“I didn’t realize we were playing a game.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. He was probably already wondering if he was getting paid enough to deal with me. “Should I call you Em or Emerson?”
I frowned. I didn’t recall anyone calling me Em in his presence.
“Emerson will be fine for now. Are you Michael or Mike? Or Mikey?”
“Do I look like a Mikey?” he asked.
“Um … no.”
“Michael will be fine. For now,” he said, pressing his lips together. Not in a prudish way. In a very sexy, trying-to-hide-hissmile way.
He reached out to run his hand over the wrought-iron fence that lined the patio, and then turned to face me, shaking the rain from his fingers. “Your brother has a gift. I’ve never seen someone put so much effort into recapturing the beauty of a place. Did he renovate all of these buildings?”
The patio displayed a bird’s-eye view of the award-winning restoration prominently featured in the town square. Warm light shone behind many of the second- and third-story loft windows, home mostly to young professionals and empty nesters, with the occasional family thrown in for balance. Replicas of antique gas lanterns lit streets lined by quaint businesses, antique shops, coffeehouses, and galleries. Window boxes and planters spilled out brightly colored seasonal flowers. Even though it currently ranked in the top ten of America’s best small towns, it was too easy to imagine it as it had been a century ago, which was proving to be a problem for me.
No way was that horse-drawn carriage real.
The beginning notes of Rodgers and Hart’s “Bewitched” floated through the rain-scented air, mixing with the smell of the purple sweet peas climbing the iron fence. I looked away from the overactive town square and refocused on Michael.
“Yes, Thomas had a hand in every single renovation. His vision is very specific.” And expensive … yet somehow always profitable.
“How’s your vision?” Sneaky. His tone was light, but I could sense the deeper question behind the words. I wondered what Thomas had told him about me.
I reached out to wrap my fingers around the iron bars, avoiding the damp sweet peas. “Why are you here, Michael Weaver?”
“To help you.” The concern on his face was a welcome difference. He looked like he wanted to know what my problem was. I almost wanted to tell him.
Almost.
Instead, I let out a derisive laugh. Leaning away from the fence, I held on with one arm and swung back and forth slightly, like I’d done on the poles that held up my swing set when I was a little girl. “‘To help you.’ That line is so tired.”
“How many times have you heard it?”
“Let’s see, there were the two sisters who claimed they could see into my past and my future. Apparently I’m a descendant of Mata Hari, who is somehow next in line for the Finnish throne.”
“There’s not a—”
“I know.”
“Ouch.” A sympathetic crease formed between his eyebrows.
“I made Thomas give me the refund on that one—and his credit card—so I could go for some shopping therapy. I tried really hard to bankrupt him.” I grinned at the semihappy memory, and Michael smiled with me. It almost made me forget what I was saying. “Um … then there was the shaman who thought I needed to be exorcised. That one was fabulous; he claimed he could do it with pickle juice and ashes.”
Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Where does your brother find these people? He’s clearly a shrewd businessman—why would he hire such obvious frauds?”
“Desperation? My boarding school was in Sedona. No shortage of ‘spiritual healers’ there. I guess the news that a concerned brother was throwing around a surplus of cash to help his loopy sister spread pretty fast. And none of the people using traditional methods could help me. They all wanted to drug me into a vegetative state or commit me.” I let go of the iron bar and bit down hard on my bottom lip, stopping short of telling him they succeeded, angry with myself for being so honest. If he was a fake like all the others, maybe he would feel guilty and go away before inflicting any damage.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. No pity, just empathy. His expression was easy to read, or he was a really good actor. He reminded me of old Hollywood, very Cary Grant–ish, except for the slightly shaggy hair.
“So what’s different about you?” I asked, growing weary of the conversation. Already anticipating the disappointment. “What kind of promises are you going to make?”
“None that I can’t keep.” The set of his jaw was resolute, his voice full of certainty.
“What are your qualifications? Did you climb a mountain and meet with a guru?” I asked, baiting him. Wanting a reaction. “Did you have an out-of-body experience, and now people speak to you through mirrors and mud puddles?”
“Listen, I can understand why you don’t have a lot of faith”—he kept his voice low and even, but I suspected a hint of temper—“but what if I can help you? Why wouldn’t you let me?”
“What if I don’t think anything’s wrong with me?” Not anything I expected him to be able to fix, anyway.