Page 6 of Sweet Somethings

Two

Juliette could not believe the man she'd seen outside her bakery window early that morning was now ripping down the walls of her childhood home. He'd changed out of his track pants and sweatshirt into well-worn jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that pulled against what appeared to be a broad, muscled chest.

She blinked twice and had to deliberately drag her gaze back to his face. Only then, she was staring into his eyes, his compelling and intense brown eyes. Donavan had been right. He was impossible to look away from.

He couldn't be the owner of this house. She'd heard that an older man had purchased it a month before she'd arrived in town. It had been rumored that he was just going to rent it out, but that didn't appear to be the plan.

She drew in a breath as they stared at each other for far too long. "I asked you what you were doing," she said finally.

"Actually, I think you said, what the hell are you doing to my house. But I'm confused, because this house isn't yours."

"It used to be. I grew up here."

"Okay," he said warily. "But you don't own the place now, so you should have no concern about what's happening here."

He was, of course, absolutely right. But when she'd come down the street and seen the open front door and a man ripping down the walls in the entry of her old house, she'd given no conscious thought to the logic of her actions; she'd been driven by pure emotion.

She'd known it would take years to buy the house, but she'd thought she'd have those years. Maybe the place might have been fixed up a little by then—with cosmetic changes, a new coat of paint, a new roof—but what he was doing looked like a whole lot more than that.

The walls in the living room had been gutted, and there was a table saw, stacks of boards, and toolboxes open on the floor in the adjacent dining room. The hall was dusty, with heaps of discarded and torn-up sheetrock piled up near the front door.

When he was finished, she had a feeling her old house would be completely gone. The thought left her shaking, not just with anger but also with sadness.

It was like he was ripping her life apart, one piece of wood at a time.

She put a hand to her mouth, feeling a little sick.

He gave her a sharp look. "Are you all right?"

"Not really," she murmured.

He grabbed an unopened bottle of water off a nearby table and handed it to her. "Drink this."

Her hands were shaking so much she could barely twist off the top. He took it from her with an impatient hand, opened the bottle and then handed it back to her.

The first long swallow of cool water made her feel a lot better. Another drink, and she felt a little less dizzy. "Thank you."

"I thought you were going to pass out for a minute there."

She felt like a fool now that she wasn't reacting to the wave of painful emotions she'd thought she'd buried away a long time ago. "You must think I'm crazy."

He didn't seem interested in refuting that statement.

"Right," she said. "Well, let me explain. I lived in this house from the time I was born until I was twelve. That's when my parents died. I was here when I got the news. My aunt was watching me. We were both asleep when the phone rang." She drew in a deep breath. "My parents were on a boat cruise in Italy, and the ship went down. They didn't survive."

"Sorry," he muttered, his brows furrowing. "That's awful."

"It was the worst night of my life."

"I'm sure it was."

"I didn't think it was real for the longest time. It happened so far away; it felt like a nightmare. But the nightmare never ended. I would wake up and look for them, but they weren't there. After the funeral, my aunt sold this house and took me to live with her in New York. I always had it in my head that one day I'd return to Fairhope and buy my home back. But when I came to town five months ago, the house had recently been sold. Everyone told me the old man who'd bought it was just going to rent it out, so I didn't think much about it, except that I still hoped to find a way to buy it one day. When I came down the street just now, and I saw you ripping down the walls…" She licked her lips. "It felt like you were tearing apart my past. I saw red. One minute I was on the sidewalk, and the next minute I was in here. I don't even remember how that happened."

"Okay," he said slowly, understanding in his eyes. "I get it. The old man is my grandfather, Vincent Prescott. I think he's planning to sell the place after he remodels it. Maybe you could buy it then."

"Why does he have to tear the walls down? It's such a beautiful old house. It has character."

"And dry rot."

---