Sharon’s smile turned a few watts brighter. “Trent was a senior, I was a junior. He had already been accepted into the Air Force Academy. I was so impressed, I spent the whole evening looking at him and giggling like an idiot.”
“I don’t remember it quite that way,” Trent said gallantly.
Mac told himself he should be pleased to hear this. After all, her connection to the McBrides was one of the reasons he was interested in her. Right? And yet he still found himself changing the subject rather more abruptly than he had intended. “Yes, well, perhaps we should talk about the renovation project now.”
He stepped smoothly between them and opened the briefcase he’d left on a rough-surfaced counter. “I have some blueprints and sketches here…”
Sharon and Trent moved closer on either side of him to study the paperwork in the yellow light of the battery-powered lanterns. It annoyed Mac that he had to make such an effort to concentrate on the job instead of Sharon’s spicy-floral scent.
This wasn’t working out exactly as he had planned.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Trent left, explaining that he had an appointment with his fiancée. Sharon was touched by the eagerness that glinted in his eyes as he left. For almost a year after his accident, Trent had barricaded himself in his solitary rural home, brooding and alone. He’d held his friends at a distance, seeing no one but family—and Annie Stewart, the housekeeper his mother had hired for him against his will. Now he and Annie were planning their wedding, and Trent was learning how to smile again.
Sharon was delighted for him.
Mac cleared his throat, drawing her gaze away from the back door through which Trent had disappeared. “Prom, hmm?”
She smiled. “Yes. I wore a flame-red satin slip dress and Trent wore a black tux with a red cummerbund and bow tie. I thought we looked sophisticated and glamorous—like movie stars. My mother still keeps our prom picture on the piano with all her other family pictures.”
When Mac didn’t seem particularly amused by her reminiscing, she cleared her throat and turned the conversation back to business. “At what point would you want me to become involved with the renovation?”
“You’re considering taking the job?”
She practically itched to be a part of this project. “Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Something about his expression and the tone of his voice made her wonder why he seemed so pleased that she would be joining the renovation team he was assembling. He didn’t really know her, and he had seen only a few examples of her work. Had the recommendations he’d heard really been so persuasive?
He had said it was his practice to patronize local businesses and workers whenever possible. Granted, there weren’t many professional decorators in Honoria to choose from—none, actually. “You’re sure you don’t want to consult a few other decorators first?” she asked, a sudden attack of nerves making her wonder if she was being wise to get involved with this man. With this job, she corrected herself quickly.
He shook his head. “I want you.”
She really wished he hadn’t worded it quite that way. Something told her those three words would echo in her mind for a disturbingly long time. “I would certainly understand if you want to at least consider—”
“Sharon—do you want the job or not?”
Clasping her hands in front of her, she glanced around the big, old kitchen. “Yes. I want it.”
“And you believe you can do a good job?”
She could already picture the front parlor done in tastefully restrained Victoriana, old Oriental rugs on satiny, refinished hardwood floors, strategically placed mirrors making the small rooms look bigger. “Yes, I do.”
“Then all we have left to discuss is the money,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve written the decorating budget here—” he stabbed a finger on one of the sheets of paper scattered across the counter “—which includes your fee, itemized on the next line. Does that look like a fair estimate to you?”
She glanced at the figure, blinked a couple of times, then read it again. “Yes, that looks fair,” she said, her voice a bit strained.
She couldn’t help remembering all those wild rumors about Mac—that he was a rich eccentric, or on consignment for a celebrity millionaire, or working for a big-money crime family. As improbable as those scenarios had sounded, money didn’t seem to be a problem when it came to this project. She would be compensated very generously for the sheer pleasure of helping this sadly deteriorating building become a beautiful home again.
“I’d like you to be closely involved with the project from the start,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed I have my own way of doing things—it’s not necessarily the way most contractors work, but it suits me. I assemble a team at the beginning and then involve everyone in the decision-making, utilizing their expertise in their areas. Final decisions, of course, are mine, but I’m always open to discussion and suggestions.”
“How long have you been doing this? Buying and restoring old houses, I mean.”
“Full time for almost three years now. Before that, I restored a couple of small houses as a sideline to my day job.”
“And what was your day job?”
She’d considered herself making conversation, not trying to pry, but she got the sudden feeling that Mac wasn’t comfortable with her questions. “I’ve worked in several jobs prior to this one.”