little detail, but she pushed it out of her mind. All the Banshee Creek houses had their quirks. Everyone understood that. Gabe wouldn't care, or at least he shouldn't.
She punched her code into the lockbox, took out the key, and unlocked the door. She was relieved to note that it was heavy, solid wood. She stepped into the house and smiled. Was there anything better than the smell of a freshly painted house? The smell was like Christmas morning, new and full of possibilities. Who could resist it?
She crossed the foyer, her heels tapping a rhythm on the checkerboard-patterned marble floor. She admired the wood staircase, white-painted paneling, and gorgeous oak wood floors. She sneaked a peek at the white marble tiles.
Flawless. No spots at all.
She looked up. The famous Hagen chandelier, completely restored, hung from the foyer ceiling, sunbeams glinting off the crystals. Gabe would love it, she was certain. The over-the-top light fixture was obnoxiously arrogant, just like him.
She walked through the house, continuing her assessment. Liam's construction firm was known for quality work, but he had outdone himself with the Hagen House. True, he hadn't had much choice. The Historical Preservation Committee had kept its retro-styled spectacles firmly trained on the renovation and, per its requirements, antique brick had been procured from a crumbling church in Richmond, molding had been cut based on drawings found in the Monticello architectural archives, and heritage ivy shoots had been painstakingly draped over the walls. The house was now an up-to-date, no-expense-spared, all-the-bells-and-whistles luxury home.
She wouldn't live here for the world. The Hagen House was her parents' house on elephant steroids.
A screech of tires pierced her ears. She walked to the living room window and peered out.
A red Ferrari sat on the driveway.
Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the tripled-paned custom glass window. Nope, she hadn't been wrong. She was going to have to pitch the most notorious house in Banshee Creek to a man she'd doused in warm lemonade.
She watched as he got out of the car, took off his sunglasses, and stared at the house. She couldn't make out the expression on his face. Was he pleased?
He walked toward the entrance and examined the portico carefully. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
Finally, the door opened, and Gabe walked into the house. He was wearing a different jacket today. This one was brown corduroy and it appeared to be brand new. She stifled a twinge of guilt over the lemony demise of his jacket. He could afford a new one. In fact, he could afford to buy his own London tailor's shop.
At least he was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which made him look like his old self. Well, almost. These clothes appeared expensive. Old Gabe would have worn threadbare jeans and a red T-shirt with the words Franco Pizza in lurid yellow script, or a Banshee Creek High Chess Team T-shirt, or a faded gray shirt that announced that Mathematicians Do It By The Numbers.
He entered the house with a confident stride, and a shadow on his jaw added an air of danger. She hadn't noticed the bruise last night. She'd been busy noticing other things. Things she shouldn't be thinking about now. The only thing that mattered today was that she had to somehow convince Gabe to buy this house.
Which was unfortunate, because she didn't think she'd be able to make a good sales pitch right now. Just looking at Gabe made her go weak in the knees, or actually, a bit lower than that. She could feel the phantom pressure of the straps he'd tightened around her ankles. She pushed the memory out of her mind. She had no business picturing Gabe tying anything anywhere on her body. She had to behave. She had to sell him Holly's house.
She opened her mouth to form a greeting, but Gabe put his finger over her lips. She stiffened. The contact was electric, and she couldn't help but wonder what else Gabe's
She punched her code into the lockbox, took out the key, and unlocked the door. She was relieved to note that it was heavy, solid wood. She stepped into the house and smiled. Was there anything better than the smell of a freshly painted house? The smell was like Christmas morning, new and full of possibilities. Who could resist it?
She crossed the foyer, her heels tapping a rhythm on the checkerboard-patterned marble floor. She admired the wood staircase, white-painted paneling, and gorgeous oak wood floors. She sneaked a peek at the white marble tiles.
Flawless. No spots at all.
She looked up. The famous Hagen chandelier, completely restored, hung from the foyer ceiling, sunbeams glinting off the crystals. Gabe would love it, she was certain. The over-the-top light fixture was obnoxiously arrogant, just like him.
She walked through the house, continuing her assessment. Liam's construction firm was known for quality work, but he had outdone himself with the Hagen House. True, he hadn't had much choice. The Historical Preservation Committee had kept its retro-styled spectacles firmly trained on the renovation and, per its requirements, antique brick had been procured from a crumbling church in Richmond, molding had been cut based on drawings found in the Monticello architectural archives, and heritage ivy shoots had been painstakingly draped over the walls. The house was now an up-to-date, no-expense-spared, all-the-bells-and-whistles luxury home.
She wouldn't live here for the world. The Hagen House was her parents' house on elephant steroids.
A screech of tires pierced her ears. She walked to the living room window and peered out.
A red Ferrari sat on the driveway.
Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the tripled-paned custom glass window. Nope, she hadn't been wrong. She was going to have to pitch the most notorious house in Banshee Creek to a man she'd doused in warm lemonade.
She watched as he got out of the car, took off his sunglasses, and stared at the house. She couldn't make out the expression on his face. Was he pleased?
He walked toward the entrance and examined the portico carefully. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
Finally, the door opened, and Gabe walked into the house. He was wearing a different jacket today. This one was brown corduroy and it appeared to be brand new. She stifled a twinge of guilt over the lemony demise of his jacket. He could afford a new one. In fact, he could afford to buy his own London tailor's shop.
At least he was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which made him look like his old self. Well, almost. These clothes appeared expensive. Old Gabe would have worn threadbare jeans and a red T-shirt with the words Franco Pizza in lurid yellow script, or a Banshee Creek High Chess Team T-shirt, or a faded gray shirt that announced that Mathematicians Do It By The Numbers.
He entered the house with a confident stride, and a shadow on his jaw added an air of danger. She hadn't noticed the bruise last night. She'd been busy noticing other things. Things she shouldn't be thinking about now. The only thing that mattered today was that she had to somehow convince Gabe to buy this house.
Which was unfortunate, because she didn't think she'd be able to make a good sales pitch right now. Just looking at Gabe made her go weak in the knees, or actually, a bit lower than that. She could feel the phantom pressure of the straps he'd tightened around her ankles. She pushed the memory out of her mind. She had no business picturing Gabe tying anything anywhere on her body. She had to behave. She had to sell him Holly's house.
She opened her mouth to form a greeting, but Gabe put his finger over her lips. She stiffened. The contact was electric, and she couldn't help but wonder what else Gabe's
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