Abby couldn't stop the peal of laughter that bubbled up from her chest and out her mouth. The situation was all so surreal. She looked at Tom Arseneault's expression—puzzled and then annoyed—and laughed some more. It felt good. Tom Arseneault had pushed her buttons with his scowl and God's-gift attitude and it was liberating to push right back.
This really took the cake. Hadn't she just been thinking she needed to find a contractor and poof! Here he was. Didn't he look like just the kind of man who could make her every wish come true?
It was like the universe suddenly plopped everything in her lap, including a gorgeous man, and then sat back, rubbed his hands, and watched the show as she decided what to do with it all. God, she decided, had a warped sense of humor. She was willing to play along. To a point.
"I don't need a handyman for this place," she joked, catching her breath. "I need a demolition crew!"
He looked so horrified at the idea that she giggled all over again.
"That's not remotely funny," he said shortly. He took a step forward and she felt a little thrill as she looked up into his rugged face. He was over six feet tall and from the looks of his arms in his shirt, solid muscle. She swallowed. Lumberjack Man was very...virile. She caught her breath as he towered over her. Funny how she didn't feel as threatened as she should by his size and proximity.
"The condition of this place is a travesty," he admitted. "But it's also town history and needs to be preserved, not knocked down. What are you planning to do with it, then? Don't tell me you're seriously going to tear it down. Because I'll have something to say about that."
He was dead serious and looked genuinely upset. It was just a house, albeit a magnificent one. She thought back for a minute to the walls of books in the library. Well, maybe not just a house, but why on earth would Tom Arseneault take it so personally?
"What's it to you? Last I checked it was my name on the deed. And I don't recall my lawyer mentioning any Arseneault having a claim to the property."
"Are you serious? Have you been inside yet?" His eyebrows lifted so that they nearly touched the black curl of hair that dropped over his forehead. "In its heyday, this house was the center gem of this town. The old gossips still talk about the Roaring Twenties parties that happened before they were ever born. Jed Foster imported most of the furniture from his journeys around the globe."
Ah yes, of course. All the mahogany inside was impressive, to be sure. She was tempted to make a comment about ill-gotten gains and colonialism except Mr. Arseneault seemed to take the house quite to heart. Besides, it all belonged to her now, didn't it? It wasn't an entirely comfortable feeling.
"I haven't had time to examine everything properly."
He took another step forward, encroaching on her space. "There are even rumors about it being haunted since the war, at least if the old timers down at Breezes Café are to be believed. The mansion is a town icon."
She took a step back, alarmed by his assertion of it being haunted, especially after her strange sensations at the cellar door and stairs. "If it's such a relic, then why did it ever fall into such disrepair?"
He shrugged. "Marian Foster turned it into a home for unwed mothers, and then she lived in it alone for years. Rumor has it she spent a fortune maintaining it before closing it up when she could no longer care for herself."
"How long ago?"
"Ten years, easy. It's stayed vacant since then as Marian insisted that it remain untouched. Some say she was a little..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Dementia, probably," he said, quieter now.
"And now she's left it to me."
"Seems that way." The tone of his voice made it sound like the fact only confirmed her aunt's precarious state of mind.
She met his gaze honestly. "Believe me, I'm just as confused as you are. I never met the woman. In fact, my grandmother Iris, Marian's sister, never even mentioned having a sister. The Fosters never saw fit to give her a red cent when she was alive, so leaving it to me now is confusing to say the least. I didn't even know Gram came from money. God knows we could have used a bit of it from time to time."
"You could be the one to come in and restore the house. Bring her back to her former glory. I'm pretty sure her bones are sound. She just needs sprucing up..."
"With your help, of course." She injected a fair dose of sarcasm into the words. It didn't escape her notice that he referred to the house as "her". Good grief.
"Come here," he commanded. Tom reached out and gripped her wrist, tugging her through the still open door and into the foyer.
She shook his hand off. "What are you doing?" She put her fingers on the skin he'd touched. His hands were so big, his fingers had dwarfed her tiny wrist. What was worse, she found it exciting, being tugged along in his wake. She hadn't exactly felt threatened. She'd felt... exhilarated. That was more surprising than anything else that occurred today, and that was saying a lot.
