Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ANDI
After lunch, we prepare to paint upstairs. Reece and Slim move the office furniture to the second garage while Fiona and I remove the baseboards and tape off the doorframes. We leave the ancient orange shag carpet to collect any drips.
Throughout the house, the exterior walls are the lovely, polished logs that make up the cabin, so only the interior walls need paint. The color palette Fiona selected features several shades of calm blue-grays and that yellow accent we both love. The office will be the darkest of the upstairs rooms, with the guest and master bedrooms in more restful, paler tones.
Once we’ve got the room prepped, Fiona and Slim disappear on some mysterious errand, leaving me and Reece alone in the house. We work for a long time, speaking only to discuss cutting techniques and when I need my paint tray refilled. The silence is comfortable but with an undertone of expectation.
At least on my side. Despite Fiona’s hints, I’m not sure Reece has any stronger feeling for me than he has for Hans. Probably less than he has for my brother. He’s been so distant and cool since our almost-kiss. I sigh and push my hair off my forehead.
“That sounded heavy.” Reece doesn’t turn away from the wall, as if painting requires all his attention.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He finishes a stroke and puts his roller down in the paint tray, wiping his hands on a rag. He turns to face me. “Is it something I can help with?”
I bite my lip. Of course it’s something he can help with. If he’d just tell me what he’s thinking, it would help immensely. But I can’t just say that, can I? What if he says he’s thinking about pizza? Or his spreadsheet? Or his ex-girlfriend? I try something less personal. “I have to leave.”
He goes still. “Leave, as in go back to Teo’s for the evening? Or something else?”
“I have to go to Freiberg.” Should I tell him I plan on returning to Oregon? What if he doesn’t care—or worse, doesn’t want me here? I blurt it out anyway, in a bad Terminator accent. “I’ll be back.”
He nods, as if this is gravely interesting news, in a distant, heard it online kind of way. The way one reacts to reports of a minor earthquake in California. “Hmm.”
Right. He doesn’t care. My eyes sting. I lift my chin and turn back to my painting. “I just thought you should know.”
He lifts the roller and rolls it up and down the grooved tray to even out the paint, most of his attention focused on the tool in his hands. His question comes out flat and uninterested, as if this conversation is merely passing the time. “When will you go?”
I blink away the tears that are trying to form. “I scheduled a flight for Friday. My visa runs out next week, and if I want a green card, I need to stay on the right side of the law.”
“You rebel, you.” His attempt at humor—if that’s what it was—falls flat.
“Vatti says it’s like trying to get a job—they’re looking for reasons to refuse and all it takes is one. I’m making sure I don’t give them any.” I dip my brush in the paint and attack the last corner where the interior wall meets the strip of trim against the logs. The trim is taped off, and baseboard will cover the bottom two inches, but I’m an artist, so leaving unpainted canvas goes against the grain. And undoubtedly slows the process, but once I’m finished, I’ll have no reason to stay.
Which, now that I think about it, is a good thing. I dab the last bit of paint into the corner, wipe up a splash on the tape so it doesn’t sneak beneath, and scrape the paint off my brush. Then I stand and step back to check my work. “That’s it. The rest is up to you.”
Reece lowers the long-handled roller, drawing it across the faded pink on the lower bit of the room. “Looks good. Do you want to…”
When he pauses, I turn to look at him from under my eyelashes. “Do I want to do what?” Is he going to ask me out?
“Clean up that paint brush? Rinse it in the bucket?—”
“Artist, remember?” I poke a thumb at my chest. “I know how to clean a brush. You can dump this paint back into the bucket.” I smack my tray onto the floor hard enough to splash pale gray on the dirty orange shag, then stalk out of the room.
“Andi, wait!” Reece calls.
For a split second, I debate ignoring him, but my hard-earned etiquette response steps in. I turn, spine straight, chin up, professionally bored expression on my face. “Yes?”
He visibly deflates. “You can leave the brush in the laundry sink. I’ll clean it.”
I nod. “Will you need me tomorrow?”
“We’ll be painting the guest room.”
I raise the brush and salute him. “I’ll be here at nine.” Then I pivot on my heel and stride down the hallway.
* * *
When I arrive the next morning, Reece and his parents have clearly been at work for hours. The guest room furniture is gone and the baseboards removed. Fiona finishes the last of the taping while Slim and Reece stand in the office debating the next step.
“Definitely should have pulled the carpet before painting.” Slim stands in the doorway to the office. “Now we need to wait until it’s cured so we don’t get dirt stuck to the walls.”
Reece frowns. “The girls were in such a hurry to get started?—”
I stomp toward them, incensed. Fiona grabs my arm as I pass her doorway. “Don’t. They’re trying to rile you up. They know it was their decision, but if you react, they’ll do it again next time.”
I glare at the two men, then turn to Fiona, speaking loud enough to ensure they’ll hear. “Since we clearly messed up their plans, I suggest we give them space to make decisions without external influences.”
