Page 115 of Hidden Nature

This time when she sipped her wine, she smiled over it. “I guess I can’t hold it against you. I was perfectly happy just to have my own place. Thrilled, actually. And I love this spot. Now I have that perfect little bathroom, and the rest of the house is jealous.”

“I hear that.”

“Do you?”

“We redid the main-level powder room in our place. I figured we’d just get our hands in, get a simple—fairly simple—room done. Now we’ve torn out the kitchen, and there’s nothing simple about it.”

“Because the kitchen said:What about me?”

“What it said to me is:What the fuck? You’re just going to leave me like this?”

She laughed, quick and throaty. “It was pretty bad according to Drea. Worse than mine. Do you cook?”

“I didn’t until I moved here. Now it’s a very dubious event. Do you?”

“I’m not bad. Ranking in my family goes Mom, Dad, Drea, me, but my mother sets a high bar.”

She looked around again. “I’ll send you the measurements after I talk to Dad. And I’m not talking to him until tomorrow. I may still come to my senses.”

“You won’t.”

Now those eyes of hers gave him a measuring stare. “Won’t I?”

“No, because you already see it.”

She sighed once and sighed long. “I do already see it. And I know I’m going to spend too much time tonight looking through my paint fan, looking up fireplace fronts.”

“I’ll let you get started on that. I’ve got to get going. Somebody has to nuke dinner, and Theo’s worse than I am. Thanks for the wine.”

“You earned it. Let Theo and Robo know it’s exactly what I wanted.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

When he went out, she topped off her wine.

She supposed liking Theo’s brother was a positive thing. She liked his looks, sure—who wouldn’t?—but she liked his style just as much.

And she’d think about the little extra buzz she’d felt later.

Right now, she’d cart her things back to her pretty bathroom, hang her towels—which should probably be replaced with new now. She’d set candles on her new little cabinet, and enjoy a nice long shower surrounded by lovely blue tiles.

Then she’d get in her pj’s and make herself… something for dinner. And she’d look through her paint fan.

Sipping, she scowled at the brick wall of her fireplace.

“This is all on you.”

February ushered in a respiratory virus that knocked people down like bowling pins. Because she managed to dodge it, Sloan spent the next two weeks juggling schedules and covering for those who were laid flat.

Since she’d seen Drea’s misery, and heard Travis’s lingering cough when he returned to work, she pulled out all her gratitude. But even grateful, double shifts and covering weekends took their toll.

She knew her dad jumped right on the fireplace project, as she noted his progress whenever she managed to get home for some sleep, but she didn’t see him.

Or Nash—Drea had passed her clogged head, tender throat, and low-grade fever on to Theo. But she noted the despised popcorn ceiling was no more, and neither was the clunky, too-big, too-dark trim and baseboard.

But the fever—literally—began to break. The day she drove home under ten hours since she’d driven away, she vowed to make herself an actual meal.

Maybe catch up on the like-crimes research she’d had to set aside. Hell, she might even read a chapter of her book or watch a little TV before getting a regular night’s sleep instead of dropping into oblivion.

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