Nova
I hate being latefor anything, but especially a first-time consultation with a potential new client. Jammed in rush hour traffic, I say a silent prayer of thanks that my exit’s coming up next. I take a long sip of my iced coffee and will myself to breathe. Ten minutes late isn’t the end of the world, but when you own your own business, your reputation is everything. Hopefully Colt Brady will understand.
My car crawls close enough that I can slip onto the shoulder of the road and get the hell off the highway. I breathe a sigh of relief as I punch in the address on my phone’s GPS. I’m surprised by how rural it is out here just outside the city limits. I roll down my window and inhale the fresh autumn air. Tall trees boast orange and yellow leaves so beautiful that it’s easy to forget it’s a sign of death—not that it bothers me. My whole business revolves around death.
I pull up in front of the house and a small gasp escapes my lips as I take in the gorgeous Victorian home standing before me. It appears to be renovated from head to toe, tasteful and true to its original style. I’ve always wanted to live in a house like this, with trees surrounding it, the backyard nestled against the woods.
Maybe the owner will eventually be selling it? Not that I could afford it. I’m still paying off business loans and other odd debts that seemed to come out of nowhere when I started offering my services. Not to mention the fact that my little red car is on its little last leg.
I take a final sip of coffee, pop in a mint, then grab my paperwork and head toward the front door. The perfectly manicured front yard leads me to believe that this will be a fairly easy house to tackle. I brush my auburn hair over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and give the brass knocker a knock. I barely have time to move my hand away before the door opens.
I open my mouth to speak, but I have no words. I’m dumbstruck when I meet his glowing amber eyes. He takes a step forward, the sunlight highlighting his features, a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, and thick, dark hair with the tiniest hint of silver at his temples.
“Hello,” I stammer. “I’m Nova Richmond.” His t-shirt clings to his toned, muscular torso. “I’m here to organize your estate.”
“Colt Brady.” The man holds out his hand, but his face remains expressionless. The minute our skin touches, a shiver of excitement courses up my arm. “Please, come inside.” Once he’s turned his back, I dab at the dampness above my lip. I shake off the visceral reaction he’s having on me and shift back into work mode.
“This is a lovely home,” I say as he leads me down the long foyer.
“Thank you.” He mutters, his shoulders rising slightly. For reasons other than his insanely good looks, the man makes me nervous. All of the curtains are closed, making the place appear dark and stuffy.
I shrug it off, accustomed to this type of atmosphere. Most of my clients are people selling the homes of loved ones who have passed. It’s up to me to clear out their belongings and set up the auction, helping decide what’s worth money and what isn’t. It’s not a comfortable situation, but it’s something I’m good at, something I love to do.
His silence only thickens the awkwardness of the tour as we move through the first floor. “Have you had time to sort through anything?” I ask. “Most often, there are keepsakes and mementos that family members want to keep, and they remove them before I start working.”
The hulking man turns on me, nearly sending me back a step or two. “Everything goes.”
“Everything?” I ask, my voice sounding weaker than I’d like.
“That’s right. I don’t care what you do with it all, but get it out of here.” The intensity in his gaze has me holding my breath. I don’t want to argue with the guy, but this is bizarre. I’m about to ask him more questions, learn a little more about whose house I’m cleaning out—a parent, a grandparent—but I decide to wait, to let him finish the tour.
We wind our way back around to the front, approaching a set of stairs.
“Am I looking at tackling all three floors?” I ask, realizing the house is even bigger from the outside. “Unfortunately, it will cost you more if that’s the case.”
“I don’t care how much it costs.” He spits, his dark brow furrowed. “I want the whole house cleaned out.”
“Okay,” I say, still wondering what the story is. My curiosity can’t take it anymore. “Is there a place we can sit down and chat, go over the paperwork? You know, boring stuff.” I tease and brave a smile. He does not return the gesture.
“The dining table.” He marches away, and I follow him like a little lamb. The original wood floors creak under his massive weight. I can’t help but take in his tapered waist, accentuated further by a set of broad shoulders that could belong to an Olympic swimmer.
I pull up a chair across from Colt, my hands shaking as I pull out my binder. Again, I shouldn’t be nervous, but the way his eyes remain on me for a beat too long and how he grunts ever so slightly when he finishes his sentences has got my stomach in knots.
“Here’s the standard contract.” I slide the paper across the table.
Colt eyeballs the details and licks his full lips. “Do you have a pen?”
“Sure thing.” I can’t believe I forgot. Being late always knocks me off my game. Although, I think being so close to a man like Colt doesn’t help, either. Our fingers brush when he takes the pen, causing my core to clench.
He signs the paper and slides it back to me. “I’d like to start as quickly as possible.” He says in a low, gruff voice. Now’s my time to pry.
“You’re selling the house?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Has it been in your family for long?”
“No,” he says. “About five years.”
“Really?” Now, I’m totally intrigued but not surprised. All of the furnishings are quite modern, though seemingly underused. I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe this isn’t another house filled with death? Maybe Colt is just a grumpy, serious sort of man. “What’s making you sell?”
“The death of my wife.”
“Oh,” I say before I can stop it. Damn. Damn, damn, damn! Me and my big mouth. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Without another word, the giant rises from his chair. I scoop up my paperwork and follow suit. “Can you start tomorrow? Nine o’clock?” He asks, and I nod. He walks me out the front door without another word. I hop in my car and head back to the highway, not knowing what to think of the tall, brooding recluse I just met.