Fiona’s eyes glow. “I know what that means! Shopping!” She sings the last word high and long, dusting her hands against her pristine jeans.
“Someone has to select accent pieces for the house, and we can’t leave it up to… inferior sensibilities.” I sweep an arm toward the stairs. “Do you care to join me, Lady Turner?”
“But of course, Your Highness.”
I blink. Slim said she knows who I am, but she’s handling it much better than the average person. Most people get kind of weird, trying to bow without bowing and trying out all kinds of ridiculous forms of address. Of course, Fiona is British, and they’re more accustomed to royalty than Americans.
Ignoring the men’s complaints about desertion, Fiona and I hurry down the stairs to the front walk. I pat down my pockets. “I left my keys in the house.”
“I have Reece’s truck.” Fiona jingles a key fob at me. “No offense, but I’m not sure your car will make it to Rotheberg, much less to Bend.”
I laugh. “None taken, because I have the same feeling every time I start it.”
* * *
We spend the day perusing the funky shops in downtown Bend, comparing notes on décor ideas and colors. I pick out a few accent items Fiona vetoes, then nix the painted cow skull and three-foot-tall blue resin mushrooms she suggests as a joke. By lunch time, we’ve accomplished nothing except raising my spirits.
Fiona Turner is a lovely woman. She asks no personal questions and treats me like a friend of her daughter. Her son must have tipped her off to my financial situation, since she suggests an inexpensive pho place for lunch. Or maybe she just likes Vietnamese food. When we exhaust discussion of the renovation, she shifts the conversation to places I’ve traveled. I tell her about my trip to a K-pop concert in Vienna, skipping the bit where we got outed by the paparazzi and invited to meet the performers. It’s the most exciting part of the trip, but I’m not sure how much she knows about my background, and that bit feels like name dropping. The morning has been so lovely I don’t want to make it awkward.
Then I tell her how Reece and I met, emphasizing the humorous aspects of our encounter. I describe my ridiculous underground apartment in detail and tell her about the sightseeing Celeste and I accomplished before that fateful night.
“And Celeste is a friend from back home?” She raises a brow as she scoops up some noodles with her chopsticks. They all slither back into the bowl, and she laughs. “How do you do this?”
I show her how to hold her chopsticks. “We should have eaten Thai. Reece says—” I bite my lip and take a breath against the little stab of sadness his name sends through me. “He says they put the noodles in the spoon.” I demonstrate then nod at the diners around us. “But I guess the Vietnamese do it differently.”
“That’s okay. I’m an old white lady. They should expect me to mess it up.”
“You’re not old!”
She waves off my protest. “You should have seen us eating Ethiopian food last time we were in Las Vegas. We found the cutest little restaurant, and the owner showed us. You scoop up the food with this pancake thing and fold it into a package. She made it look so neat and easy, and I was such a mess!” She tries the chopsticks again, laughing when she gets a few noodles into her mouth. “Success!”
“Yes, Celeste travels with me a lot. Or used to—” I break off, remembering she’s given up that part of the job. “She’s got a new job, so she won’t be able to go as much anymore. It’s too bad—I think she’d like it here.” Calm and quiet, and not too many potential dangers.
“Don’t you have to take a protection detail?” She puts her chopsticks across the rim of her bowl, her bright eyes fixed on me.
I choke.
She hands me my glass of water. “I thought Slim told you I know. Katie is so jealous.”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I didn’t realize how many details you’d have. Clearly, I need to meet my biggest fan.”
“She’d love that. Maybe when you get back from Freiberg.” She pokes at her soup for a moment, then replaces the chopsticks and folds her arms to lean across the table. “I don’t want to interfere, but—Reece likes you, Andi. I know it’s hard to tell. He’s always been… stoic, but after his grandad passed, he got much worse.”
My jaw tightens and I look away. “I’m not sure what to do with that.”
“I’m not suggesting you do anything.” She picks up the utensils again. “I just wanted to make sure you don’t take his gruff attitude as proof of indifference. Trust me, I know. He’s so much like his father. I could never tell how he felt about me, but I didn’t let that stop me. I saw what I wanted, and I went after it. But you aren’t me, and you need to do what’s best for you.”
She’s clearly much more self-assured than I’ll ever be. The idea of making the next move at this point curdles the soup in my stomach. I push my half-full bowl away. Or is it half-empty? I’m generally an optimist, but slamming my head into the grumpy wall of Reece’s apparent apathy has made me question so much.
Fiona reaches across the table and pats my hand. “You’re a lovely girl, and I can see why Reece likes you. But you’re young—you have all the time in the world. Do your thing. If it’s meant to be, he’ll figure it out. Or you will. I love my son, but that doesn’t mean I think you should put your own plans on hold for him.”
I pick up my spoon. “That is some of the most conflicting advice I’ve ever received.”
“I live to serve.” She laughs and puts her chopsticks aside. “But not to serve pho, obviously. Let’s get this to go and find some ice cream.”