As they ascended to the second floor he mentally catalogued everything in need of—what were Rocky’s words? Oh, yeah. “A little work.” For one, the stairway needed an overhaul. That entailed ripping up worn carpet, sanding and staining the steps, replacing the balusters, handrail, newel post, and newel. At present, this main stairway was not only butt-ugly but a safety hazard.
“Whatever, Cecelia,” Harper said into her phone. “I have to go. What? No, I didn’t forget … I’m on it. I will. I have to go.” She signed off as they breached the last step. “I forgot, dammit.” She spun around, nearly knocking Sam back down the stairs.
He rooted himself, rooted her.
They were close enough to kiss. Yeah, boy, if he angled in, that lush mouth would be his for the taking. His heart pumped like a mother. Lust ravaged his calm. Casual sex wasn’t his style. Something told him it was hers, though.
“I need a ride into town,” she said with a manipulative smile and a pat to his chest. “That’s where I was headed when I wrecked. My cable’s out and I have to watch a show that’s airing at noon. I had dinner at the Sugar Shack the other night and there were plasmas hanging above the bar. I thought…” She faltered and frowned. “Is my lipstick smeared or something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you are staring at my mouth?”
“It’s a mouth worth staring at.”
“Was that a come on?”
“A compliment.” An observance he should have kept to himself. An observance that knocked her silent.
Miracle of miracles.
It was one of those moments when clocks stopped and time froze. When heartbeats were audible and skin prickled. Sam hadn’t experienced anything like this in a long while. He should’ve been thrilled. He wasn’t.
She stepped back, breaking the connection, angling her head and studying Sam as if seeing him for the first time. “What’s a man like you—”
“What kind of man is that?”
“The kind who could take on an action star’s role.” She eyed him like a prized bull. “If a spot opens in the
“I’ve got two young kids. Tissues are mandatory.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do kids.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t strike me as maternal.”
“What do I strike you as?”
“Funny, but that sounded like an insult.” She smirked. “So are you driving me into town or what?”
Sam resisted the urge to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless. What the hell was wrong with him? “I’m not driving you anywhere until we clean that head wound. I guess that qualifies as ‘or what.’”
“I guess it does.” Looking irritated now, Harper turned on her heel and headed down the hall. “Fine. Follow me. I’ve got some peroxide and Band-Aids … Rocky said you’re handy. Does that extend to electronics? Maybe you can determine what’s wrong with my cable. When I called, those idiots said they’d be here between nine and five. Hello? Anything after eleven thirty is too late.”
“I’ll take a look.”
Ignoring her sexy figure as she peeled off her coat, Sam focused on where she was heading. As a kid he’d sneaked into this house with his cousins during the numerous times it had been abandoned. They crept though every room, recanting the haunted tale of Mary Rothwell, one of the original Cupcake Lovers, a woman who, according to legend, had died of a broken heart. Exploring the second floor had been especially creepy because the master bedroom, the room where Mary had spent her last years staring out the window and pining for her MIA husband, the room where she’d died, was located at the end of this hall. Sam was more than a little surprised when Harper pushed open that very door, revealing the one and only room in the house that was totally and beautifully furnished and decorated.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said then ducked into a connecting bathroom.
Sam did a quick sweep of the spacious room. A combination bedroom, office, and gym. He noted the array of fitness equipment, the twenty-inch plasma screen, laptop, copy/fax machine. State-of-the-art. High-energy. A techno-freak’s wet dream.
Considering the ultramodern equipment, one would expect contemporary furnishings and bold accents. Instead, there was a softer retro look. Coordinating muted colors of lavender and green. A plush, solid-colored area rug. A floral-pattered sofa. An antique mahogany bedroom set. An antique desk. The paintings on the wall, the knickknacks, the furnishings … the entire vibe was reminiscent of the WWII era, the decade in which Mary and Captain Joseph Rothwell had made this house their home.
Odd that Rocky hadn’t mentioned restoring this room to how it would have looked when the Rothwells lived here. Because, hell, this was creepy.
Harper stepped out of the bathroom and Sam’s senses spiked. Dressed in a chic dress and black leggings, she looked equally at home amid the high-tech media equipment and retro 1940s decor. In that moment, Sam sensed a mysterious duality to Harper Day.
“Since purchasing this place, I’ve only visited a few times,” she said while handing Sam a medical kit. “I prefer living on property during renovations as opposed to a hotel. So I picked a space and made it my own.”
“You’ve got a thing for vintage Americana?”
“Not really. But in this case, it felt right. I like what Rocky did. Don’t you?’
“Sure.” He perched next to her on the small sofa, damning the intoxicating effects of her exotic perfume.
Her phone blipped and she shifted her focus, reading and texting. Reading and texting.
Sam opened the kit, soaked a cotton ball with peroxide then attended the scabbing bump near Harper’s temple. He shook off a wave of deja vu. He’d tended bumps and scratches and much worse in his lifetime.
“For the…” Harper texted like a fiend. “I leave town for a few days and all hell breaks loose.”
Since she seemed adept at multitasking, Sam spoke over her lightning-speed thumbs. “I assume you know the history of this house.”
“That’s why I bought it. This house, this room was lonely. Now it’s not.”
“Rocky said you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t. But I believe in kindred souls.”
Sam didn’t ask what she meant by that because he was afraid she’d break into a ramble about psychics or some other metaphysical bunk. She probably represented some semifamous TV medium or an actor who played one. She probably believed in that woo-woo shit. Probably practiced yoga on the beach and subexisted on tofu and pine nuts. He kept ticking off West Coast stereotypical attributes while she compulsively texted. He kept waiting for his sexual interest to wane.
His nads twitched, telling him that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“Are you going to check my cable, Rambo, or what?” she asked without looking up.
A ballbuster and seductress rolled into one.
For a split second, Sam thought about taming that sass. Except Harper struck him as a wild card and, because of the kids, he needed to play it safe. Moving toward the plasma screen he conjured visions of nuns and puppies and sweet-natured Rae. Yeah,
Not that he was having second thoughts, but he was.
He cursed the kink in his strategic plan.
