“Oh my God.” Her heart surged again. She pushed the car door open and stood. Dragging her phone from her back pocket, she speed-dialed Delaney.
/> “Hey there,” Delaney answered, upbeat and chipper. “Are you still coming home today?”
“I’m home. Did you do all this?”
“You’re at the café?”
“Yes, how did this all happen?”
“Look around. If you still have questions, call me back.”
Her sister disconnected and Avery frowned at her phone. “What the . . . ?”
She pocketed her cell, climbed the stairs, and tried the door. It was unlocked, and she stepped in. The café’s familiarity immediately wrapped her in comfort and a renewed excitement. The break had been good for her. No doubt about that.
Avery crossed her arms and scanned the space. Her gaze paused on the range-oven combination that had been installed directly in front of her, behind the counter. The stainless steel gleamed against all the white cabinetry and tile, and the sight stole Avery’s breath.
“Oh God . . .” She pressed a hand to her racing heart and moved farther into the space, looking everywhere.
All the crown molding had been installed and painted. The finishing touches on the floor and the cabinets were in. The stainless overhead pan rack had been installed above the butcher block and stocked with all her new pots. Not only were the tables and chairs set up throughout the main eating area, but the tables were stocked with condiments. There was even a new podium set up near the door with a laminated seating chart, neither of which Avery had planned.
“Oh my God . . .” She just couldn’t think of anything else to say. She was overwhelmed.
Only when she started into the back and the main kitchen did Avery realize she hadn’t seen the moving truck holding her appliances outside. And when she stepped inside, she knew why—every one of her appliances was installed. Her refrigerators, her ovens, her massive stovetop, her industrial blender, her sinks. Supplies that must have come during the last few days had been unpacked and organized on shiny chrome shelves. All her handheld appliances were lined up and stored on another, her dishware on another, her packaging supplies on yet another.
There wasn’t one thing out of place.
Turning a circle, taking everything in with a giddy bubble in her chest, she texted Delaney, Did you and Phoebe do this?
She started up the stairs, eager to see how the event space was shaping up. At the top of the stairs she stepped into a room that stole her breath again. Not only was the flooring in, but it was buffed to a glossy shine. The fireplace’s stacked-stone face continued all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The huge windows had been trimmed out with molding, the recessed lighting had been installed and finished off, and natural light flooded the space.
Her phone buzzed, and Avery blinked away tears to read Delaney’s message: Nope.
Staring at the answer stirred other thoughts, and those thoughts stirred anger. If Delaney and Phoebe hadn’t done this, then the only person left was Trace. Which meant he was trying to ease his conscience by hiring his friend to finish the café even when Avery had told him not to.
A scrape sounded in the apartment, drawing her gaze to the closed door. Complete with molding and handle hardware. A soft shuffle sounded, followed by silence again.
She clenched her teeth, now caught in an impossible situation—facing this stranger who’d made this place absolutely dreamy and telling him to get out.
Yes, it was wonderful to have the café finished, but not out of guilt, and not so Trace could clear his conscience, as if that were all it would take. And now he’d gone and put this other contractor in the middle.
Avery took a deep breath and moved to the apartment’s door, pushing it open slowly to look into the rooms before she stepped in. Her little living room was neat, every book in place on the side table, every magazine stacked on the coffee table.
Movement sounded in her tiny kitchen toward the back of the space, and Avery wandered farther, taking in the light-amber hue of sunlight spilling over the shining floors.
She was forming a congenial get-lost message for her guest when she stepped into the opening for the kitchen, where a man wiped down the new handle on a closet door, his back toward her.
A man with wide shoulders, small specks of blood on the back of his white tee, and raven-black hair.
“Trace?” Her voice came out filled with what-the-hell?
He swiveled, eyes wide. Or one eye wide. The other lagged behind, still a little swollen, still extremely discolored with bruises. “Hey. I didn’t think you’d be back for a couple more days.”
God, he looked awful. She grimaced and covered her mouth with tented hands. Shadows and bruises, cut and swollen lips, black eye . . . and after reading the police report, she knew he’d gotten all his injuries in self-defense. That hadn’t surprised her, but it did make her feel even guiltier for the way she’d flinched when he’d tried to touch her.
“Oh my God. Tell me you feel better than you look.”
His lip twitched into a split-second smile, but it was gone before Avery could appreciate it. “I’m okay.” He shrugged. “Sore. Ugly. But . . . okay.”