Sweet Somethings Page 2

  "The best ones always are," Sara put in. "I haven't met this Roman Prescott, but now I really want to. There's nothing wrong with a good bad boy."

  "You have love on the brain, Sara," Donavan told her assistant.

  "It's almost Valentine's Day, what can I say?" She gave a helpless shrug. "It's the season for love."

  "Well, I don't think Roman was looking for love this morning, more like food," Juliette said. "He was probably hungry from his run, but the bakery wasn't open yet."

  "Hey, Juliette and Roman…that sounds a little like Romeo and Juliet," Sara said.

  Her nerves tingled at the suggested coupling, but she brushed the comment off with a wave of her hand. "I've heard that joke before, too many times to count. And I'm not looking for a Romeo; I have no time for love. On that note, I'm going back to work."

  * * *

  Work had always been his therapy, Roman thought, as he used a crowbar to rip off a piece of drywall in the living room of the old Victorian his grandfather was restoring.

  Learning carpentry and construction had saved him as an angry teenager. He'd found a place to hammer out his frustration and bitterness. He wasn't sure the work would have the same effect on his burned-out, cynical, and weary thirty-one-year-old self, but at least it gave him a few hours of respite each day from the nightmares that haunted his dreams.

  After thirteen years in the Marine Corps, it also felt good to be restoring a building, bringing it back to life, making it better. He'd like to believe he'd improved things in other places in the world. Certainly, he hoped he'd made some of those places safer, but the good didn't always balance out the pain and destruction.

  "Roman, there you are."

  He looked up as his seventy-three-year-old grandfather Vincent Prescott walked into the room. Tall and thin, with dark eyes and dark hair that had never grayed, his grandfather had always been an imposing man. Vincent had done the hard, physical work of construction all his life, and his callused hands and weathered skin reflected those years. He might be moving more slowly these days with his arthritis flaring up, but his sharp gaze missed nothing. His grandfather had been the toughest boss he'd ever had, and that was saying something.

  "Where else would I be?" he drawled. "You gave me a job to do, and I'm doing it."

  He and his grandfather had had both an antagonistic and an awkwardly caring relationship. While Vince had saved him from the foster care system when he was fifteen, his grandfather hadn't been around the terrible years before that, and Roman had never really understood why. But his grandfather wasn't big on talking. He'd just moved him into his house, taught him how to build, and made sure he had food to eat and a place to sleep while he went to high school.

  "Looks like there's some rot behind those boards," Vincent said, tipping his head to the opening behind the sheetrock.

  "I suspect we're going to find that throughout the house," he agreed. "You may need to increase the budget on this one or change up some of your plans."

  "Can't do that. Just fix what needs to be fixed. Whatever it costs, it costs."

  He nodded, wondering again why his grandfather had chosen this particular house to flip.

  In fact, he couldn't really understand why Vincent had bought the property at all. He'd been in semi-retirement before he'd purchased the property six months earlier, and he no longer had a crew to do the work. If Roman hadn't been put on medical leave from the Marines, he had no idea who'd be working on the house. But all he said was, "Will do."

  "I've got a kid coming in after school tomorrow to help you with the downstairs bathroom demo," Vincent added. "Jeff Dobbs. He's Margaret's grandson," he added, referring to his long-time neighbor. "He needs some cash for college."

  "Fine. I could use an extra pair of hands—more than one would be great."

  "I'm working on that. I should also be able to get back in here to work later in the week. These flare-ups don't last too long." He flexed his fingers with a painful grimace.

  "Whenever you're ready, but you're going to need to hire subs regardless. I am a little surprised you took on such a big project."

  "Why?" his grandfather asked, an edge to his tone.

  He suspected that suggesting his grandfather was old would not be the best answer. "I thought you were winding things down."

  Vincent didn't answer right away, a faraway light coming into his eyes. "I always wanted this property. It has only been up for sale a couple of times in the last fifty or so years, and it was never the right time for me. When it came back on the market last year, I knew I had to get it. I've had ideas for it for a long time. I want to see those ideas come to life before I die."

  It was a sentimental reason for a man who wasn't known for his sentiment, and Roman wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

  Vincent's gaze swept the room. "The arched doorways and windows, the exposed beams, the details are all here, but they need to be honed, remade, redone. This house could be magnificent. It deserves to be that." Vincent frowned at the end of his statement, as if he regretted showing so much emotion. He cleared his throat, putting his usual cold, stoic expression back on his face. "I'll check in with you later. I'm going to run some errands and then meet Max at Donavan's for chess and coffee."

  "Sounds good." His grandfather spent most of his afternoons at the local coffee shop.

  As Vincent left, he thought about getting some coffee himself. He hadn't been to Donavan's yet. He hadn't been ready to face the social scene he knew he would find there, but he had always liked the owner, Donavan Turner, and he was curious to see what kind of business she'd built.

  Two years younger than him, Donavan had been a sweet kid in high school and fiercely protective of people she considered underdogs. Back then, he'd fit into that category, with half the school judging him before he ever set foot on the campus. He'd been the new kid in the tenth grade in a school where everyone had been together since kindergarten, and he hadn't made it easy for people to like him.

