Page 12 of That Reilly Boy
“There has to be more to it than wanting to restore an old house,” she finally says. “You know the history between our families, and even if I could finally convince my mom to sell it, there’s almost no chance it would be to a Reilly.”
There’s a lot to unpack there. There is more to it than wanting to restore an old house, but I have no intention of sharing that motivation with Cara. And almost no chance isn’t the same as no chance at all.
But most importantly, there are those two very telling words—finally convince—that snag my attention. Cara actively wants Gin to sell the house, and she has to know mine will be the best offer they can get.
“Did Gin give you the specifics of my offer?”
“Nope. She probably didn’t think the details mattered since she’s never going to consider it.”
“Never?”
“Even if you weren’t a Reilly, she won’t let it go to anybody outside of the family.”
Right. Because it’s the Gamble house. It’s quickly becoming the Gamble ruins, but apparently that doesn’t matter to Gin. “Let me take you to dinner.”
The file stops, but Cara doesn’t look up. “Absolutely not. No.”
It’s hard to work with a hard, unequivocal no. There’s not a lot of wiggle room there. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. I’ve been told I can be very persuasive when I want something.
“We can go separately and meet in the city. Your choice of restaurant, and it’ll be my treat for taking the time to hear me out.”
“Still no.” She stands and gives Penny a good fingertip rub, all the way down her back. “I think we’re done here since her nails were immaculate when you came in.”
She unhooks Penny from the overhead lead and clips her leash back to the harness. I expect my dog to turn her head in my direction, but instead she licks the back of Cara’s hand. When Cara leans down and plants a kiss on top of Penny’s head, I have to look away.
Once she’s set Penny on the floor, she gives me the total and then runs my card. Even though she did charge me double, I add a generous tip. I’m always thankful when Penelope has a good experience with a service provider.
“Please think about dinner,” I say, knowing I won’t get a yes right now, but maybe I can plant the seeds. “We can get out of this town and talk about how my offer is not only in the best interest of the house, but maybe you and your mom, too.”
“I use my cell for the shop, so I have your number in my phone. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Then, after making a kissing sound at Penny and giving her a final scratch under the chin, Cara gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Have a nice day.”
Chapter Nine
Cara
I’m still stewing over the nerve of that man to ask me out for dinner when I pull into the driveway after a long day. Besides my regular appointments, I also had the pleasure of trying to de-stink a something-doodle that had rolled in an unknown but persistently unpleasant substance.
How charming does Hayden think he is that he can just walk into my shop after seventeen years and expect me to share a meal with him? Obviously he’s successful at whatever financial investment-type thing he does, but money and the promise of a fancy dinner can’t buy my forgiveness.
His money could end my misery, though, I think as I enter the side door of the garage. It’s stuffed with a ton of junk, but there’s a laundry basket in one corner, with a shelf of clothes next to it. I strip down to my underwear and drop my clothes in the hamper, and then I pull on a clean T-shirt and shorts. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s what I have to do to accommodate Gin’s alleged pet allergy.
As soon as I walk through the back door into the kitchen, I can tell Gin’s in a mood. She’s tense and usually she hums or sings quietly while she cooks dinner. Today’s she silent, and she’s chopping a carrot with so much vigor, she’s going to lose a finger if she misses.
That’s fine with me—her attitude, not my mom losing a finger—because my mood isn’t great, either. We can just stay out of each other’s way and keep conversation to a minimum.
I take a quick shower and then set the table while my mother finishes up the sauteed chicken breasts to go with the salad. We still haven’t spoken and I’m not sure why. She’s not usually shy about voicing annoyances. The tension’s getting awkward, but I don’t have the energy to break the conversational ice.
I take my first bite of chicken, and of course she chooses that moment to cave. “Why was that Reilly boy in your shop today?”
And mystery solved. “His dog had a nail that needed to be taken care of, but it wasn’t bad enough for him to go all the way back to Boston to see her regular groomer.”
“How hard can trimming a dog’s nails be?”
Says the woman who’s never tried it. “I’m not really in a position to turn away business, no matter who it is. And I charged him double, if that makes you feel any better about it.”
Gin makes a sound implying it actually does make her feel slightly better. For some reason that annoys me even more than her anger. I work my butt off, never saying no to a pet in need, even if it’s after hours or a weekend. The night Hudson—a mischievous Westie—got chewing gum ground down to his undercoat, I’d already taken my bra off. But I put it back on and missed my favorite show at airtime, risking spoilers, because pet owners show their appreciation for me with their wallets.
Also, I love animals and I wasn’t going to let Hudson gnaw at his sticky coat all night.
