Plus, it looks hot. Silver and pink is one hell of a combination.

He’s thinking about where it could possibly be, I just know it. Time to get Megan back in the room with us.

“What does Megan think of you being away from home so much? She hates it,” I conclude without pause.

“She doesn’t care,” Tom says with no bitterness. “She’s used to it.”

“If you were mine,” I say, and the words seem to run down his spine because he sits up straight, “I wouldn’t like it. You know what I’m like, though.”

“What are you like? I have no idea,” he adds when I cast him a come on look.

“With most guys? I couldn’t care less if they lived or died. You, though …” I look at the two empty coffee cups and feel the weight of his goodness and I want to tell him the truth in return.

The thought of how a million people must abuse his kindness—myself included—makes me crazy.

I want to walk two steps in front of him, wherever he goes, bulldozing the world a little flatter for him. If he were sleeping on a building site, and he were mine, I’d be in that tent, too. All night, every night, as the wind whistled and the rain beat down. I’d never let another woman sit as close as I am right now. Megan seriously lets this walk around on earth, completely unattended?

If I were Megan, I would fuck me up for sitting close enough to smell the scent on his skin. He smells like birthday-candle wishes. I’ve never in my life felt even a passing possessiveness for another man, but Tom Valeska? It’s something I have to keep lashed down inside me, hard and tight, because I have no right to it.

Maybe he’s not the only wolfy sled dog around these parts.

Some of this is in my eyes because he blinks and swallows. He’s trying to ignore the undercurrent between us. It’s because he’s a good guy. My brain doesn’t want him to be any different. But my body wants him to pick me up and put me against the wall. Windowsill. Floor. Bed.

I have to salvage this situation.

“Oh, come on. You know what I’m like better than anyone. Now, are you going to tell me this secret?”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea, trust me,” he says carefully, but his pupils give him away. They’re black drugged eyes, and I know he wants to tell me. Why else would he leave a little gap for me to squeeze through? He didn’t just say no.

It’s on the tip of his tongue. I need to bite it off. I wonder if I can make myself persuasive. “Is it about the house?”

He shakes his head like he’s hypnotized. His brown eyes? They’re my favorite. In this morning light, they’re a treasure trove. Gold, sands, tombs, coins, riches. Egyptian pyramids, eternal life. Gilded sarcophagi. Cleopatra’s dinnerware.

“Is it about Jamie?” He shakes his head no again. I put everything I have into it. “You can tell me.”

He seems to give himself a little mental slap, and his brow creases downward. “You can stop it now.”

“Stop what?”

“What Jamie said. Stop trying to flirt things out of me.” He’s disgusted. “You really should get into Loretta’s line of work.”

If I can occasionally hypnotize him, Jamie can make him walk over hot coals. This house is a sitting duck in the hands of my tyrannical genetic copy and someone who has never had any creative license in his entire career.

“And you should stop hiding something from me. I’m going to work on the house.”

As I say it out loud, something clicks down into position inside me.

It’s the perfect retort I should have said to Jamie. The usual feeling of chickenshit guilt dissipates like squeezing a zit. I’m going to work on fulfilling Loretta’s wish for this place and protect it from anyone who can’t appreciate Maison de Destin’s inherent magic.

“I feel like if there’s any chance to get back into Jamie’s good graces, it’s going to take blood, sweat, and tears. I’m going to redeem myself.”

“Not too much of your blood, or tears. Or sweat,” Tom says, thinking. “Just be around when I need to call Jamie to get a quick decision made. Can you move out and stay with Truly?”

“No way. I’m working and I’m staying here in a tent, just like you. I’m on your crew.”

He grins at the thought, but it fades off. “Sorry, no.”

“Any particular reason? Don’t you need free labor?”

“I can’t focus when you’re around,” he says with complete honesty, and a little starburst thrill pops inside my stomach. His eye contact is uncomplicated so I don’t think there’s anything more to the statement. “But it’s your house, so I can’t stop you. You could help on the occasional small project. Maybe painting the new front fence.”

“No. I’m not doing the girly stuff. I’m using tools.”

“No heavy lifting, no manual labor, no ladders, no electrical—” Tom stops himself. He’s imagining me with my finger in a socket, I bet. He’s got a big brow crease. “I don’t think my insurance would cover this. You’re a liability.”

My mouth drops open, the void opens up like a canyon inside my chest, and everything’s whooshing. A liability.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He is obviously horrified at what he just said. “Darce, that came out completely wrong.”

“Fine, it’s fine. It’s true. Do whatever you want to the cottage. Like I care. It’s being sold to some rich Jamie clone, anyway. What does it matter?” It’s a miracle I can still speak. I struggle up and nearly trip over the coffee table.

“You do care,” he protests, hot on my heels as I make a beeline for the bathroom. I slip in, shut the door, and lock it. “You care so much it’s crazy. I’m not going to do a job that you’re going to be unhappy with.”

“I don’t care. I’m going to be about ten million miles away by the time you crack open a can of paint. Just do whatever Jamie wants, liability free.” Time to get these feelings together like loose sheets of paper. Tap them into a stack. Stick them into a shredder.

“I’m so sorry.”

Time to leave before I do something I can’t undo.

“Open up, please,” Tom says, knocking again. Does he have no self-preservation? “I really didn’t mean it how it sounded. Of course you aren’t a liability.”

“You never lie.”

“I do lie. Every day.”

I look at myself in the old speckled mirror. I look terrible. Under each eye is a purple mark. Each cheek has a vaudeville spot of color. I’ve studied Megan at every Christmas party I’ve been home for. I’m telling you, she is poreless.

“Go away,” I say because I can feel he’s still there. He can’t follow me here. I pull my clothes off and look down at my weird body, with its too-big joints and waffle-belly fatness. The piercing on my nipple now looks like it’s part of a costume.

“I could unscrew the hinges,” he says in a friendly voice. I think of myself last night, lying on the floor outside like a hound.

“If you do that you’ll be scarred for life. I’m taking a shower.”

“Don’t go back into your shell. It’s okay that you care about this house. And I want to hear how you picture the finished product.” Through the door, he says in a new tone, “DB, please get dressed so I can hug you and tell you I’m sorry.”

“You heard your boss. Make it modern.” My voice sounds even harder when it bounces off the tiles. I crank the shower and it spits and steams. Then I stand in the water and when I cry, the tears wash away. The perfect crime.

I’m standing in the exact same place that Tom Valeska stood naked.

I’m not going to think about things like that anymore.

Chapter 7

An electrician arrives after lunch, walks in, and flips the switch beside the front door. There’s a pop sound, the lights blink, and the electrician curses, snatching his hand back. The house is a viper today. It wants to hurt somebody.

This mug says #1 ASSHOLE on the side. It would be the perfect birthday gift for Jamie. If we’re on speaking terms by then.