Page 94 of Holding On To Good

“I’m speaking it into existence. Manifesting what I want. Making things happen by the pure power of my mind and will. God knows if I don’t make things happen, no one else will.”

“Like I said,” he murmured as she walked away, “scary as hell.”

Chapter Sixteen

Willow climbed the ugly, green carpeted stairs of the Lindstrom house, Urban’s heavy, measured steps behind her.

So far, her whole Return to Normal plan had been a total bust.

Because even though they were doing something completely normal—touring a house to decide if they wanted to purchase it for their next flip—it felt unnatural in every way. She was tense, her shoulders rigid. The silence between them was stilted and strained and so awkward, she about jumped out of her skin when he gently cleared his throat.

At this rate, if the man breathed on her wrong, she’d shatter into a million, nerve-wracked pieces.

This, she thought as she reached the second floor, this was why she’d laid into him at their office this morning. Why she’d kept her distance from him all day. Why she’d planned on keeping that distance for at least another day or two, lying low, and doing her best to put as much time and space between them and the events that had transpired over the weekend as possible.

Time, after all, was the great equalizer. Memories faded. Humiliation lost its power. Mistakes were glossed over. Pain lessened.

Yes, time and space—as much as possible—were clearly what they needed.

Urban had other ideas.

And because those ideas concerned their company and, more specifically, this house and her plans for it, she hadn’t blown him off when he’d texted her thirty minutes ago asking her to meet him here as a redo of their planned—and aborted—Saturday night meeting.

Their company was why she’d agreed, she assured herself. And because she really wanted to get her hands on this house.

Not because she’d always had a hard time telling Urban no. Or because even after all these years she jumped at any and every chance to spend time with him.

Reaching the second floor, she made a beeline down the hall and into the master suite, not stopping until she was at the far corner of the room next to the closet. Waited until he stepped inside the doorway, a faded Penn State baseball hat covering his shaggy head, pencil stuck behind his ear, the setting sun through the windows catching the strands of gold in his beard.

Yearning swept through her, like a flame roaring to life.

She ruthlessly, savagely smothered it.

It should’ve been easy enough to do. After all the years of practice, it was a habit she’d perfected. One she counted on to protect her heart. To keep her hope in check, her wants under wraps and in control.

Except, for some crazy, inexplicable reason, it didn’t work. Not completely. An ember remained, burning through her resolve.

Damn it.

She linked her hands together at her waist while he took a quick glance at the space.

“It’s too small for a master,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed because there was no arguing with feet and inches. “But we can work with it. Make it more functional,” she added, trying to appeal to his pragmatic side.

His only side, really.

That’s what made them good partners. He ran on functional over fluff.

Fluff was her specialty.

“How?” he asked.

“Refinish the hardwood floors, paint the walls, and take down the popcorn ceiling.”

So many, many popcorn ceilings in one house. The bedroom next to this one even had glitter along with all the bumps and spikes.

Ah, the crazy eighties.

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