Page 5 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Dad’s not alone. He has Janice. Or Susan. Or whoever he has now.”
“I love my son,” she said, sighing. “But I spoiled him rotten. And I’m ashamed to say he’s not the man I wanted him to be. And your mother isn’t much better. Your father calls me dutifully once a month and continues to go about spending money recklessly and flitting from business to business.” Ruth’s bluntness was surgical in its precision. “Your mother is neurotic and has no purpose now that she’s not Clark Murphy’s wife. They’re both the loneliest people I know. Is that really the life you want?”
He thought about it and knew in his heart of hearts that he’d spent his life wanting to be as different from his parents as any person could be. He hoped he was. But he could see some truth in what Ruth was saying as well.
“Maybe I’m ready for something different,” he admitted, surprised by his own honesty.
“Well, then,” Ruth said, satisfied. “That’s something then.”
Hollow Elm was one of the older established suburbs of Dallas, and it was like its own little world. The trees were tall and stately and the houses were unique and expensive. The restrictions and code enforcement would have been a headache if it weren’t for his family name. The Murphy family had a long history in Hollow Elm.
He turned onto Apple Tree Lane, scanning for the address Faith had provided, though he hardly needed the number. Her house practically screamed at him from the end of the cul-de-sac—a Victorian nightmare straight out of a horror movie.
“Sweet merciful heavens,” Ruth breathed, eyes wide. “Would you look at that?”
Jake’s reaction was less awe, more alarm. Disaster with a capitalD. He prayed no one was inside what was clearly a structural catastrophe waiting to happen. His contractor’s eye automatically catalogued the damage—sagging porch, rotted support beams, foundation that had clearly shifted. His stomach dropped as he spotted the very expensive Audi in the driveway. Someone was living in this death trap.
“Gran, I need you to stay put until I know it’s safe.” Which might be never.
“It doesn’t even look like the same place anymore,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Jake filed away that comment, knowing Ruth had grown up nearby and probably recognized the house from its glory days. He navigated the cracked sidewalk toward the sagging porch, tablet in hand. He could already tell there wasn’t enough cloud storage on earth to document everything wrong with this disaster zone.
“Extensive structural damage throughout,” he dictated into his tablet’s recorder app. “Foundation’s shifted significantly on the north side. Wood rot everywhere—termites have been throwing dinner parties for decades. Circa 1880s construction, post-Civil War, with that mishmash Victorian style that screams nouveau riche railroad baron.”
This was where Jake’s curse—and gift—kicked in. Beneath the decay, he could see what this house had once been—three stories of Victorian splendor, angled bay windows catching morning light, elegant towers flanking both sides like castle turrets, sweeping porches designed for Sunday socials. He imagined garden parties with string quartets, couples stealing kisses beneath climbing roses, champagne flowing as freely as laughter on warm summer evenings.
He could fix it. He could fix anything. And once he did, he’d make Faith Hartwell an offer she couldn’t refuse. This house was coming home with him, termites and all.
Gingerly testing each step, he ascended the porch stairs, avoiding spots that screamed structural failure imminent. The cheerful red welcome mat nearly made him laugh out loud. Only someone with a death wish—or spectacular insurance—would accept that invitation.
An antique doorbell hung beside the frame, the kind that needed a good yank and probably sounded like a cat in labor. Not wanting to trigger a full-scale collapse, he avoided it.
Taking a deep breath, Jake did what any normal person would do—he knocked. And instantly regretted it.
The door didn’t just open—it detached completely, frame and all, falling backward in what felt like slow motion. Jake watched in horrified fascination as the entire assembly plummeted through what appeared to be the living room floor, disappearing into darkness below. Standing frozen in a cloud of ancient dust, he squeezed his eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t be next to discover this house’s apparent hunger for anything that dared stand upright.
“Oh, for crying out loud! Does everything in this place have a death wish for the basement? I haven’t even found the proper entrance yet.”
* * *
Faith barely registered the stunned man standing in her new doorway-shaped hole. She was too busy trying to figure out how she was going to keep critters and burglars out without a front door. Of course, burglars would probably be smart enough to realize there was nothing inside for them to steal.
“Looks like your emergency call wasn’t an exaggeration,” a deep voice rumbled. “I’ve never seen someone in more desperate need of construction intervention.”
The voice sent an unexpected shiver across her skin, and Faith looked up to find herself staring at living, breathing perfection in a tool belt.
This couldn’t possibly be George. George was supposed to be grandfatherly—white hair, suspenders, maybe a pocket watch and stories about the good old days. The specimen before her was tall and powerfully built, with shoulders that could carry a roof beam and the kind of lean, muscular physique that came from actual labor, not a gym membership. His hair was the rich brown of espresso with a hint of cinnamon, and his eyes—good Lord, his eyes were the exact blue of the deepest part of the ocean, the kind you could drown in without struggle. If Webster’s needed an illustration forruggedly handsome, they’d just found their cover model. And the way he filled out those jeans should be criminalized in at least thirty states.
“George?” she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Jake Murphy,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that suggested he’d caught her staring. “George is vacationing with the in-laws for a couple weeks. Looks like you’re stuck with me instead.”
The blush heating her cheeks confirmed she’d been thoroughly busted. In her defense, any woman would have looked at him like he was the answer to every fantasy she’d ever had.
“Oh, thank heavens,” she blurted. “I was worried my intuition had completely abandoned me. You don’t look remotely like what I pictured a George would be.”
Jake studied the woman behind the voice that had haunted him since last night and found himself equally surprised. Jake had spent the drive over imagining someone polished and untouchable, the kind of woman who appeared in luxury car commercials. Instead, Faith Hartwell had dirt smudged across her nose and wore what looked like a man’s oxford shirt over faded jeans.
