Page 43 of Golden Touch
When I was a little boy, I had the run of this whole property. My father was the kind of man who was always working. Always hustling. Always full of new ideas. It’s fair to say that he was a decent dad to me when I was small. He wasn’t the kind to play with us for hours, but he humored all our questions and brought us to work with him. And he didn’t mind when we were underfoot.
The pumphouse was one of our favorite spots on the property. The two bunkrooms upstairs—and the big old shower room—had been outfitted for millworkers a century ago. But the downstairs apartment was crafted during the decade I was born. My sister thinks my father furnished the place during one of the difficult patches in our parents’ marriage. When he needed someplace to go.
I don’t know if she’s right, but it’s plausible.
As kids, we’d play hide and seek within these walls. But nobody was really taking care of the place. It must have been a dusty wreck when Livia moved in. She’d have worked for weeks to bring it up to her exacting standards.
And now she wants to flee?
I look at the flimsy lock on the door. Then I glance toward the back of the building, where there’s no strip of light under the door. Either she went to bed at seven o’clock, or she’s too nervous to turn the light on.
This can’t go on.
I get up, find my keys, and fetch my extra bike helmet. “Pussycat!” I call through her door. “Get your cute little ass out here. We’re going for a ride.”
A moment later her door opens on a scowl. “What are you going on about?”
“We need to take a little trip. Let’s go. You’ll need a jacket. It’s cold on the bike.”
She blinks. “I’m not riding bitch on your bike, Nash.”
“Scared?”
“No!” she yelps, offended at the idea. “Those days are over for me.” She crosses her arms, and I almost get distracted by the excellent new view of her cleavage.
But a man’s got to keep his head. “Look, I got something to shop for at Home Depot. Round trip, it’ll take me an hour and a half. We can’t take your car for obvious reasons. And I can’t leave you here alone. That leaves my bike. Get your shoes on.” I tap my foot. “Time’s a wasting.”
I hand her the helmet, and she makes a shocked, irritatednoise. I turn my back and busy myself with washing out my glass and putting it on the drying rack. By the time I’m done, she’s standing there in a riding jacket, the helmet under her arm. Her face is pure irritation, but I don’t gloat.
“Okay, Livia. Nice night for a ride. Let’s go.”
After locking the door, I put on my helmet and throw a leg over my bike. Then I wait.
A moment later, Livia slides onto the seat behind me, fitting her feet onto the footpegs like a pro.
I’m only human, so my pulse quickens as her arms slide around my waist. I start the bike, and after letting the engine warm up a moment, we scoot off toward the open road.
Soon we’re flying down the highway together, her curvy body tucked against my back.
It’s heaven and hell at the same time.
Living in Vermont means anything you might need requires a trek. It’s more than a half hour trip to the Home Depot, but that’s the only place that’s open late enough for my needs.
“What are we here for, anyway?” Livia asks as she removes the helmet and shakes her hair.
I wrap an arm around her small body and lead her through the double doors. “Got a long list. Extra bolt for the front door. Window locks. Maybe a paper window shade for the office.”
“A…what?”
“You’ll see. Follow me.”
I march her all around the store. I find a new deadbolt for the pumphouse, plus a swingarm door latch for the inside of the door—the same thing they have in hotel rooms. I can install it tonight.
There are a dozen things in my cart by the time we check out, including a couple accordion-style paper window shades for the office. “The ugly curtains will do for now in the pumphouse,” I murmur. “Not sure Home Depot sells real curtains.”
Livia’s gaze drops to her shoes. “I’ll take care of the curtains. This is a lot you’re doing for me.”
Except it isn’t. A couple hours work on a substandard dwelling that my family owns isn’t a big deal.
