When we have our drinks, Romy says, “So, Trace, what do you do for a living?” She gives me big blue eyes. “What’s your passion?”
“I’m in the construction business.”
“Hammering. Nailing. Screwing.”
With a straight face, I say, “No, that’s my personal life.”
“Ha ha. Good one!” She tips her beer to me again, and I join in her laughter.
“I have done the hands-on work,” I say. “I worked for the family business in the summers when I was a teenager and in college.”
“Apparently you built some muscles.” Her eyes move approvingly over my shoulders and chest.
I flex one arm to show off my biceps. “Yep.” I lower my arm. “Now I’m in management. But I keep my skills sharp by renovating my own house. It’s a big old Victorian.”
“Nice.” Her eyes gleam. “I love old houses.”
“Me too. Grew up in one. Bought one myself.”
“Awesome.”
I pick up my beer. “I love building things and restoring things. Especially old houses. Our mission is to give people their dream home.”
She nods. “That’s wonderful. Home is important.”
“Yeah. It’s more than just shelter—it’s a sanctuary. A gathering place for family. A center for our lives, the place we come back to every day.” For a moment I lose my focus, memories of family and the home I lost crowding in.
She gazes at me wordlessly. “Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s true.”
“So.” I direct my attention back to her, shaking off sadness. “It’s nice to have a home that’s special to you.”
She wrinkles her nose and nods. “I like that.”
“You should see the old house we’re renovating near here,” I say. “It’s amazing.”
“So you don’t just do new construction?”
“Nope. I manage the renovation part of the business.”
“What’s amazing about it?”
“Well, it was built in 1898 by Lewis Granger. He’s a pretty well-known architect in Chicago.”
She lifts her shoulders to indicate she hasn’t heard of him. That’s okay.
“It has six bedrooms, two and a half baths. The front door has the original glass, and there’s a grand staircase with a window seat.” I watch her reaction. Lots of people zone out when I talk about stuff like this, but she’s hanging on my every word like a kid on monkey bars. “There’s a double parlor living room with mahogany pocket doors and hardwood floors with mahogany, birch, and maple inlays.”
“Sounds gorgeous.”
“Well, the wallpaper is hideous, the floors are a mess, and the kitchen’s a disaster. But yeah, it’s gorgeous. The coolest thing is the maid’s staircase.” I pause. “Rumor has it the house is haunted.”
Her eyes widen and her pretty lips part. “No! Really?”
“Yeah. The third floor has an old ballroom, the maid’s bedroom, another kitchen and bathroom, and a sunroom.”
“Who haunts it?” she asks eagerly.
I like that she’s into this and not just rolling her eyes. “Apparently, when the house was first built, the maid was having an affair with her employer, the man of the house. When the secret came out, she jumped down the well in the yard to her death.”
“Ohhhh.” Her eyes are still wide and intent on me.
“But since she didn’t live to tell the tale, who’s to say another family member didn’t push her?”
“Right?”
“Then she came back to haunt the family until they finally sold the house. Rumor is other owners have also seen the ghost of the maid.”
“That’s so cool,” she breathes. “I’d love to see that house!”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yes!”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
3
Romy
What the hell am I doing? My friends would say I’m insane to be leaving the bar with a guy I just met. My mom would be horrified! At first he seemed aloof, but when he smiles, it’s dazzling. When he laughs, it’s captivating. I want excitement in my life. This guy… for some reason he excites me. But I also feel I can trust him. I ignore my mom’s voice telling me not to rely on my instincts.
And I’m dying to see the house.
Trace leads the way to his vehicle parked on the street nearby, a shiny, new truck. “Do you have a car here?” he asks.
“No. I walked. You’re okay to drive?” I may be acting impulsively, but I’m not stupid.
“Oh yeah.”
We buckle up, and he steers us through moonlit streets. “It’s not far,” he says. “Just off West Lawrence.”
I shiver with excitement.
I don’t even know why I sat with him in the bar. He was obviously waiting for someone who stood him up. I felt like doing something… unexpected. Unplanned. And I wanted some drinks, after what I learned today. A lot of drinks.
It turned out fine though, because he’s… attractive. So attractive. Physically, yes… I did notice the broad shoulders, defined biceps, muscular chest, and flat abs in his fitted, long-sleeved navy tee. I noticed his square jaw beneath a layer of beard stubble, his strong wedge of a nose, his amazing green eyes. And I noticed how tall he was when he stood to greet me. But there’s something else about him that attracts me, drawing me to him like a drunken moth to a bright, burning star.
Radiating energy, he has a presence that’s compelling. When he met my eyes across the room, I couldn’t stop my feet from crossing toward him, doing something completely out of character. Or maybe not…
With his serious, unsmiling face, when I made him laugh, I felt like I was doing some kind of magic. When he talked about home, I felt like he needed a sanctuary, a safe place to hide from the world. But what does he need to hide from?
Soon he pulls up in front of the house. It’s completely dark, of course. The wrought iron gate is locked, but Trace has a key and he lets us in. It’s a huge house, three stories, like he said, with all kinds of decorative detail above the front veranda, the second-floor balcony, and the top of the house. The three top windows have ornate, pointy window hoods. It’s creepy and fascinating.
We climb the wooden steps to the veranda and cross to the front door, the glass etched with an amazing star shape. He opens it and we step inside.
Trace flicks a switch, and a bare light bulb above us illuminates the space.
“We have electricity,” he says. “Come on in.”
The staircase is indeed grand, dark wood rising to the shadowy second floor with an amazing carved banister and a big square newel post.
I lower my gaze to the wooden floor beneath my feet, admiring the pattern of different woods inlaid, although it’s scratched and worn. “This floor is beautiful.”
He shows me around the main floor—a parlor, a dining room, a living room, all with lots of carved mahogany but atrocious flowered wallpaper, and another room that he tells me is going to have the wall removed to make the kitchen bigger.
“Want to go upstairs?”