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When she appeared in the doorway of the bedroom he was ready for her. Not at so much of a disadvantage.
Of course, his grandmother would have been horrified to see him lounging on the bed, leaning against stacked pillows he didn’t recognize any more than anything else in this room.
He felt almost as though he were in a dream where things were familiar but weren’t. The woman currently surveying him was real though. No question there.
She was also hot, he realized, surveying her. She looked pissed off yet confused and unsure of herself all at once. An interesting combination.
He liked the neat way she’d put herself together. She had long blond hair and eyes that couldn’t make up their mind between gray and blue and so made you keep noticing them, to wonder.
She wore a black skirt and white blouse with chunky black jewelry. She had nice legs. She might have a nice smile; however, at the moment her lips were so tight together they could be sewed shut.
Then she opened them. Not to smile unfortunately. To speak.
“We have to talk.”
He let his head fall back, and if it weren’t for all the fancy pillows on the bed he’d have hit the walnut headboard. “Four most frightening words in the English language.”
He almost got a glimpse of her smile, but to his consternation she managed to suppress it. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” He glanced around the room once more. “Did you move in here or something?”
“Of course not. I told you, I’m a Realtor. I’ve listed this house for sale.”
“Well, unless my grandmother spent the last months of her life redecorating her house in condo-modern, somebody else’s stuff is in here.”
She looked at him as though he was missing half his marbles. He was tired, but he couldn’t be that tired.
“I had this home professionally staged.”
When it was clear he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, she continued.
“We clear out the clutter and bring in pieces and accessories to showcase the home in the best way possible. I think the improvement is amazing.”
“It doesn’t look like my grandmother’s house anymore.” Except for the big bed which he’d instinctively been drawn to last night. It had reminded him of home, tradition, his grandmother.
As he stared up at her, suddenly the four-poster filled him with other thoughts. Adult thoughts. Her slim hands wrapped around the bedposts while she writhed in passion. He blinked, glancing away before she could catch the lust in his eyes.
“It’s not supposed to. The concept of staging is to inspire the buyer to see the possibilities and leave them space to imagine their own furniture and personal items in the home.”
There were all sorts of things he could reply, such as, he wanted his grandmother’s stuff brought back. Even as tired as he was, still he knew that what he really wanted was his grandmother back and that wasn’t going to happen. So he went on the offensive. “You need to move all this crap out of here.”
Her eyes shifted more to gray when she got huffy. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I have a listing agreement.”
“Not with me.”
“My agreement is with Mrs. Neeson’s attorney.”
“That’s a funny thing, because the house was left to me.” He had to be honest though. “I do remember some weird-ass conversation with her lawyer. I was in Libya with a camp of rebels. It was a bad connection. Maybe he thought I said yes to listing the house when I didn’t.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He’d kill for a cup of coffee. “I’ll probably sell, but I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet.”
“This puts me in a very difficult position.” She seemed not to know what to do. He got the impression that she was as staged as the house she was attempting to sell. All at once it occurred to him that she was pretty new at this biz. Probably hadn’t come across any difficult situations yet.
Well, she was in one now.
A frown marred her pretty face. “I don’t want to be rude but I have no proof you are Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.
He figured she had a point, and he already sensed she was stubborn enough that she wouldn’t leave until she was satisfied he was who he said he was. So he shifted until he could reach his wallet, took it out, seeing it through her eyes as a grubby, falling-apart-at-the-seams excuse for a wallet. He opened the Velcro flap that was only half stuck down and offered her his driver’s license.
She took a look. Stared at him and back at the picture as if she was a bouncer wondering if his ID was fake. “You don’t have the same last name.”
“That’s right. It’s a maternal/paternal thing.”
“I think maybe you should leave and we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”
He was no more going to leave this house than he was going to put up with being bossed around by an uppity blond in too-high heels. “That’s not going to happen.” Enough already. He wanted to get back to his nap. In peace. “Let’s call Edward Barnes. He knows me.”
“He’s on a wine-tasting trip in California. And if you actually know him, you’ll know he—”
“Doesn’t carry a cell phone,” he finished for her, feeling increasingly irritated. He prided himself on keeping cool in a crisis but this was getting ridiculous. “How did I get in?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I opened the door, which was locked. How did I get in if I’m not her grandson?”
