Page 40 of XOXO, Valentina

He glared at me, his eyes magnified behind the goggles. “Shut up and help me.”

I picked my way over the debris-covered floor and joined Thatcher in his battle with the hideous green carpet. “Is this turf?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I think so. On the count of three?”

It was hard to take him seriously in the swim goggles. “Don’t I need my own eye protection?”

“I’m allergic to something,” he said. “My eyes are killing me.”

He counted to three, and we both pulled hard. Finally, the turf budged. An inch. Thatcher grunted and sank to the floor.

“I give up,” he said. “Maybe I’ll turn this room into a putting green.”

I joined him on the floor and glanced around, taking in the high ceilings, ornate crown molding, and glass-tiered chandelier. Except for the garish wallpaper and the emerald-green carpet, this place had potential. After seeing what Thatcher had done with Hyperbole’s Bookshop, I knew he could find the inner beauty of his old family house.

Back in the day, everyone had thought Hyperbole’s Bookshop was haunted. Thatcher had transformed the musty relic of a shop into a thriving attraction in the heart of Mossy Oak’s Main Street. His methods were unorthodox, but the finished product was worth it. He would do the same with this place, even if it took years.

Thatcher pushed the goggles up on his head, revealing his swollen, bloodshot eyes. Daisy nudged his chest, and he put an arm around her.

“You need an antihistamine,” I said. “You’re having a reaction.”

He sneezed. “Probably all this dust.”

“Bless you.”

He shot me another dirty look. “Why are you so chipper?”

“I’m not chipper.”

Thatcher cocked his head, his blue eyes studying me intently. His close inspection made me twitch.

“Did you get laid?” His lips twitched. “You did, didn’t you?”

My cheeks burned brighter. Was it so obvious? Was I wearing a sign around my neck that read Sex Deprived Spinster? Oh, beans! Had my parents noticed?

“Hello?” Lacey’s voice sounded from downstairs.

Daisy scrambled to her feet and raced out of the room to greet Lacey. Dogs loved Lacey. She was some kind of dog whisperer.

“Who’s the guy?” Thatcher asked, grinning.

“You look like an idiot in those overalls,” I said. “And I won’t even ask why you’re wearing rain boots.”

He glanced at his boots. “Daisy has a thing for shoes. She keeps hiding them from me, and these were the only ones I could find. Now spill your guts,” he said, poking my leg.

“Wait!” Lacey burst into the room. “No one is spilling anything until Mia and Kennedy get here.”

Thatcher got up and took the bag Lacey carried. “Gabi had sex.” He peered into the bag and pulled out a beer. “Oh, you brought my favorite.”

Lacey planted her hands on her hips and looked Thatcher up and down. “Don’t ever say anything about my wardrobe choices again.”

He tugged his goggles off and tossed them to the floor. “Let’s go down to the kitchen, it’s less…” He glanced around. “Green.”

The kitchen was less green, but it was no less dusty, and no less a mess. The cabinets were halfway hung, the hardwood floors were torn up, and wallpaper sagged off the walls. The only appliance was a pea-green refrigerator.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t hire a contractor?” I asked.

“I’m sure.” Thatcher put the beer in the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.

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