The New Girl In Town

Chapter Two

Zoe recognized Mason as soon as she responded to his knock at her front door.

He’d shaved and changed into khaki pants with a shirt and tie rather than the jeans and T-shirt he’d had on earlier, and he didn’t have the mammoth beast with him, but the deep blue eyes and sexy smile left her in no doubt that it was her neighbor.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We have an appointment,” Mason said, unfazed by the lack of welcome in her question.

“You’re Jessica’s husband?”

“No.” His quick response was confirmed by an emphatic shake of his head. “I’m his business partner. Nick sent me along with his apologies for not being able to meet with you personally. He was on his way to the hospital—it looks like Jessica is going to have the baby today.”

It had been apparent to Zoe when she’d been introduced to Jessica Armstrong that the other woman was nearing the end of a pregnancy, but she hadn’t realized she was quite that far along.

“I know you were expecting Nick,” Mason continued. “But I’m sure you understand that he needed to be with his wife right now.”

“Of course,” she agreed immediately. But she couldn’t help remembering when she’d been in the hospital, without her husband by her side. It hadn’t been a happy occasion but the beginning of the end of their marriage.

“Zoe?”

Her attention snapped back to the present.

“Sorry,” she apologized automatically. “My thoughts were just wandering.”

“Would you rather reschedule when Nick is available?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to reschedule. I just want to know what has to be done to fix this house.”

“How much time do you have?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just suggesting you take a good, hard look around you,” Mason said.

She did, and she saw the beauty that had been neglected. The gleam of the hardwood under the layers of dust, the sparkle of the leaded-glass windows beneath the grime, the intricate details of the trims and moldings behind the spider webs. She saw history that needed to be preserved and promise waiting to be fulfilled. But she wasn’t comfortable telling him any of those things, so all she said was, “The real estate agent assured me that the building is structurally sound.”

“The foundation looks solid,” he admitted. “But the roof needs to be replaced, the chimneys need to be reconstructed and the porch rebuilt. And that’s just what I could see from the outside. If you really want a home here, it would probably be easier and cheaper to tear this building down and start over again.”

It might be easier and cheaper, but it wasn’t what she wanted to do. She needed to fix the house—to prove it was valuable and worthwhile despite the damaged parts.

“I’m not interested in easy, and I don’t have any illusions that it will be cheap, but I want to restore this house,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure you considered all of the options.”

She nodded stiffly, although in her heart she knew she couldn’t consider demolition as one of the options. Destroying what was left of this fabulous old building would break her heart all over again.

As they moved through the house, Mason took measurements and made notes with brisk efficiency, but he never failed to point out various flaws and defects as they moved from one room to the next through the house. She was frustrated by his incessant negativity and on the verge of telling him she would find another architect when she noticed the inherent contradiction between his actions and his words.

He warned her that the ceiling had sustained some obvious water damage, but his gaze lingered on the pressed tin squares. He claimed that all of the plumbing was horribly outdated, but she’d seen his eyes light up when he’d spotted the old clawfoot tub. And while he was complaining that someone had painted over the mantle of the fireplace, his fingers caressed the hand-carved wood.

“The frames on all of these windows are starting to rot,” he said. “They’ll have to be replaced.”

She sighed, and when she spoke, her words were infused with reluctant resignation. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just tear this place down.”

His head swiveled toward her, as she’d known it would. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I’m starting to believe it’s the most logical course of action.”

“It is,” he said again, after a brief hesitation.

She smiled. “I hope you’re a better architect than you are an actor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t stand the thought of this beautiful building being destroyed.”

“This building is a far cry from beautiful,” he told her dryly.

“But it was once, and it can be again, can’t it?”

He was silent for a moment before finally conceding, “Maybe.”

After so much verbal disparagement, Zoe wasn’t willing to let it go at that. “You can see it, can’t you?” she pressed. “You can picture in your mind the way it used to be—the way it should be again?”

“Maybe,” he said again. “I’ve always thought it was a shame that someone didn’t step in and do something to save this house before it completely fell apart.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her one of those wry half smiles. “Because as much as I can admire the graceful lines and detailed workmanship, I’m also aware of the time and money needed to fix this place.”

“I would think a successful architect would have the necessary resources for the job.”

“What I don’t have,” he warned her, “and anyone in town will tell you the same thing—is the ability to commit to any kind of long-term project.”

“Is that why you were baiting me—to determine if I was committed?”

“You had to have dropped a bundle of money already to buy this place,” he said. “I’m guessing that’s proof of your commitment. I only hope you have a bundle more, because you’re going to need it to restore this house properly.”

Anxiety twisted knots in her belly. “I’m hoping to do some of the simpler jobs myself. Patching, sanding, painting.”

“This house needs a lot more than patching, sanding and painting,” he warned.