“The key hidden under the planter. Probably the second place anyone would look, after checking under the mat.”
“I am not leaving here. I am the legal owner of this home.”
“All I’m asking you to do is prove it.”
He jumped up as the obvious solution struck him. “Photo albums with pictures of me and my grandmother.”
She looked guilty. “Remember what I told you about decluttering?”
“Where are the photo albums?”
“In storage.”
This was turning into a bad farce. You might as well try and milk a rhinoceros as reason with this woman. Some of the old neighbors might have recognized him but most had moved on. Or died.
It was difficult to think when he was in a bedroom, in a bed, and a very attractive woman was alone with him. In heels. Now he pictured her in nothing but those black heels stretched out on the white expanse of the bed.
He had to get out of here. And soon, before he was as hard as one of the bedposts. He shifted and sat up. “Follow me.”
She was instantly suspicious. “Follow you where?”
“My first choice would be to the front door—” he was lying, it was his second choice “—but if that’s not going to happen, then I want to show you something in my old bedroom down the hall.” He scowled as he maneuvered his legs off the bed, trying not to wince, and headed for the door. “I mean, what used to be my old bedroom. Before you turned it into a nursery.” Which was why he’d had to crash in his grandmother’s bed instead of his own.
His progress was halting at best. She followed slowly, then said, “Oh, my gosh. We moved a black cane into storage. I assumed it was Mrs. Neeson’s. Was it yours?”
“No. It was my grandmother’s.” He didn’t feel like explaining. Especially since she supposedly didn’t even believe he was Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.
“Oh, good.”
She wisely refrained from further comment and simply followed his slow progress to the room that had been his for what seemed like his entire life. His grandmother had let him redecorate it after his parents got divorced and maybe that had helped him feel like there’d always be somewhere in his life that was permanent.
The daylight filtered through the dormer window and he remembered all the mornings he’d lain in bed, gazing at the sky, dreaming of travel, of adventure, of a future where he set his own rules.
Under the dormer was a window seat. He noted that the stager had placed a fancy cushion on top of the spot where he’d folded himself into the space between the walls and read comic books hour after hour.
He removed the designer cushion, tossed it onto the faux-leather chair neither he nor his grandmother would ever have chosen. He pulled up on the wooden top of the box and it gave slightly.
“That doesn’t open,” she said in a smug tone. “We tried it.”
“Yeah it does.” He’d worked ages on the project figuring out an intricate puzzle opening to keep his stash of treasures secret. The cool thing about his grandmother was that she’d never asked him how to get into the thing. Never asked him what he kept in there. She was the kind of woman who respected a man’s privacy and trusted him with his secrets. He wished there were more women like that in the world.
When Hailey moved closer to check out what he was doing he caught her scent. Elusive, feminine, sexy as a woman in nothing but stilettos. And maybe a wisp or two of lingerie.
He slid his index finger into the familiar groove. His fingers were thicker now he’d grown up but he could still maneuver the latch that raised the top another inch, allowing him access to the second mechanism. It took him another minute and then he lifted the lid all the way, staring down into the hollow box for the first time in years.
There wasn’t much there. A few old comics he’d never part with. He pushed his first baseball glove out of the way, a dog-eared National Geographic, and there, underneath a wooden knife he’d carved himself in his Samurai phase, was the leather folder. He took it out, brushed a dead moth off, and handed it to her. He rose from his crouched position and looked over her shoulder as she opened it.
Once more he caught her scent. Not flowery. Citrus with underlying tones of heat.
The photograph and accompanying citation were among his few treasures. “You won a city-wide photography contest,” she said. “You were in high school.” When she turned to him he was struck again by the blue-gray eyes. Like her scent, the first impression was coolness, and then you caught the heat behind the cool facade.
“Yes, but that’s not the point. Check out the picture. And read the caption.”
An absurdly young version of himself in a sports jacket—one of half a dozen times in his life he’d ever worn anything formal—his grandmother and his mom stood in a little trio, him holding his winning photograph—a bear cub sitting on top of a Dumpster eating an apple. It wasn’t much of a big event in a person’s life but to him that award had signaled the beginning of a career. Becoming a photojournalist had given him freedom, adventure, life on the road and a reasonable salary.
