Page 10 of The Best Laid Plans

“Cunningham.” Her brow was furrowed, and she said it slowly.

The laugh that came out on an exhale was ripped straight through my gut. “Of course it is,” I said.

She shifted on the stairs. “Okay. Maybe ... maybe we should start over. I’m Charlotte Cunningham, and I was hired as the project manager and to help the owners renovate the house with historical accuracy.” Her chin lifted, her voice stronger than it had been. “I have a bachelor’s and a master’s in history and a certification from Cornellin sustainable preservation. The late 1800s are my specialty, and I am completely dedicated to making sure this happens the way Amie and Chris wanted it to.”

Wanted.

My chest clenched at the use of past tense.

Charlotte must have seen something in my face, an expression I hadn’t been able to hide, because those big eyes of hers softened. “You were close to them.”

I held her gaze. “Yeah. I played football with Chris in college.”

She eyed me, head to toe, lingering just a touch on my hands. “That explains a lot.”

“Does it now?” My voice was dangerous.

Her fingers curled in toward her palms, and the clink of the handcuffs against the wood snapped us out of the moment. Whatever it had been.

“Where are the keys?”

Her face did that smile-grimace thing again. “I don’t exactly know. My aunt—the mastermind of this—didn’t leave them behind.”

A muscle twitched in my jaw while she eyed me warily.

“How do you propose I get you out of that, then? Do you have a phone that I can use to call her?”

“I seem to have misplaced my phone,” she answered carefully.

I slicked my tongue over my teeth, deciding to toss her words back at her. “That explains a lot.”

She didn’t appreciate my tone.

“Did you try to call me? Am I about to get fired? Because I swear this wasn’t my idea, and I’m normallyverybig on not breaking the law.”

Instead of answering her, I crouched at the base of the staircase and eyed the railing between her arms. The wood looked like it could hardly hold the weight of the stairs, let alone a full-grown woman. I could’ve told her that she wasn’t breaking any laws or that she wasn’t getting fired. But I didn’t.

Crouched the way I was, we were closer than was polite, and Charlotte held herself very, very still as I sat in front of her.

“I know this is a strange way to meet, but I’m very glad you’re here,” she said. “The past few weeks, I’ve been waiting to hear that the house would go into foreclosure, that I’d have to leave it in this state, and this is so much better. It’s a huge relief.”

“Is it?” I muttered.

She took it as a literal question. “Yes. I mean, I hope I’m not about to lose my job.”

Her leading statement was met by stubborn silence. I didn’t want to make anything easier on her right now. She’d locked herself to the fucking staircase, and that didn’t seem like a wise choice when meeting your new boss.

“I haven’t ... I haven’t actually had a paycheck over the last month, and the builder we hired quit, but it’s fine. We’ll get it figured out.”

She smelled like lemons. And clean soap. Her fingers were long and graceful, and I did my very best not to touch a single inch of her skin when I tested the strength of the handcuffs.

“So ... these are real, then.”

“Not mine,” she said firmly. “I’ve never ...”

At her pregnant pause, I lifted an eyebrow.

Color bloomed over those high cheekbones, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

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