“I know.” And she’d budgeted—hopefully enough—for the other work she knew would be required. “But I want to be involved with the project, not just writing the checks.”

His gaze skimmed over her, assessing. “You said you worked at Images magazine?”

She nodded. “As a photographer.”

“Have you ever done any home renovating before?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Why did you leave that job to come here?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“Of course it is,” he disagreed.

“I’m committed to this restoration,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

He studied her for another few seconds before saying, “There are a couple of good general contractors I can recommend. They’re local and fair.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing with him—she’d rather save her energy for the work that needed to be done. “You can give me their names and numbers after we take a look at the attic.”

Mason followed Zoe up the narrow and steep flight of steps that led to the attic. He tried to keep his focus on the job, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the shapely denim-clad butt in front of him. He’d been right about one thing—Zoe Kozlowski cleaned up good.

The blond hair that had been tangled around her face this morning was now tamed into a ponytail, with just the tiniest wisps escaping to frame her oval face. She’d put on a hint of makeup, mascara to darken her lashes, something that added shine to her soft, full lips. Not enough to look done up, but enough to highlight her features.

She was an attractive woman. A lot more attractive than he’d originally thought. Still not his usual type, although he enjoyed women too much to be picky about specifics. And though he enjoyed a lot of women, he never got too close to any one of them except in a strictly physical and always temporary sense.

She turned at the top of the stairs and stepped through an arched doorway and into darkness. He heard the click of a light being switched on, illuminating her slender figure standing in the middle of the attic. He felt the familiar tug of desire any unattached man would feel in the company of a pretty young woman. Emphasis on young, he thought, guessing her age to be somewhere between early-to mid-twenties. Which meant she was too many years younger than he to consider acting on the attraction he felt.

And yet there were shadows in her eyes that hinted she had experienced things beyond her years, a stubborn tilt to her chin that suggested she’d faced some tough challenges—and won. He figured she was a woman with a lot more baggage than the suitcase he’d seen tucked beside the antique couch in the living room, and that was just one more reason not to get involved. While he could respect her strength and determination, Mason didn’t do long-term, and he definitely didn’t do issues.

He liked women who laughed frequently and easily, women who wanted a good time with no expectations of anything more. He’d thought Erica was such a woman. Until, after less than three months of on-and-off dating that was more “off” than “on,” she’d told him it was time he stopped playing around and made a commitment. The night she’d said that was the last time he’d seen her.

He didn’t regret ending things with Erica. He couldn’t imagine himself in a committed relationship with any woman, and he had no intention of ever falling in love.

But he couldn’t deny there were times—times when he was with Nick and Jessica—that he wondered what it would be like to love and be loved so completely. Usually the longing only lasted a moment or two, then he’d remember his father and how losing the woman he loved had started a slow but steady downward spiral that had eventually destroyed him. No, Mason didn’t ever want to love like that.

“What do you think?” Zoe asked.

Her question jolted him out of his reverie. He glanced around the enormous room illuminated by a couple of bare bulbs hanging from the steeply sloped ceiling. There were old trunks covered in dust and cobwebs hanging from the rafters. “I think it’s dark and dreary.”

Some of the light in her eyes faded, making the small space seem darker and drearier still.

“It is now. But if there was a window put in there—” she gestured to the far end “—the room would fill with morning sunlight. It would be perfect for a bedroom and office combined. And there’s a bathroom immediately below, so it would be easy enough to bring up the plumbing for an ensuite.” She gazed at him hopefully. “Wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not sure it would be easy,” he warned her. “But, yes, it could be done.”

She smiled at him, and he felt as if his breath had backed up in his lungs. He hadn’t seen her smile like that before, was unprepared for how positively beautiful she was when her eyes shone, her cheeks glowed. And her mouth—his gaze lingered there, tempted by the sexy curve of those full lips.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to resist the sudden urge to reach for her, to taste those lips, to test her response. He wondered how it would feel to have a woman look at him like that, to know her smile was intended only for him, the sparkle in her eyes because she was thinking about him.

He gave himself a mental shake, forced himself to focus on what she was saying rather than his imaginative fantasies.

“This will be my space,” she decided. “With gleaming hardwood floors, walls painted a cheery yellow, a four-poster bed and—”

Not wanting to think about Zoe tucked away in her bed, he interrupted quickly, “You’ll never get a four-poster bed up here. Not the way those stairs curve.”

She considered, then sighed. “You’re right. Well, the furniture is only details.”

“If you’re going to tuck yourself away up here, what do you plan to do with the rest of the house?”

“I’m going to open a bed-and-breakfast.” She smiled again, her eyes lit up with hope for her grandiose plan.

He hated to dim the sparkle in her eyes again, but someone needed to ground this woman in reality. “There are already a half-dozen bed-and-breakfasts in town,” he pointed out. “And even in the height of summer, they’re never booked to capacity.”