Their gazes clashed and she felt the strange swirling again. There was something in the dark depths of his eyes, some sort of awareness that made her breath catch in her throat. Finally he stepped forward, picking up her hand in a gentle way that sent her heart knocking against her ribs. "Trust me, okay?"
She watched, fascinated, as Tom's lips formed a sexy half-smile that did nothing to remove the heat in his gaze. With her hand cradled in his, Abby had the sensation of being enveloped completely and utterly. It wasn't just his size, but the sense of the muscled physique beneath the cotton shirt and his control over it. All that manual labor had honed his physique, but there was something honest about him as well. And standing there in the ruined foyer of her newly inherited home, Abby suddenly realized that she did trust him...to a point. She may not know Tom Arseneault, but she knew he wouldn't harm her.
"We really did get off on the wrong foot," he continued, as the moment stretched out.
"Pun intended?" she asked, softening when his smile grew. Their gazes met for a few seconds more while things between them seemed to settle. "All right," she granted softly, removing her hand from his and looking around the room. "Now, if you'd care to explain what you mean without hauling me from pillar to post, I'll listen."
"I haven't heard that particular tone since I was in fifth grade and was caught running through the school library by Miss Haines."
"Apparently the lesson bore repeating. What did you want to show me?"
Something—amusement, respect, perhaps a combination of the two—gleamed in his eyes. "All right. For starters, look at this." He reached behind her and ran his fingers over the dark wood of a Grandfather clock. "This clock is over a hundred and fifty years old."
Abby dutifully looked and tried to ignore the way his long, capable fingers caressed the dusty wood. Instead, she focused on the clock face. She wondered what had been happening at the house at the time that the hands had stopped moving. They sat precisely at three twenty-six. "It doesn't work."
"Maybe it can be fixed. Even if it never keeps time again, the actual construction is in fantastic shape." He gestured to the right, to the dining room. "And this room. It's full of antiques. Look at the mantels on the fireplaces—all the wood trim is original to the house. The dining table and chairs were shipped from South America to Captain Foster himself, made from mahogany out of the Amazon."
"Stolen, you mean." She couldn't resist. "And anyway, how do you know that?"
"Everyone knows that." He regarded her curiously. "You really don't know anything about the house, do you?"
Tom did, apparently. Her annoyance at her own ignorance warred with a very real curiosity to listen to what he knew.
"Did you think I was lying?"
"Well no, but..."
"Scout's honor." She lifted two fingers. "I never knew anything about this side of the family. Nothing about the house, nothing about the money, nothing about Marian. My grandmother never spoke of it."
Silence filled the hall. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. It appears the two sides of the family were completely estranged."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I wish I knew. I'd like to find out, though. It makes no sense that there's a whole history I never knew about. A whole family." And it hurt that the person she'd trusted most never trusted her in return.
He paused. "I don't know what to tell you. There might be a few old timers left who could help, if you really want to know. No guarantees, but it's worth a shot."
She looked up at him. "Do you think?"
He shrugged. "It's possible. But for now, I can give you a basic history of the house if you'd like."
"That would be nice."
He smiled. "Right. Well, let's go back to the beginning. Captain Jedediah Foster built this house in the late nineteenth century. His father, George, was one of the first English settlers of Jewell Cove, along with Edward Jewell and Charles Arseneault. The Fosters made their fortune on the seas. Jed built himself a mansion for his growing family. Both his sons were killed in WWI, so his grandson, Elijah, took it over when he married Edith Prescott. Marian and Iris were their daughters."
He walked further into the foyer, gesturing above them. "This chandelier was brought over from France by Elijah Foster before the start of WWII. While Jed had been a Captain, the family fortune was really built on shipping, until Elijah sold the company in the late fifties. He died within two years of selling the business, leaving everything to Marian."
And nothing to Iris. Abby didn't like Elijah already.
"Is the chandelier electric?" she asked, changing the subject.
"No, that'd be whale oil. It's much older," he explained. "You can actually raise and lower it so it is closer to the table for dinner lighting."
"Dinner? In the hall?"
"Haven't you noticed how wide it is?" He turned back to the hall and they both looked up at the light hanging from the ceiling. "The Fosters were rumored to be great hosts. The dining room seats twelve. Out here you could easily seat fifty. Then when dinner is over, up go the lights, out go the tables and you have a space large enough for dancing."
"How do you know all this stuff? Were you here a lot?"
