My mother was more than a world-famous actress and a perfect pair of bright-blue eyes preserved in a camera flash and artist’s eye. She was the living, beating heart of my life.
I lose myself in the mental tug of war for a minute, idly thumbing at a couple more pages.
Grace remains silent, and oddly, it’s not awkward.
Not even when I flip back to the image of the front entryway, pursing my lips.
I stare at it, noting she really isn’t changing much there except for a rug and a few antiques. She’s not touching the portrait itself, and honestly, I wish she had. Maybe then it’d be easier to decide what the hell to do.
“You know, out there in the building where I parked your truck, there’s a large storage area. I’ve never really explored it much, but they left some old antiques behind. Stuff from the original farm that the previous owners saved and said I could keep.”
“Wow, really?” Her long lashes flutter, excitement flickering in her eyes.
I grin at the way they shine. “You’re welcome to explore. See if there’s something you want to use while sprucing up this place.” I close the sketchbook. “Just make it more lively, less sterile.”
“Um, I never said it was sterile.”
“No, but you thought it, and your instincts are right. I just said it for you.” I’ve known it since moving in, but never really thought about making changes so soon.
Hell, maybe I’ve felt sterile since moving out here. Leaving L.A. behind was a definite relief, and I enjoyed the first season here before the snow, but outside that?
I know how it’s been.
Barren. Unproductive. Timeless, and not necessarily in a good way.
I thought that’s what I wanted. An escape devoid of the constant bustle back home and its stress, but I think I’m moving beyond that now.
I think I’m ready to live again.
Actually, I know I’m ready.
“Screw it, I’ll come with. Let’s get our coats on and go see what’s out there,” I tell her, pushing away from the desk.
Her face lights up as she jumps to her feet, fully animated.
“Only gonna warn you once,” I say, holding up a finger. “You pelt me with a snowball, there’ll be hell to pay.”
We spend the entire afternoon out there, digging through old cardboard boxes and wooden crates of old junk.
My junk, technically.
Her reaction? It’s like every damn box has a pirate’s forgotten treasure hidden inside.
There’s a large pile of things she’s “sure she can use” that I have to skirt around when I hear Jake Lewis’ snowplow trundling up my long driveway from the road. I can’t even hide my grin as she bolts up after me and follows.
Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing that man make short work of the crap blocking access to civilization.
I exit the building and spend a few minutes talking with Jake about the weather and road conditions, which are both improving by the hour, and then walk back inside while he continues clearing away the snow I missed between the buildings.
“It’s getting late,” I tell Grace. “Almost dark now.”
“Jeez, it doesn’t feel like we’ve been out here that long,” she says, her head stuck in yet another box. “I can’t believe all the amazing finds! You’re lucky they left it.”
I can’t believe all the shit out here to clean up one day.
“Hey, one man’s trash—”
“Is another man’s treasure,” she says, looking back with her blonde hair sweeping over her face and laughing. “For this woman, I think it’s a little bit of paradise.”
I pause, throwing back her grin.
Nice to see her worries fade, even for a little while, and I watch Grace Sellers in a relaxed, natural state.
No surprise, she’s prettier than ever.
Even less surprising—I take every opportunity I can to catch an eyeful of that lush ass of hers working every time she’s bent over.
I said I’m no saint, remember?
Her save pile grew during the time I was outside, gabbing with the plow guy.
“You’re going to use all of this stuff?” I ask, picking up an old lantern.
She sits back, knees stretched in front of her, and flicks her hair away from her face. “No, that’s just my maybe pile. I’ll know what I want to use once I get everything cleaned up.”
I set the lantern down, keeping my gaze on the pile of miscellaneous junk. Mainly because she’ll notice me eyeballing her sooner if I don’t switch the perv-vision off.
No easy task. Not when she’s a blonde, bright-eyed pixie, an all-American piece of Wisconsin’s finest I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about.
“Looks like a lot of cleaning to me,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’ll whittle the pile down before I start polishing stuff up.” She stands up and brushes her hands on the jeans covering her thighs. “This was just round one, buddy. Round two will put a lot of that back in the boxes.”