Sweet baby Jesus, I’m not even close to qualified for this.
He’s a famous actor. I’m a nobody decorator with a dusty degree.
Sure, I went to school for it, but I don’t have the experience, the talent, the eye for a gig like this. I feel like a kid who was just asked to touch up Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel.
And I think Tobin agrees, even if he’s too polite to say it.
I still can’t figure him out.
He’s like the love child of Jeeves and Marie Kondo with his emotionless mask and a seek-and-destroy routine for anything the least bit out of place.
He hasn’t come out and said, lady, you suck—like rudeness is even in his DNA—but it’s in his eyes, on his face, in his stance.
It’s written boldly in the cold way he’d answered my questions while showing me around the house, which took the better part of an hour to cover what felt like fifteen, maybe twenty thousand square feet of ultra luxe country living.
Obviously, he’s cooperating because Ridge is his boss, and nothing more.
I get the reluctance and his loyalty.
I also get why Dad offered my services, despite almost short-circuiting the second he did.
Pushing the air out of my lungs, I sigh until my shoulders sag, looking down at the clipboard in my hand. Yes, I’m aware we have these things called smartphones and tablets now, but my brain works better when I plot my ideas in good old-fashioned pen and ink.
I have a few thoughts that could brighten this house, but at the same time…
Is it really the house that needs brightening?
It’s the mood, the vibe, the energy in this place.
There’s something dark and heavy inside Ridge Barnet, and I think that’s what truly worries Tobin and keeps him iced over. I’m not sure how I know it, but I do.
After answering my questions on the layout, Tobin left me to wander the place on my own, and I have, all three floors of white walls and grey floors and rooms laid out for every purpose under the sun—except they’re all eerily empty.
As beautiful as it appears from the outside, the house is void of any true soul inside. It’s an empty vessel begging for life.
That alone should have me excited about this job, particularly since the budget is basically unlimited in this case. In theory, it’s an easy fix and won’t cost much in time or money, but it just makes me wonder more and more about its illustrious owner.
I wonder about the chores he’d mentioned too.
Doesn’t Tobin do most of that?
What does he even have outside?
One chicken, a rooster, who I already fed, doesn’t really merit chore territory.
If I want to figure out how to glam up this house right, I think it starts with unraveling its owner.
So I head back downstairs, pausing for a moment while putting on my coat to stare at the picture of Ridge’s mother. The whole scene is like this sad miniature shrine, even if it commands a deep respect.
Judy Barnet was a beautiful woman.
And the longer I stare at her sunshine smile painted red, wild blue eyes, and dark wavy hair pressed perfectly into place, the more I see the connection, the resemblance with her son.
It’s the eyes, mainly. Their color and shape. They’re keen, bright, and alive in the portrait.
Judging by Ridge, I bet hers had the same flash of mischief and good humor sometimes.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me smile.
Growing up with someone so famous couldn’t have been easy. Judy starred in so many classic pictures throughout the seventies and eighties, traveled the whole world.
She must’ve been gone a lot when Ridge was little.
If his father died when he’d been eight, who took care of him while she was away?
A thousand other questions nip at my brain as I zip up my coat and pull my hat and gloves on. I walk to the cabin and check in on Dad, quietly, because as soon as I open the front door, I see him sleeping on the couch by the fireplace.
Thank God.
He’d coughed half the night, and I’m glad he’s resting now.
I set my clipboard on the table near the door and pull it shut again. I’ll let him sleep as long as he wants and use the time to check on Rosie and Stern.
They could use some affection. Until recently, I never thought that old yarn about animals soaking in bad juju was true.
But even before we left Wisconsin, they were restless as hell.
Awake at odd hours, eating sluggishly, letting out loud snorts of disapproval whenever I’d get them settled for the night and start heading back to the house.
If there’s any animal that has a nose for trouble, it’s probably a horse. I’m sure Dad and I reeked of it.
And I’m sure they’re more confused than ever since we landed here.