“I’m not looking for busloads of tourists,” she said. “But creative marketing and effective advertising will bring enough people here to make the business succeed.”

“You never did tell me what brought you here from the big city,” he said.

“Obviously I was looking to make some changes in my life.”

“Why?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Are you this nosy with all of your clients?”

“You’re not just a client, you’re also my neighbor,” he reminded her.

“That’s just geography.”

“Okay—we’ll hold off on the personal revelations until you consider me a friend.”

“Friend?” she said, with obvious skepticism.

“Does that seem so impossible to you?”

“Not impossible,” she said. “Just surprising.”

“Because most men want to skip that part and head straight to the bedroom?”

“Maybe,” she admitted hesitantly.

He grinned. “But I’m already in your bedroom.”

“So you are.” Now she smiled, and again he felt the punch of attraction low in his gut. “But only because you have a really impressive…tape measure.”

Zoe left Mason to take his measurements of the attic, heading downstairs on the pretext of needing to dust off the dining room table and a couple of chairs so they could talk about her ideas for the renovations when he was finished. The reality was that she needed some space. The oversized attic that she envisioned as her living quarters seemed far too small when he stood so close to her.

If her purchase of this house had been irrational, her attraction to Mason Sullivan was even more so. He was obviously educated and intelligent, and he was undeniably handsome, but he was also heartache waiting to happen. He was the type of man to whom flirting came as naturally as breathing.

Yeah, she knew the type. And while she couldn’t deny she was attracted, she could—and would—refuse to let it lead to anything more. She’d lost too much in the past year-and-a-half, taken too many emotional hits to risk another. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at her that made her feel young and carefree again, that made her want to be the woman she used to be—if only for a little while.

A fantasy, she knew, and a foolish one at that. And when she heard the sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs, she pushed it out of her mind and hastily finished wiping the table.

“I can’t even offer you a cup of coffee because I haven’t had a chance to get out for groceries yet,” she said apologetically.

“That’s okay,” he said, taking the seat across from her.

She linked her fingers together on top of the table, tried not to let her nervousness show. This was the moment of truth—the moment when she found out if her dreams for this house could be realized or if she’d made a colossal mistake in clearing out most of her savings for the down payment.

He opened his notebook, turned the pages until he found a blank one. His hands were wide, his fingers long, the nails neatly cut. They were strong hands, she imagined, and capable. Hands that would handle any task competently and efficiently, whether sketching a house plan or stroking over a woman’s body—

Zoe felt heat infuse her cheeks even as she chastised herself for that incongruous thought.

“You want the attic divided into three separate rooms—a bedroom, bathroom and office,” he said, reviewing the instructions she’d given him. “Four bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second level, with each bedroom having access to one of the bathrooms.”

She nodded.

“What about this floor?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t know that it needs any major changes, but the layout doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it’s been renovated and modernized,” he told her. “The space is too open.”

“What do you mean?”

“This room—” he gestured to the open flow between the dining and living areas “—is too contemporary for this style of house. You need to break it into individual rooms more appropriate to the era.”

As soon as he explained what he meant, she realized he was right. “What do you suggest?”

“A traditional center hall plan with a large foyer as you come through the front door. With this whole side as the dining area so that you can set up several smaller tables for your guests, connecting doors to the kitchen, and, on the other side, a parlor in the front, maybe a library behind it.”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to her, but now that he’d mentioned it, she was intrigued by the idea.

“You could build bookcases into the walls on either side of the fireplace, add a few comfortable chairs for guests to relax and read.”

She could picture it exactly as he described and smiled at the cozy image that formed in her mind. “You’re really good at this.”

“It’s my job.”

She shook her head. “I’d say it’s a passion.”

He glanced away, as if her insight made him uncomfortable, and shrugged. “I’ve always loved old houses.”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because of the history and uniqueness of each structure. Don’t tell Nick, or he might start looking for a new partner, but I actually enjoy renovating old buildings more than designing new ones. It’s an incredible experience—revealing what has been hidden, uncovering the beauty so often unseen.”

She didn’t want to like him. It was awkward enough that she was attracted to him, even though she was determined to ignore the attraction. But listening to him talk, knowing he felt the same way she did about this old house, she felt herself softening toward him. “It must be enormously satisfying to love what you do.”

“The key is to do what you love,” he told her.

She nodded, understanding, because there had been a time not so very long ago that she’d done just that. But somewhere along the road that love had faded, too.

“Isn’t there anything you’re passionate about?” he asked.

She expected the question to be accompanied by a flirtatious wink or suggestive grin, but his expression was serious, almost intense. As if he really wanted to know, as if he was interested in what mattered to her.

“This house,” she answered automatically.

“That’s obvious,” he said. “But what fired your passion before you came to Pinehurst?”

