing up, we lived on four or five different ranches my father managed back in Texas, but none of them belonged to us. Dad took care of the buildings, animals, and property for the wealthy, absentee owners in exchange for a place to live and a small income. Thanks to Grandad’s unexpected bequest, they were able to send me to college, and I’m using the maintenance skills learned at my father’s knee and my business education to flip property.
I started with a house in Texas, but the market was fairly dry. After it sold, Katie suggested I check out the northwest—apparently everyone wants to live here. Finding a place I can afford—without tapping into Mum and Dad—was a challenge, but the little place in town fell into my lap. Then I found out about this ranch. It’s been empty for ages, and the owner was motivated to sell. The house is old and small, and wealthy folks from the valley—Portland and Salem—or Seattle, want nicer homes. Which means it’s perfect for someone like me.
For the last couple of months, I’ve had my head down, working outdoors while the weather is good—new irrigation and a small front lawn. I added a few trees and bushes that will survive the hot summers and cold winters and not get eaten by deer. But it’s time to work on the inside, which desperately needs it. A knock at the door brings me out of my reverie, and I cross the worn floor to fling it open. Sunlight hits me square in the eyes, making them water. I sneeze. “Sorry.”
“Mr. Turner?” The woman’s assertive tone brings me up short. “I am Kellie Frances, from Western Harmony. I hope you don’t mind that I brought my assistant. May we come in?”
Blinking to clear my sight, I step away from the door. “Yes, please.” I met Kellie at the same mixer where Teo and I connected, but she clearly doesn’t remember me. As the two move inside, I swipe the tears away and close the door. After the brilliant sunlight, the interior of my log cabin-style house is dark. “Can I get you anything?”
“A flashlight would be great.” Her dry tone makes it difficult to tell if she’s joking. She flicks on her cell phone flashlight and pans it around the room. I guess she wasn’t.
“Obviously the lack of light needs to be addressed.” I tap the small window in the top of the door. “I’ve cleaned the windows, but it doesn’t seem to help much.” The light swings around and pinions me. I squint and lift a hand to shield my face. “Do you mind?”
The light lowers to my chest. “Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry. “We have a lot of work to do. Andi, record this.”
Andi? My heart does a weird jumpy thing at the name, but I squash it. No way a princess—even a former, disgraced one—is going to end up in my house in rural Oregon as a designer’s assistant. This must be Teo’s sister.
I still can’t help my stupid feelings. Random things remind me of that night in London, and it sets off a daydream. With a mental sigh, I give myself a swift talking-to. You met the woman for thirty minutes and she’s way out of your league. Not only that, but she lives on the other side of the world.
I could live over there, stupid-Reece argues.
Get over it already. Besides, you have a job to do and don’t need memories of an unattainable dream distracting you.
It’s been two months since that dinner with Hans and Teo, but this is the first time I’ve met the sister. I’d think he was doubling down on his warning, except it’s undoubtedly my fault. I’ve barely left the property, working all of the daylight hours. When I do go into town, I grab groceries, or check on the Wanderweg house, or meet with the realtor. I don’t have time for goofing off.
“The porch is too deep.” Kellie’s harsh voice brings me back to reality. She stands beside the larger window and stares out at the beautiful porch. “I wonder if we could remove the whole thing? Andi, make a note. I need to call my contact at Swiss Homes. They build log cabins.” Her lip curls as she throws the last two words at me, as if this style of house is beneath her usual notice. She pivots on a chunky heel and strides into the kitchen.
With a quick look at the almost invisible assistant, I follow the designer through the doorway.
“We definitely need to open this up.” She waves a hand at the tiny galley kitchen. “In fact, I think we should open that entire wall. Or convert this to a pantry and put the kitchen elsewhere. That’s the dining room, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she drops a notebook on the counter and pushes out the other door.
Bemused, I follow. We tour the rest of the small house in the same whirlwind fashion, the assistant following far enough behind that I don’t get a good look at her. Kellie flips curtains aside, peruses rooms, then storms onward, leaving a clutter of belongings in her wake. She throws comments and commands over her shoulder as she goes.
When we return to the living room, Kellie pauses, both hands on her hips. “Are you married to this house? We could tear it down and build something really stunning. Or leave it as a guest house and build a new main.”
My heart sinks. Western Harmony must have done a lot of research. Kellie should have no way to know my family’s financial picture, but she’s talking as if I have unlimited funds.
“That is outside the scope of our current plans.” I cross my arms as I loiter by the stairway, still trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Andi. The rational part of my mind insists this can’t be the woman I met in London. Even ignoring the royalty issue, she hasn’t uttered a word. The Andi I rescued didn’t stop talking.
Kellie nods slowly, one brow rising in speculation. “Fine. We can start small and scale up. We’ll make this a showplace, then talk about expansion. Here’s what I’m thinking.” As she rambles on about whitewashed ceilings, stripping the floors, and vintage juniper log furniture, I turn my thoughts to the afternoon’s chores.
“I love a retro look for this, but we can go more modern. What do you think?”
With a startled jerk, I bring my attention back to the woman. “Can you do mock-up drawings of both? The owners are in London, so I need to narrow it down, then present it to them.” No way I’m taking responsibility for picking out throw rugs and quilts on my own. Besides, inventing an absentee owner gives me wiggle room.
Kellie looks disappointed. “I thought you were the owner. Some of these decisions will include budgetary repercussions.” Before I can answer, she turns away and yells up the stairs. “Andi! Where are you?”
I clear my throat. “I have full authority to make financial decisions, but design choices are up to the owner.”
Andi appears at the top of the steps, her head down, gaze focused on the clutter of Kellie’s discarded jacket, notebook, and tablet. I catch a glimpse of dark bangs that have escaped from a bohemian scarf with beaded edges, and sigh. No stunning green hair. I turn back to Kellie, reprimanding the wildly optimistic part of my brain. A famous royal from Freiberg—one known for her art in addition to her social standing—wouldn’t take a job as an assistant to a small-town interior designer.
The older woman thrusts a hand at me. “I’ll let you know when we have the preliminary drawings and estimates completed. Thank your employers for trusting us with their interior. Come, Andi!” She sails to the door then stops to look back at me with a haughty raised brow.
I hurry to her side and open the door. “Thank you.” I stand in the entry, holding the door open with my foot. “I look forward to seeing your presentation.”
Head still bowed, Andi scurries past me in her boss’s wake. The spicy scent of her perfume drops me squarely back in that Circle line train in London. “Andi? From London?”
She pauses on the porch, then straightens her hunched shoulders and turns. Her brilliant smile hits me like a ton of bricks. “Nice to see you again, Reece.” And she runs down the steps to join the impatient woman in the silver Lexus.