Hers for the Holidays. Samantha Hunter

Чтение книги онлайн.

      3

      ELY TOOK OFF HIS wet hoodie and boots, putting them out in the mudroom. He had picked up a good deal of the mess on the floor before wondering if Lydia was coming back. Maybe she fell back asleep. Did she hit her head when she’d fallen?

      Concerned, he put down the broom and walked out into the hall, admiring the solid beams along the ceiling and hardwood floors. The wood was worn and aged in that way that only made it more attractive, and the place had a homey feeling about it. New construction was never this solid anymore. He went upstairs and saw the light shining from under a closed door. Knocking softly, he asked, “Lydia, are you okay?”

      She mumbled something, but was definitely awake.

      “Do you need help? Should I come in?”

      “No,” she barked.

      Okay, he thought, retreating from the door. That was clear enough.

      Making his way back downstairs, he looked around, fully intending to go and check on her whether she liked it or not if she didn’t materialize in the next five minutes.

      As he waited, he took the place in. Family pictures crowded the walls, which were covered with a bold William Morris wallpaper. An interesting choice. He only knew about the style because his mother was wild for anything from the Arts and Crafts movement. Their father had sharpened their interests in technology and sports, but their mother had insisted that her boys have some sense of art in the world.

      She’d taken Ely and his brothers to museums and to every Arts and Crafts movement exhibit that came along. She’d even brought them on weekend trips to visit Falling Water, Oak Park and other Frank Lloyd Wright destinations.

      He had to admit, the four of them hadn’t always been enthusiastic participants, but she’d made it fun and the experience had stayed with him as he reached adulthood. When he’d gotten his own place after coming home from the Middle East, he’d sought out many of the natural designs his mother also preferred, finding them soothing to his battle-weary spirit.

      She would love this house, which had definite aspects of Prairie construction, though it was more of a mélange of different styles that all came together.

      The rooms were large, with low ceilings and warm colors. Large windows allowed for a lot of light, but were also a challenge to the heating bill, he imagined. If you stood too close to a window, you could feel the chill.

      The yellow kitchen was huge, more of a typical farmhouse style with a large, solid wood chopping block island near the sink, and a cool Formica table closer to the entry. The floor needed some work. Rather than wood, the floor in there was old linoleum, and as he walked through, he noticed some points where it was sinking. Probably needed supports in the basement.

      There could be some foundation problems, as well. The house was warm, but there was a draft, and he noted that someone had put plastic over the kitchen windows. It wasn’t doing much good.

      He busied himself by making mental notes of some less obvious wear-and-tear issues, things that would need to be repaired before Lydia could sell the place. He stopped as he encountered a wall in the dining room, one full of family pictures.

      Lydia as a baby, Lydia on a horse, smiling a girlie grin that was missing one tooth—she couldn’t be more than six. Ely found himself smiling at the picture of a slightly older Lydia with her parents by the Christmas tree, and another dressed as a cheerleader—a cheerleader? Ely’s mind boggled.

      She’d been cute—a smiling, happy young woman who showed hints of the sexy charm that would develop later. Her blue eyes were open and happy; unlike now, when she was often guarded and distant.

      One picture of her as a teen was with another girl her age, their arms thrown around each other, a birthday cake bright with candles in front of them as they both threw kisses to the camera.

      As he reached up to get a closer look at one of the photos, a hard case fell from the table to the floor. He picked it up, his eyebrows rising at the name of the artist on the cover of the CD.

      Jack Johnson. He replaced it, noticing a few others, all soft rock, country or easy listening.

      A lot different than the hard metal music that Lydia tended to play in the shop; that stuff gave him a headache. On the inside of one case, someone had written:

      Our little secret. Happy Birthday, Tessa.

      Another one was a birthday gift.

      It all presented a confusing—but intriguing—image.

      Lydia, the woman who was covered in ink, piercings, who wore leather and listened to thrash metal and enjoyed one-nighters that included an array of kinky sex toys, was also a wholesome country girl who had grown up on a farm with horses, cows and who enjoyed easy-listening music and reading?

      “I see you’re making yourself at home,” she said from behind him.

      He turned to find her leaning against a doorjamb, fully dressed again. Black jeans, black T-shirt with some symbol painted on the front. She looked more like herself—the self that he was familiar with—though she still wore no makeup. He liked it better that way, actually. She seemed even sexier than he remembered, and what he remembered was plenty sexy.

      “I started cleaning up, but I was concerned when you didn’t come back down. Are you okay?”

      She shrugged. “Fine.”

      The mask was back in place. She still looked pale, tired. Wary. Pissed off.

      “It’s a beautiful old house,” he said, taking the room in again. “You grew up here.”

      It was a statement, not a question. She didn’t answer.

      “I was really sorry to find out about your mother, Lydia. Are you doing СКАЧАТЬ