She shook her head, refusing to look back, to think about everything she’d left behind. “Can we focus on the house right now?”

“Okay.”

But the depth of his scrutiny belied his easy response, and she didn’t relax until he’d turned his attention back to his notebook.

“Where did you want to put your darkroom?” he asked.

The question made her realize she’d relaxed too soon.

“I don’t need a darkroom,” she said.

“There’s plenty of room in the basement,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And it’s certainly dark down there. Or you could convert the laundry room.

“I designed a home for Warren Crenshaw and his wife, Nancy. They’re both nature photographers—not professionally, but it’s a hobby they share. We put a darkroom right off their bedroom.”

“I don’t need a darkroom,” she repeated tightly. “I’m not a photographer anymore.”

“Whether or not you have a camera in your hand, you’re still a photographer. It’s the kind of thing that’s in your blood—like designing houses is in mine.”

She shook her head, swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I left that part of my life in Manhattan.”

He hesitated, as if there was something more he wanted to say, but then her cell phone rang.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing her chair away from the table.

She dug the phone out of her purse, connecting the call before it patched through to her voice mail. “Hello.”

“Where are you?” Scott asked without preamble.

The unexpected sound of his voice gave her a jolt, and made her heart ache just a little. The question, on the other hand, and the tone, annoyed her. “Why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing.”

She walked toward the window, away from where Mason was still seated at the table. “I’m fine.”

“I’d be more likely to believe that if you were where you said you’d be.”

“I am in Pinehurst,” she told him.

“You said you’d be staying with Claire.”

“Not forever.”

He sighed. “She told me you were thinking about buying a house.”

She frowned at that, wondering why her friend would have told Scott anything. But she couldn’t blame Claire because she knew, better than anyone, how charming and persuasive he could be. “And?”

“Buying a house is a major decision,” he said gently. “And you’ve had a tough year.”

“Too late.”

She heard his groan, fought back a smile.

“It was completely irrational and impulsive,” she admitted. “I saw the sign on the lawn, contacted the agent and made an offer.”

“Please tell me you at least had a home inspection done.”

Now she did smile. Reasonable, practical Scott Cowan would never understand the need deep within her heart that had compelled her to buy this house. “A home inspector would have told me it needed a lot of work,” she said, not admitting that she’d been given a copy of the report from an inspection done on the property just a few months earlier. “I already know that.”

“Christ, Zoe. Have you gone completely off the deep end?”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” she agreed.

“Let me contact my lawyers,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way to undo the transaction.”

“No,” she said quickly.

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

She sighed. “I mean, I don’t want it undone. I want this house.”

“You could be making a very big mistake,” he warned.

She knew he was right. But she’d spent the better part of her twenty-nine years doing the smart thing, the safe thing—and she’d still been unprepared for the curves that life had thrown her way. Even if buying this house turned out to be a mistake, it would be her mistake.

“Why should you care?” she challenged. “You walked out on me, remember?”

“You kicked me out.”

He was right, she had to admit. But only because she couldn’t continue to live with him the way things had been.

“Does it matter?” she asked wearily. “The end result is the same.”

“I’ll always care about you, Zoe.”

And that might have been enough to hold them together if other obstacles hadn’t got in the way. She rubbed her hand over her chest, trying to assuage an ache she wasn’t sure would ever go away. “Was that the only reason you called?”

“When’s your next appointment with Dr. Allison?”

She felt the sting of tears. If he’d been half as concerned about her twelve or even six months ago, what had been left of their relationship might not have fallen apart.

“I have to go, Scott.”

Before he could say anything else, she disconnected the call. She heard the telltale scrape of chair legs against the hardwood floor and blinked the moisture from her eyes.

She felt Mason’s hand on her shoulder, gently but firmly turning her to face him. “Zoe?”

She didn’t—couldn’t—look at him. She just needed half a minute to pull herself together, to find the cloak of feigned confidence and false courage that she’d learned to wrap around herself so no one would see how shaky and scared she was feeling inside.

“Who was that on the phone?” he asked.

She took a deep, steadying breath and prepared to dodge the question. After all, it was none of his business. She hardly knew this man; she certainly didn’t owe him any explanations.

But when she looked up at him, she realized he wasn’t trying to pry or interfere. He’d asked the question because he knew she was upset, and he was concerned. In the past eighteen months, she’d withdrawn into herself. She’d been let down by people she’d counted on, disappointed by friends who hadn’t been there for her. Except for her almost daily phone calls to Claire, she’d been on her own. She’d learned to rely on herself, to need no one else.

After only a few days in this small town, she knew that was one of the reasons she’d come here—because she didn’t want to live the rest of her life alone. She wanted—needed—friends to care about and who would care about her.

So she took what she hoped was the first step in that direction and answered his question honestly.

“That was my husband.”