Page 109 of Golden Touch
LIVIA
After the architect’s meeting, we stop at a deli for sandwiches and lemonade.
“It isn’t a picnic without lemonade,” Nash says.
“Really? If you say so.”
“Trust me, babe. The Giltmakers are beverage experts.” He taps his credit card against the scanner, even though I’m pretty sure it was my turn to pay.
Being with Nash these past few months has been amazing. Sometimes I still have to remind myself to relax and just take things as they come. Razor made me doubt everyone’s intentions. I wasn’t sure I could trust a man again.
It’s just that Nash makes it so easy. He likes having fun, and he likes having it with me. Most of the time it’s that simple.
With Nash, I never have to look for an ulterior motive. He’s always upfront about his intentions. Like right now when he says, “I have a destination in mind. Can I take you there?”
“Sure.”
He looks over and gives me a smile that’s pure Nash—sixty percent warmth and forty percent naughty.
I love that smile, but I also trust that smile. It’s not only a nice way to live, it’s a revelation.
After we leave the Colebury Deli, Nash heads up a country road outside of town that’s unfamiliar to me. A half mile or so up the hill, the road turns from asphalt to gravel.
But our car can take it. These days we’re driving a new-to-us Subaru that we bought together after trading mine in. When we drive back and forth to Boston, I no longer fear the engine falling out on the road.
“The turnoff is up here,” he says, guiding the car past a meadow. “See that mailbox? The driveway is just past that.”
“We’re having a picnic at somebody’s house?”
“Hold your questions for a second.” He reaches the drive and turns. I see a rolling green lawn and a cute, white, two-story farmhouse. There’s a wraparound front porch and a peaked roof.
There’s also a For Sale sign on the lawn. “Nash?”
He chuckles. “I found this listing online, and I’ve been staring at the pictures all week.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I agree. “But Nash—we can’t buy ahouse.”
“Can’t we?” He shrugs. “I’m a couple weeks away from listing my Boston condo for sale. And Mitch said he’d float me the cash for the down payment in between the closings.”
“He…really?” My mind is blown. I can’t imagine having that kind of cash. And I can’t imagine buying a house.
“Let’s look inside. The realtor opened it up for us. Nobody lives here right now. The owner is a retired couple. They moved to Atlanta.” He gets out of the car and brings our lunch with him. “Come on, pussycat. You know you want to.”
He isn’t wrong. I’m ten different kinds of curious about a house Nash would like. So I get out of the car and chase him up the walkway. On that gorgeous front porch, he sets our deli bag down and then opens the front door. As if he owns the place.
I follow him inside, and then try not to sigh. Whoever owns this place has takenverygood care of it. The walls are freshly painted, and the wood floors shine. It’s light and bright, with views of the meadow across the street.
“It’s…very pretty,” I say haltingly. “But I can’t afford a place like this, Nash. I thought we were going to find a rental.”
“We can, if that’s what you really want,” he says, opening the coat closet to peer inside. “But this house won’t last. It’s in perfect shape. And I thought we have enough of a project on our hands with the brewery. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a house where everything already works?”
“Well, yeah. But…”
“But…” He puts an arm around me and kisses my head. “Do you hate it?”
“No! Who could hate it? Oh wait—I know. My bank balance hates this idea a lot.”
“What if your bank balance doesn’t get a vote?” He shrugs. “We’re going to live together somewhere, right? If you want to split it fifty-fifty, I suppose we can do that. But why should we?”
