Page 6 of Winter Beginnings
My chest tightened at the mention of her ex. Julian. My mouth soured at the name. But I shook off the flicker of protective anger and tried to focus on the practical side. “That’s actually a great plan. Antique shops around here sometimes carry real Victorian pieces. Between thrift stores and estate sales, you can find treasures.”
Her gaze lit up. “Would you be willing to help me pick stuff out? I mean, if it’s not too weird. You know the era, and you’d spot any structural or design issues. I just—this place means a lot to me, and I want to do it justice.”
That swirl of warmth hit again. She trusted me. She’s your client, I reminded myself, but I couldn’t resist the invitation. “I’d be happy to help. We can coordinate it around the reno schedule. Sometimes I drive out of town for supplies, so we can poke around antique shops then.”
Her smile was radiant. “Thank you. This is all so new. I was a real estate agent, not an interior designer. But I loved staging houses, especially the older ones. For me, picking furniture that tells a story is half the fun.”
Something about her earnestness tugged my heart. She wasn’t in this for a quick profit or a superficial fix. She trulywanted to create a home, possibly for travelers as well, if her B&B dreams came to fruition. “Speaking of which,” I said softly, “should we go in and see if we can get partial power going? Maybe that’ll warm you up enough to keep exploring.”
She nodded, a playful grin curving her lips. “Lead the way, Mister Contractor.”
We stepped inside the dark foyer, Rory’s phone flashlight bobbing over dusty walls. My breath swirled in the frigid air. She guided me to a small side corridor, which led to a steep set of stairs descending to the basement. I recognized the stale smell of damp earth. My own flashlight revealed a tangle of old pipes, cobwebs, and a large portable generator near the far wall, partially covered by a plastic tarp, which explains why we hadn’t noticed it earlier around the maze of posts and beams.
“Ta-da,” Rory announced, voice echoing.
I crouched to examine the controls. “Yeah, definitely a newer model. Let’s see.” I toggled a switch, turned the choke. It coughed once, then roared to life. Bright, temporary lighting flickered on overhead—someone had strung a few industrial bulbs along the ceiling joists. The basement glowed with harsh yellow light.
“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s better than pitch-black. So, if we route this carefully, I could run a heater or two upstairs?”
“Potentially. You’ll have to mind the load. But yes, you could keep a space heater going, maybe a couple lamps or a microwave. Not everything at once, or you’ll trip the system.”
She practically bounced on her toes, excitement shining in her eyes. “Cass, you’re a lifesaver. I was dreading living here by candlelight.”
A laugh escaped me. “Well, you did pick a half-frozen mansion in Montana in January. Candlelight might’ve been your fate.”
She playfully stuck out her tongue. “Hey, it’s worth it. Miami was always too crowded, too modern for my sensibilities. I’m ready for some vintage charm and space to breathe.”
I paused, heart clenching at her candor. “I get it. Sometimes you just need a clean slate.”
Our eyes locked under the glare of the overhead bulb and an awkward pause followed. I could feel the warmth of the generator on my back, the swirl of dust in the air. Rory bit her lower lip, probably out of habit, and I found the nervous tic adorable. Then she cleared her throat.
“All right,” she said, voice lighter. “Let’s check which outlets or circuits upstairs might link to this. If you have time? I’m hoping to designate a small bedroom for myself and keep it heated.”
“Sure,” I agreed, shutting off the generator for now. “We can trace the wiring. Some might be old or damaged, so we’ll have to test carefully.”
She led me back up the stairs. Her gentle floral scent drifted over me, mingled with the musty hallway. Above us, the late-afternoon light turned the foyer a hazy gold. My chest felt strangely tight. I’d never wanted to know a client’s story so badly—what precisely drove her from Miami, how she ended up alone, why she risked so much on this battered mansion. But I sensed it was a raw subject, so I kept quiet.
We moved room to room, verifying which circuits still functioned enough for the generator to power safely. She jotted notes in a spiral pad, her face drawn in concentration, as if she were studying for a test. Whenever we brushed arms, my breath caught. The synergy between us palpable, at least to me, and I wondered whether she might be feeling it too.
After maybe forty-five minutes, we ended up back near the foyer. Snow had begun falling outside, flecking the windows with soft white. Rory hugged her arms to her chest, though the generator had allowed a small space heater to run in one corner. “This is manageable,” she said. “At least for a while, until you tackle the bigger electrical upgrades.”
I nodded. “I’ll prioritize hooking you up with a stable line. Or see if we can restore the main power safely once we fix any faulty wiring. And, uh, if you need any help with furniture or hauling stuff… let me know. I’d be happy to tag along, lift the heavy pieces.”
Her returning smile was bright, despite the dim foyer. “I’d love that. Honestly, I can use all the help I can get. As I said, I’m prepared to get my hands dirty, too. Whether it’s scraping off old wallpaper or cleaning grout, just show me what to do.”
“We’ve got a deal,” I said, once again feeling that rush.
I offered her a smile, then walked slowly to the door, shoulders brushing as I slipped past. Even that small contact sent a flicker of heat through me. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. By the time I reached my truck, my boots were dusted with white. I’d help Rory build her Evergreen Inn. And maybe, in the process, I’d lay my own ghosts to rest.
Chapter Three
Rory
A raspy hum from the generator drifted through the halls, merging with the faint howling of a winter wind. I stirred beneath layers of thick blankets, vaguely recalling that I wasn’t in any snug hotel but in Barrington Manor—now my property, and soon to be the Evergreen Inn. The bed, though a relic from Cyrus Barrington’s era, had proven surprisingly comfortable, and the plush covers kept me far warmer than I’d feared.
Still half-asleep, I ran my fingertips over the velvet comforter. Every texture in this place felt aged, full of history, as if Cyrus’s presence lingered in the worn fabrics and timeless carvings. The room’s corners remained lost in shadows, but a narrow band of morning light peeked through the tall windows, slowly banishing the gloom. I inhaled the hint of leftoverwoodsmoke in the air, as though the house itself exhaled memories.
Shoving aside the blankets with some reluctance, I pushed myself upright. My breath formed a faint puff in the chilly air, though the bed’s heavy quilt had indeed kept me cozy all night.