  He'd been reckless, pissed off all the time, impatient, bitter, and…lost.

  He hadn't had a clue how to release those emotions in a positive way. He'd made a lot of mistakes; he'd hurt people. And he'd been hurt.

  Water under the bridge, he told himself. His teenage years had been a long time ago, and the last thing he wanted to do was relive that time in his life. Unfortunately, he didn't think he would have a choice, because a lot of the people he'd gone to school with were still in town, and there was no doubt they would judge him once again.

  He'd known coming back to Fairhope would stir up gossip and old problems, but it was the closest thing he had to a home, and after being injured in action, he'd been forced to take a break from the career he loved and the circle of friends who'd become brothers to him. He'd wandered around for two months before finally getting on a plane to Fairhope. He'd needed to feel grounded again, to get his feet back under him, to recover and recharge and be part of a world where he had a connection with at least one person.

  His fellow soldiers checked up on him as much as they could, but they were on the other side of the world—where he would have been, if he hadn't gotten injured, if an explosion hadn't damaged his hearing, if bullets hadn't cracked his ribs and torn through his shoulder, leaving him with poor range of motion and nerve damage that went down into his fingers.

  He'd gotten a lot better. He could do most things without pain. He was working out every day, and if he could pass the physical he had coming up in a little over a week, hopefully, he'd be cleared for active duty again. It was an optimistic thought, considering the level of skill and fitness required for his job and the damage that he'd suffered, but he wasn't giving up without a fight.

  Focusing his attention back on the work at hand, he ripped off another piece of drywall, only to be interrupted again by a shrill, angry female voice.

  "What the hell are you doing to my house?" she demanded.

  He swung around, not only surprised by the question but also by the beauti
ful blue eyes spitting fire at him. It was the attractive brunette from the bakery. There was no apron covering her slender but curvy frame now, and she looked even prettier in black jeans, black boots and a body-hugging bright-green sweater. Her long hair was pulled back at the base of her neck, her skin clear and shiny, although he thought he could see a trace of flour along her hairline. He had to fight the urge to lean forward and wipe it away.

  "You?" she asked, more surprise in her eyes as their gazes connected.

  That question made him stiffen. What did she mean—you?

  Two

  Juliette could not believe the man she'd seen outside her bakery window early that morning was now ripping down the walls of her childhood home. He'd changed out of his track pants and sweatshirt into well-worn jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that pulled against what appeared to be a broad, muscled chest.

  She blinked twice and had to deliberately drag her gaze back to his face. Only then, she was staring into his eyes, his compelling and intense brown eyes. Donavan had been right. He was impossible to look away from.

  He couldn't be the owner of this house. She'd heard that an older man had purchased it a month before she'd arrived in town. It had been rumored that he was just going to rent it out, but that didn't appear to be the plan.

  She drew in a breath as they stared at each other for far too long. "I asked you what you were doing," she said finally.

  "Actually, I think you said, what the hell are you doing to my house. But I'm confused, because this house isn't yours."

  "It used to be. I grew up here."

  "Okay," he said warily. "But you don't own the place now, so you should have no concern about what's happening here."

  He was, of course, absolutely right. But when she'd come down the street and seen the open front door and a man ripping down the walls in the entry of her old house, she'd given no conscious thought to the logic of her actions; she'd been driven by pure emotion.

  She'd known it would take years to buy the house, but she'd thought she'd have those years. Maybe the place might have been fixed up a little by then—with cosmetic changes, a new coat of paint, a new roof—but what he was doing looked like a whole lot more than that.

  The walls in the living room had been gutted, and there was a table saw, stacks of boards, and toolboxes open on the floor in the adjacent dining room. The hall was dusty, with heaps of discarded and torn-up sheetrock piled up near the front door.

  When he was finished, she had a feeling her old house would be completely gone. The thought left her shaking, not just with anger but also with sadness.

  It was like he was ripping her life apart, one piece of wood at a time.

  She put a hand to her mouth, feeling a little sick.

  He gave her a sharp look. "Are you all right?"

  "Not really," she murmured.

  He grabbed an unopened bottle of water off a nearby table and handed it to her. "Drink this."

  Her hands were shaking so much she could barely twist off the top. He took it from her with an impatient hand, opened the bottle and then handed it back to her.

  The first long swallow of cool water made her feel a lot better. Another drink, and she felt a little less dizzy. "Thank you."

  "I thought you were going to pass out for a minute there."

  She felt like a fool now that she wasn't reacting to the wave of painful emotions she'd thought she'd buried away a long time ago. "You must think I'm crazy."

  He didn't seem interested in refuting that statement.

  "Right," she said. "Well, let me explain. I lived in this house from the time I was born until I was twelve. That's when my parents died. I was here when I got the news. My aunt was watching me. We were both asleep when the phone rang." She drew in a deep breath. "My parents were on a boat cruise in Italy, and the ship went down. They didn't survive."

  "Sorry," he muttered, his brows furrowing. "That's awful."

  "It was the worst night of my life."

  "I'm sure it was."

