Midnight Valentine(17)

I don’t care what happened to make Theo Valentine such a jerk. This nonsense stops now.

I find him in my bedroom, standing at the end of my bed. He’s staring down at the mattress, strewn with sheets and a blanket, all a twisted mess because I toss and turn all night every night and I haven’t made my bed since I became a widow. I stop in the doorway and fold my arms across my chest. Coop is right behind me, breathing down my neck in palpable anxiety.

“Theo.”

He turns his head a fraction, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“I appreciate you coming out. I do not appreciate your manners, which are atrocious, or that chip on your shoulder, or whatever the heck it is you’re doing right now. Which is all sorts of creepy, by the way.”

He turns all the way around and stares at me. His eyes are like lit fuses, scorching the air.

“Oh, hi! Nice of you to join us back here on earth! Are you done with your little inspection of my bed? Because if you are, you know where the front door is. Don’t let it hit ya.”

Behind me, Coop smothers what could be a laugh or a groan with his hand.

Then—surprise!—Theo’s black brows draw together into a scowl. From an inside pocket of his coat, he whips out a pen and a small spiral notebook, flips open the cover, then scribbles something, his hand moving like lightning over the page. He thrusts the pad out so I can read what he’s written.

Sorry. Not good with people. Don’t hire Capstone.





Not good with people? Hello, understatement of the century. “That ship has already sailed, Sunshine. Craig’s sending over the contract Monday.”

More furious scribbling. Then he walks closer and thrusts the pad right into my face.

I’m better!





I bat his hand away. “You’re also a pain in my ass. And, frankly, maybe a little unhinged. The thought of having you around for the six months or so it’s going to take to finish work on my house is less than appealing.”

He stands there, nostrils flared, scowl darkening, vibrating annoyance and frustration, until Coop clears his throat. Theo’s black gaze flashes over my shoulder.

“Maybe you should show her the plans, T.”

I ask, “Plans? What plans?”

But Theo has decided this is a good idea, because he’s already shoving past us and heading back downstairs at a run. The front door opens, then slams closed.

Astonished, I look at Coop. “Seriously, he’s abnormal. I can’t believe anyone would hire that guy.”

Sounding apologetic, Coop says, “He’s not usually this bad.”

“How comforting. Can you give me a single good reason I’d hire someone who hates my guts?”

Coop’s blue eyes soften into something that looks suspiciously like pity. “He doesn’t hate you,” he says gently. “Believe me, if he did, we wouldn’t be here. You just…agitate him.”

I laugh, because that’s another whopper of an understatement. “You don’t say? Wait, don’t tell me—he’s secretly in love with me, right?”

Coop solemnly shakes his head. “No.”

I inspect his face, which is devoid of anything even approaching laughter. “Please tell me you realize that was a joke.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I lift my brows. “Do they not allow sarcasm in this town? Because if that’s the case, I might as well scrap the whole project and move somewhere where people can appreciate my biting sense of humor and deep love of snark.”

Before he can reply, the front door opens and closes again—with a resounding slam, because apparently Theo Valentine doesn’t do anything gently—then three loud thuds vibrate the floorboards beneath my feet.

I look at Coop in disbelief. “Did he just stamp his foot on the floor to call us downstairs?”

Coop’s sigh is resigned. “’Fraid so. We better get down there before he loses his patience.”

I bark out a laugh that’s half humor and half outrage. “This is him being patient?”

“You really don’t want to know,” Coop mutters, then heads out of the room.

When we get downstairs, we find Theo in the kitchen. On the marble island, he’s set a large, rectangular book. It has a blue linen cover, embossed with the words “Buttercup Inn” in silver foil, in an old-fashioned typestyle with lots of swirly lines. Beside the book are several rolled-up folios that appear to be architectural drawings.

My curiosity piqued, I walk closer. “What’s all this?”

Theo simply gestures to the book, as if to say, Look.

I open the cover, start to turn pages, and lose my breath.

The book is filled with page after page of gorgeous, full-color computer renderings of the Buttercup Inn. Only not the way it is now—the way it would look after extensive renovations.