Shit, she was adorable.
“Wow.” He had to smile at her. “Those are some complex fucking beets, sweetheart.”
She snorted. “Anyway, the gates are weird, but your house is great.”
His smile widened as he basked in that decisive, very Maria-esque pronouncement.
They’d only arrived at LAX the evening before, exhausted from their time in Madison, so he’d waited until morning for the grand tour. Heart thumping a bit too hard, he’d guided her through the three-bedroom, two-bath, single-story ranch home, an original 1950s build renovated and refurbished over the years under the exacting eye of the all-powerful Community Association.
Unlike some of the other properties in the area, the house wasn’t flashy, inside or out. From the road in front, only the home itself was visible, with its neutral gray-green wood siding and white trim, framed by a few bushes and flowers. Inside, everything had been updated but kept reasonable. He had hardwood floors; a decent-sized main bedroom, a small office, and two guest rooms; a generous living room open to a kitchen equipped with marble countertops and high-end appliances; and bathrooms that weren’t huge but were pristine and modern, with more marble and sleek white tile.
After walking into the en suite bathroom and spotting thesunken jetted tub and the glass-walled shower, Maria had offered him a slow, naughty grin. “I believe we’ll enjoy ourselves in here, Peter.”
He’d already considered the tour a success, even before she explored the true glory of his property: the backyard. Surrounded by the same white three-rail fencing all his neighbors had, perched atop a hill with expansive views of the undulating land surrounding the community, and complete with a large covered patio and a small, pretty pool, it was his favorite place to relax.
On days with pleasant weather, he could open the wall of glass doors leading from the dining area to the patio and let the outdoors inside even as he puttered around the house. And now that he was done filming overseas for most of the year, he might finally have time to decorate the interior and make it as gorgeous as the view outside.
His mom’s sketches would serve as inspiration.
Right before her business went under, a client—her final client, as they’d soon find out—had requested a serene bedroom in the blues and greens of a calm tropical ocean. At the kitchen table, Peter had watched his mother’s nimble fingers fly over her sketch pad, first with pencil, then pen and watercolors. Her nails might have been ragged, lines firmly etched between her thick, dark brows, but the corners of her mouth had been tucked into a quiet smile as she worked.
Creating beauty from nothing and offering it to others. Unable to keep it for herself.
“There it is, darling,” she’d said as she laid the sketch to dry on the laminate countertop. “What do you think? Will she like it?”
“If she doesn’t, she’s a moron,” he’d said.
Instead of—It’s beautiful, Mom. You’re so talented, more talentedthan even you realize, and I can’t find the right words to tell you how much I love you. Thank you for loving me too, always, and telling me so, even when I don’t say it back.
But he’d been so young, and he’d been a sullen little asshole, and they’d had all the time in the world. She’d had all the time in the world to keep drawing, keep creating beauty, and he’d had all the time in the world to tell her that her hugs made him believe, if only for a moment, that someone could love him and everything would be all right again. Maybe not then, but someday. As long as he had her.
The client loved her bright, peaceful new bedroom.
His mother closed her business and became a ghost.
But what she’d offered the world still existed. In him, and in that final sketch he’d had framed. The intricately drawn, prettily painted death throes of his mom’s dream, now hanging over his fireplace and waiting for him to bring it back to life.
And Maria would help him do it.
His mother would have adored her. Who wouldn’t?
“I’m glad you like my home.” A vast understatement, but Maria would interpret it correctly. “Since it’s yours too now.”
For that, she planted a kiss on his cheek, then rubbed the resulting smear of lipstick from his skin.
“By the way, Peter,” she mumbled, lips barely moving as she reapplied the deep rose shade, “was that an actual barn in your backyard? Because if so, I’m surprised, given your apparently deep-seated terror of murderous livestock.”
One day, when a bovine criminal mastermind engineered Peter’s grisly death, she’d repent her casual dismissal of his concerns. He might originate from Wisconsin, the home state of cow-loving dairy-product enthusiasts, but he was no fool.
“The barn was already on the property, and I had to have one. It’s in the bylaws. Our Community Association is . . . somewhatintense.” Drumming his fingers on the marble countertop, he chose to put a positive spin on things. “But we have access to a communal clubhouse, tennis courts, and a basketball court. And there are weekly community barbecues in the summer.”
Eyeing him with amused skepticism, she put down her lipstick tube and raised one brow. “Have you ever gone to one of those barbecues? Even when you were in town and available to attend neighborhood events?”
Socializing in crowds? Among strangers? Without Maria to smooth his path?
Ugh.
“No,” said Peter firmly.