Then he writes something on his pad and holds it up.
I’m sorry.
I don’t know what he’s apologizing for, but that part of my brain wired to make connections is screaming that he knows I’m upset…and why.
“No worries. I’m fine.” I decide not to give him some lame excuse for why I ran out, because I suspect he’ll see right through it, but I don’t have the energy to power the fake smile, so I let it die out. Then we stand there, staring at each other in tense silence.
It’s becoming our thing.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” calls Coop on his way through the living room. A door closes a few rooms away. He’s obviously giving us a moment alone.
Theo’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ve never met anyone who could stand completely still yet give the impression he’s about to burst into dangerous motion. He’s like a cobra, coiled to strike.
In a muted voice, I ask, “How do you have all this prepared without ever meeting with me or being inside the house?”
He glances down at the book, flattens his big hand over the cover, exhales a slow breath through his nose. The he picks up the pen and pad.
I love this house. It deserves a second chance.
It’s an answer, but a careful one that sidesteps the actual question, so I think of how best to proceed. If he grew up in Seaside, he’s obviously familiar with the house. Maybe he even stayed here when it was an operating B&B. But that doesn’t explain why he’d have all these schematics and renderings done in such detail if he didn’t already have a client who wanted to refurbish the property.
Unless he did.
“Oh, I get it. You bid on the repair work after the fire in the kitchen, right?”
He blinks, once. I’m not sure if we’re using our telephone code and that’s a yes, or if he’s just blinking. “For the last owner, I mean.” I gesture to the book and blueprints, because he’s not answering, and I can’t tell if that look he’s wearing is annoyance or constipation.
Finally, he tilts his head to the side, a little jerk toward his shoulder that’s not a nod or a shake, it’s more like a Maybe. Or a Whatever. Or possibly a You’re irritating me with these stupid questions.
Dealing with this guy is too much work. It’s only half past nine in the morning, and I already need a drink.
“Forget it. Moving on to the elephant in the room. You and I have a problem. Let’s be nice and call it a personality conflict. This job is going to take a long time, and I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to sit up in my bedroom knitting while the men make all the decisions and run the show. This is my house. If I decide to hire you for this job—and I’m only saying if—I won’t tolerate your attitude.”
Slowly, he arches one of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, you heard me.” I wave a hand up and down, indicating his general impression of a volcano about to erupt. “This whole grouchy caveman thing you’ve got going is already on my last nerve, and you’ve only been here for fifteen minutes. I understand that you’ve been through some kind of trauma, but so have I, and you don’t see me going around glaring daggers at total strangers. Either you rein in your nasty mood monster, or we have nothing more to discuss.”
I fold my arms over my chest and wait for the volcano to blow.
But it never comes. Theo just stands there, gazing at me, his expression softening until it almost looks as if he’s about to break into laughter.
He props his hands on his hips, looks at the ground, shakes his head like he can’t believe what a psycho I am, then meets my eyes.
He nods—slowly, emphatically, an unmistakable yes—then smiles.
Beyond my shock that the man actually knows how to smile, my sense of relief is overwhelming. I feel like I’ve successfully negotiated with a terrorist. “Okay. Good. Well, like I said, I’ve already made a verbal agreement to work with Craig, so I’ll have to think about this over the weekend.”
Theo’s default scowl snaps back into place. He snatches up his pen and pad and does his thing, then thrusts it out at me, almost hitting me in the nose.
I’m the best man for the job!
I am this close to smacking that pad out of his hands and cracking him over the head with the Buttercup Inn book.
“Wow, you’re just determined to try my patience, aren’t you? Do you remember a few seconds back when I said rein it in, Sunshine? I fucking meant rein it in.”
His face falls, his shoulders slump, and he stares contritely at the floor like a five-year-old who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s ridiculously adorable. My heart softens toward him, this riddle of a man who’s a snarling bear one moment and a sad little boy the next.