Page 61 of Fairy Tale Lies
He didn’t stay. Almost immediately his footfalls grew louder, and seconds later, his tall frame shadowed the arched entrance.
He pulled up short. “Damn. Why so serious?” He was smiling, but a small worry line formed between his brows.
Greta wanted to kiss it away.
Will stood, stretching. “Us? More like tired. Were you able to fix Tanner’s guitar?”
Jacob seemed to relax. “Yeah, I was. Getting the main panel off was a bitch. The rest was easy enough.” He came inside and offered Greta his hand. “Sorry it took longer than expected. I hope Will didn’t work you too hard.” He looked from her to his brother, the worry line back. “Or talk your ear off.”
She accepted his hand, and he brought her into his arms. “Neither. I had a lovely time.” Catching his gaze, she winked. “All though I’m still waiting on my tour of the house.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “How rude of me. We better get started.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The tour was brief.
Jacob guided Greta from the kitchen and past a small formal dining room. She caught a glimpse of a pretty Cherrywood table, chair rail molding, and two-tone walls before he was moving them to the living room.
Roger gave a distracted smile from his spot on a comfortable-looking leather sectional, one eye on a soccer game playing on a flat-screen mounted above the brick fireplace. The room was homey and cozy, with dark Berber carpet and taupe walls.
Jacob asked his father something about the game. While they talked, she went to the bay window facing the front yard. At knee level sat a squat antique shelf that was stuffed with every type of book imaginable. Crouching, she glanced over the many family snapshots sitting atop, wanting to examine them and the books, but, after exchanging a few words with his father, Jacob was beside her, asking if she was ready to see the rest of the tour.
He pointed to two bedrooms and a bathroom down a short hallway, located next to the stairs. He told her one room was his father’s, the other Will’s.
She recalled this side of the house had the spacious porch running along it, with a corner swing. Earlier, she and Jacob had swung leisurely in it. They’d held hands and talked as a gentle breeze blew through the red climbing rose bushes entangled along the porch, their petals perfuming the balmy air. It had been like something right out of a romance novel.
Jacob had told her his father built the swing and his mother had planted the stunning flowers. Even before knowing the history, Greta pronounced it her favorite spot.
She reached for his hand, about to suggest they return there, but Jacob was starting for the stairs. She followed him. Watching his behind as he made his way up the steps was more enjoyable than any old swing.
At the top, he opened the only door and went inside. Before following him in, she glanced around the narrow landing, with its wrought iron railing and banisters running along its length. The only furniture in the tiny space was a small circular table and two matching chairs. Like the rest of the home, comfortable and lived-in. She wondered if this was where he met with clients.
“You coming in,” Jacob called.
She followed him inside. The room was a mix of workstation and bedroom. The space screamed Jacob.
On the wall facing the front of the house, under a window where the roof slanted, sat a semi-made bed. The rest of the room had what must be Jacob’s work projects scattered across every space. A squat dresser sat along the same wall as the bed and was piled high with tools and papers. The opposite side, facing the backyard, had long horizontal windows with a custom-made work table under it. Dismantled items, in different stages of repair, were strewn across it. The place wasn’t messy, merely productive and creative chaos.
It was all Jacob.
At the far end of the room, a door was slightly ajar. Inside was a small pedestal sink and a half-open shower curtain. She squinted, eyeing what appeared to be large chains strewn over the door’s frame. No wonder it couldn’t close. There were at least five of those hefty cables. They reminded her of ones found on a hoist or some other type of large machinery. How the door didn’t buckle was beyond her.
A room like this would never be found at her parent’s homes or her friends. Most of them would consider it a sin not to have everything decorated to the nines and spotless. Perfect and ready for aGood Housekeepingphotoshoot.
This room was like him: unruly, intense, and ambitious. She loved it.
Jacob must have been following her perusal of the room because he walked to the chain-things and pulled them from the door, muttering he needed to buy more hooks. They must’ve been unwieldy as they appeared. His triceps and back muscles bunched under his T-shirt in the most delicious way.
She could watch him lift heavy things all day.
Geez, when had she become so licentious?
He carried the chains to an empty spot on the end of the work table and dropped them with a heavythunk. Turning, he offered a chagrined smile. “Sorry. My space looks like a garage. We can go back downstairs if you don’t like it here. Or go out.”
Oh, no. He must have taken her silence for distaste.
“No way. I love it. I can’t identify half the items here, but you’re able to fix them. Remarkable.” Her gaze wandered to the bench again, spotting Nigel’s Rolex. She went to it and ran her fingers over the gold band.