She read aloud. “‘Robert Klassen, fifteen, wins for his photograph, An Apple a Day, while his mother, Emily Klassen, and his grandmother, Agnes Neeson, look on.”
He pointed to his young self. “That’s me and that’s my grandmother.”
Her expression softened in a smile. “It’s a great photograph. And you were a very cute teenager.” She closed the folder and handed it back to him.
“Are you satisfied now that I am who I say I am?”
She turned her head and he was struck once more by the impact of those in-between-blue-and-gray eyes. “You pretty much had me when you opened the Chinese-puzzle-box window seat.”
“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” He was, too. Apart from being a little high-strung, she seemed like a nice woman. “Thing is, I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to sell the place. And if I do I’ll want to choose my own Realtor.”
Her nostrils flared at that. “Do you have a relationship with a Realtor in Seattle?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, let me tell you, I am an extremely competent Realtor with excellent references. I think the MacDonalds were a real possibility.”
“They seemed freaked out that my grandmother died in her bed.”
She slammed her hands to her hips. Perfectly manicured hands, no wedding ring. “She didn’t. Your grandmother, as I’m sure you know, passed away in hospital.”
A shaft of pain stabbed him. Grief, he supposed. He tried to ignore it. “Not the point. If you’d known my grandmother you’d have wanted her spirit to stay in the house.” Maybe that was why he had such a heavy feeling when he thought of other people occupying this place. To him she was still here. “People who are scared of ghosts, they wouldn’t be my kind of people or my grandmother’s.” He knew he was overtired and would soon feel more like his old self; until then though he really had to get a grip. And probably stop talking before he made a fool of himself.
The woman smiled at him. “It’s hard to let go when we’ve loved someone,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” As trite as her words sound, they were sincere.
“Were you close?”
“Oh, yeah. She pretty much raised me.” He couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him if he’d been left with his mother. His grandmother had not only raised him; she’d saved him. Given him a chance to make something of his life.
When Hailey looked at him, he felt as though she could see inside him. It was the weirdest feeling and he knew she felt it, too, from how she took an instinctive step back toward the door. It was as if they both became aware at the same moment that they were alone together in a bedroom—even if the spread was covered in little yellow duckies. He could have sworn the temperature zoomed up a few degrees.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
That’s when he became convinced she really could read his mind. “I would get on my knees and beg for a cup.”
A genuine smile tilted her lips. Finally. “No need to beg. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He thought about asking her to bring the coffee up but knew she’d get the wrong impression. Thing was, stairs were the hardest for him to navigate. For some reason, which he could not identify, he didn’t want this woman to see him limping. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll make some later.”
“I’d like a cup anyway. And besides, I do want to talk to you.”
HAILEY GAVE HERSELF a pep talk as she prepared coffee. Stay confident, she reminded herself as she poured freshly ground beans into a French press. Be positive. Luckily she’d stocked up on coffee the day before, even had fresh milk in the refrigerator, so it wasn’t long before her favorite scent in the world filled the bright kitchen.
She heard a noise behind her and turned to find Robert Klassen in the kitchen. He was taller than she’d first imagined and upright he was more commanding and definitely more sexy.
“Have a seat,” she said brightly, pointing to the oak chairs at the kitchen table that she and Julia had decided to keep.
“Thanks.” He seemed to hesitate, then moved forward. Slowly. Stiffly. When he went to sit down, he leaned on the table and lowered himself slowly into a chair.
She turned away, busying herself with coffee so he wouldn’t think she was staring.
“Do you take milk and sugar?”
“No. Black.”
She brought coffees to the table and sat opposite him. According to her electronic planner she had thirty-five minutes until she had to be at the office for the weekly meeting and pep talk. She was determined to use the time to save her listing.
He sipped coffee. Seemed to savor every drop.
“You like your coffee,” she said, somewhat amused.
“When you live the way I do, you don’t take things like coffee or a good meal for granted. Even clean water is a luxury.” He sipped again, caught her gaze and then said, “I got shot. That’s why I’m limping. It’s no big deal, but I need to rest up for a few weeks.”
“Shot? I thought you were a photographer.” She wished she’d listened more closely.
“I’m a photojournalist. I work for World Week.”