  "I didn't think it was real for the longest time. It happened so far away; it felt like a nightmare. But the nightmare never ended. I would wake up and look for them, but they weren't there. After the funeral, my aunt sold this house and took me to live with her in New York. I always had it in my head that one day I'd return to Fairhope and buy my home back. But when I came to town five months ago, the house had recently been sold. Everyone told me the old man who'd bought it was just going to rent it out, so I didn't think much about it, except that I still hoped to find a way to buy it one day. When I came down the street just now, and I saw you ripping down the walls…" She licked her lips. "It felt like you were tearing apart my past. I saw red. One minute I was on the sidewalk, and the next minute I was in here. I don't even remember how that happened."

  "Okay," he said slowly, understanding in his eyes. "I get it. The old man is my grandfather, Vincent Prescott. I think he's planning to sell the place after he remodels it. Maybe you could buy it then."

  "Why does he have to tear the walls down? It's such a beautiful old house. It has character."

  "And dry rot."

  "Can't that just be fixed?"

  "It can—after I rip out the walls."

  "So you're not going to actually tear down the house?"

  "The plans call for an extension into the backyard, so some walls are coming down."

  "Oh," she said, feeling faint again.

  "It's all good," he assured her. "In fact, it's going to be great. My grandfather wants to maintain the integrity of the architecture while making the house much more livable and better suited for modern families. There will be a bathroom added to the master. The first floor bedroom and kitchen will be expanded and the bathroom will be remodeled. My grandfather knows what he's doing. This place will be better than ever when he's done with it."

  "But it won't be the same."

  "Time moves on," he said shortly.

  She knew he was right, and that he was being nice enough just to talk to her, because the construction was truly none of her business. She should apologize for interrupting his day, but somehow she couldn't quite get an I'm sorry to come out of her mouth.

  "When you saw me," he continued, giving her a speculative look as he crossed his arms, "you said you as if we know each other. But I don't think we've met."

  She flushed at the reminder. She really did need to find a way to think before she spoke, but she never seemed to manage that. "I saw you earlier today outside my bakery. You looked—hungry."

  "I was hungry. I'd just finished a six-mile run, and your bakery smelled like heaven."

  "You should have come in."

  "You weren't open yet."

  "It was close enough. Remember that for next time—if you're hungry, that is."

  "I will. I'm Roman Prescott." He extended his hand.

  "Juliette Adams," she replied, as his fingers gripped hers, and a jolt of heat and electricity ran down her spine. She quickly pulled her hand away. "It's nice to meet you. I'm really not a crazy person."

  "Okay." He didn't sound entirely convinced.

  "So you said your grandfather is going to sell the house after the remodel?"

  "I believe so."

  "Would he consider selling it as it is right now—if the price was right?"

  "I doubt it. He seems very determined to turn this house into some vision he's had in his head for apparently quite a few years. You're not alone in having strong feelings about this place."

  "Why? Why does he care about it so much? He never lived here, did he?"

  "He didn't live here, and I have no idea why he's so interested, but he is."

  "Could you find out?"

  "He doesn't tell me much. You can ask him if you want. He's at Donavan's most afternoons. He plays chess there with his old friend Max."

  "Okay. Maybe I'll give it a shot. It can't hurt." She paused for a moment. "I heard you just came back to town."

  "Who did you hear that from?"


  "Donavan. She said you went to high school together."

  "We did. I guess bad news travels fast," he said somewhat dryly.

  "Why would it be bad news that you're back?"

  He shrugged. "Just a guess."

  His vagueness intrigued her, but he didn't seem interested in saying anything more. He definitely wasn't a man of many words.

  "Sorry I interrupted your work," she said. "Come by the bakery sometime, and I'll give you a pastry—on the house." She hesitated, knowing she should go, but she hadn't been in her old home since her aunt had sold it. "Before I leave, do you think I could look around a little? I haven't been inside since I was twelve. I walk by the place almost every day; I even looked in the windows once, but there was no one living here to ask if I could come in for a minute."

  "Sure. Go for it."

  "Really?"

  "Just watch your step."

  "Thanks." She moved toward the stairs, knowing exactly where she wanted to go first—her old bedroom.

  * * *

  There were four rooms on the second floor: the master bedroom, a hall bathroom, and then two bedrooms, with her room tucked away under the eaves of the sloping roof.

  She'd always liked the feeling that she had her own little hideaway. She wondered if Roman's grandfather planned on lifting the roof, making the room bigger, with a ceiling you didn't have to duck under on your way to the closet.

  Probably.

  It would add value to the house. But it would also destroy the cozy feeling of safety, warmth, happiness.

  She stepped across the threshold, then paused. There wasn't any furniture in the room now, but in her head she could see the twin bed she'd slept in, the white dresser and matching desk, the shelves filled with books, the big pillows and stuffed animals in what she'd called her reading corner, which was just under the window and the recipient of a bright slash of sun every afternoon when she got home from school.

  A wave of sad nostalgia for a life she could vividly remember ran through her, but it was a life she had left fifteen years ago. The last time she'd been in this room she'd been twelve. Now she was twenty-seven. She'd lived more than half of her life somewhere else.