“And why did you want to know all those details about the nails in the storage bench?” she asked.
“I…I don’t know. It…just seemed odd, that’s all.”
She began muttering to herself. “You say you own this house…you have a brother…you seemed very upset over not being allowed inside, and now you’re a mess over this family album.” Her eyes flew all the way open. “This is you in these pictures! You lived here as a little boy!”
Nico let out the hot air balloon-sized breath he’d been holding. Whatever it might do to future negotiations, the jig was up. She’d figured it out. At least now maybe he had a better chance of bringing the photo album to his mother.
He sat back in his chair. “Yes.”
“But why didn't you tell me that from the start?”
“I thought it would give you leverage in financial dealings if you knew I had an emotional attachment to the property.”
Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “First off, I made it clear I have no interest in financial dealings. But also, I assume you plan to tear the house down. Am I wrong about that?”
“It’s in the way of a massive real estate parcel that my brother and I have been working on for nearly ten years. We own all the surrounding properties, and I thought we still owned our childhood home, too.”
“You own the old factoryandthe old mall?” When he nodded, she whistled in appreciation. “I sure am a fly in your ointment, aren’t I?” She made a buzzing sound.
He had to laugh a little at that. “You sure are. Now, where’s my fly swatter.”
She gestured toward her ankle. It was turning a ripe shade of blue. “I swatted myself.”
“You did,” he said simply, and they lapsed into silence.
“Okay,” Ginny said finally, “but then why would I think your emotional attachment to the house matters? You obviously don’thave an emotional attachment to it or, if you do, it’s not nearly as strong an attachment as you have to all the money you’ll make from destroying it.”
Nico paused to think about that. “Maybe I thought you were the emotional type so…no, it really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?”
Ginny shook her head slowly in an ‘I told you so’ kind of way, but her expression was gentle. Her eyes and the soft set of her lips radiated sympathy. “Look, there’s a more likely reason you kept your true connection to the house secret from me.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you, but I'm sick of lying in this bed. How about you get started making us some coffee while I pogo myself toward the kitchen.”
Considering how recently he’d written Ginny off as an incompetent fool, Nico found himself surprisingly interested in her theory but, at the moment, he was even more keen to keep her from reinjuring herself. “Fine, but I’m going tohelpyou get to the kitchen.”
15
With her injured right leg resting on the booth seat and her ankle supported by a pillow, Ginny had no choice but to appreciate the intricacies of Nico making them coffee. His rolled-up sleeves and unbuttoned collar gave her the best view yet of the muscles in his arms and neck, which flexed, loosened, and flexed again as he opened cupboards, searching for her mugs and French press. She was having such a good time, she “accidentally” told him the wrong location for the French press, forcing him to bend down and reach inside a lower cupboard that faced away from her. Thepièce de résistancewas the cute face of concentration he made while pressing the grounds through the hot water.
He glanced over at her, and she averted her eyes. It wasn’t her fault there was a Chippendale dancer performing as a barista in her kitchen!
“How do you take it?” he asked.
She fake grimaced in embarrassment. “Oddly.”
He shifted his feet, jutting out a sexy hip. “I figuredthat.”
After providing him a detailed set of instructions, he brought her a half-filled mug, a cup of ice, and a spoon. Then he joined her at the opposite side of the table with his own mug.
Dumping in her ice and stirring, Ginny gestured toward his mug of plain black coffee. “That’s the way Monique drinks it.”
He took a sip. “This is probably the way half the population drinks it.”
Ginny nodded. “Half the population is like you and Monique.”
He set his mug down lightly. “And .000001 percent of the population is like you, which is why civilization, as we know it, exists. Now, you have some deep revelation to tell me about myself?”