He shook his head. "Not since I was a little kid, and Marian hosted some picnic or something. But the house on Blackberry Hill is stuff of legend in this town. You'll find everyone knows something about it."
It was the second time that day someone had called it that. It gave Abby a little thrill... and a jolt of apprehension. She was the outsider here. And while she was the owner of this mausoleum, she was fully aware that not "everyone," as Tom put it, might appreciate a stranger coming in and taking over. She was just a name on the deed. She understood that in some way, the house represented the town, too. Certainly it was part of the town identity and colonial history.
"So, what you're saying is don't be surprised if someone decides to barge in, boss me around, and then proceed to share his rather forceful opinion about what I can and cannot do with my house?" Abby asked with a pointed stare.
Tom chuckled, understanding her completely. "Exactly. If that happens, you should also definitely listen to him. He sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Now, have you explored yet?"
She angled him a wry look. "I just got here. There hasn't been time to see anything besides dirt," Abby said, as she pointed to her now-dusty outfit to prove her point.
Tom gave her clothing a slow perusal and her cheeks heated beneath his scrutiny. Not only was the house a mess, but Abby knew that after her earlier exploration, she was as well.
Lifting her chin, she treated him to the same overt examination—looked at his boots, up the long length of his faded jeans, past every button on his cotton shirt and into his darkly handsome face. She nearly shivered with pleasure. If she looked in the dictionary for "rugged, sexy, and capable," it would have a picture of Tom Arseneault. What a dumb idea it had been to give him the slow once-over. All it did was highlight his yumminess while she felt drab and dowdy in comparison.
He put his hands on his hips, the movement emphasizing the impossible breadth of his chest and shoulders and grinned, displaying a mouth full of perfectly white teeth. Abby was suddenly unsure if she was standing in front of the woodsman or the big bad wolf. That grin was lethal. It was the charming grin of a man used to getting his own way. She might not be a pushover, but she discovered she wasn't quite as immune to that smile as she should be.
Abby sighed. "I take it Jewell Cove is like any other small town? No privacy whatsoever?"
His dark gaze settled on hers. "None whatsoever," he echoed. "Listen, Miss Foster, you know as well as I do that you can't sell it the way it is."
"Who said anything about selling?" she challenged.
"You're going to stay here? Live in it? By yourself?"
He sounded so surprised she wanted to say yes just to enjoy his reaction. But she couldn't, not when she wasn't planning on staying a moment longer than was necessary. She knew he wanted the job of fixing this place up and he wanted her to hire him on the spot. Well, despite her earlier whimsical moment in the library, her good sense hadn't totally abandoned her.
"I didn't say that, either. I realize it needs work, whether I stay or if I put it on the market. But I've been here..." she made a show of checking her watch, "less than two hours. I'd be foolish to make any decisions in such a short amount of time. Rest assured, if I require your services, I'll look you up." She was rather proud of the tone that came from her mouth. She might look disorganized, but she wasn't incompetent.
Tom raised his eyebrows. "Wow. You've got the cool dismissal bit down cold."
She took it as a fine compliment and sighed dramatically. "And yet here you still are."
His lips twitched at her obvious set-down. "You're somethin', Miss Foster."
She felt slightly guilty at her sharp tone—after all, he'd been quite friendly once he'd begun showing her the inside of the house, and he'd given her information about her relatives. Still, she couldn't let a cheeky smile and a pair of bedroom eyes distract her. "I assure you, Mr. Arseneault, when I want help, I'll ask for it."
He backed away and put his hands in his pockets. He withdrew a business card and held it out, waited until she took it before he spoke again. "Give it some thought. No matter what you do with this house, it needs work. I promise you I'm the best contractor for the job."
"And why is that, exactly?"
"Because I'll take the time and care to preserve the very best of it, and keep as much of the original workmanship as I can. Not everyone would, you know. And because there's no one on the midcoast with a better hand for finish work. Ask around."
Tom gave her one more long look before he nodded. "Now I'll see myself out. I can see I've taken up too much of your time."
She heard his boots clomp back down the hall and the predictable squeak and groan as the door opened. Then another crack and a loud curse. Abby stifled a laugh in the silence that followed.
Then he was gone and she was left alone once more with the dirt and the mice, and the house seemed strangely quiet again.
Waiting. She just wished she knew for what.
Read the rest of Tom and Abby's story at https://amzn.to/3Isq42a