Protecting The Single Mom. Catherine Lanigan

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СКАЧАТЬ especially for her. Maddie had drawn a little house with a “sold” sign over the door because Cate had a showing with a new buyer today. Maddie was a firm believer in manifesting one’s destiny. So was Cate. In fact, she’d been manifesting and creating her life so expertly and for so many years, she felt she should give fiction writing a shot.

      “Maybe a screenplay,” she mumbled to herself as she drove up to 415 Park Street.

      She looked at the computer printout she’d brought with her. The house had been on the market for nearly a year, and Cate could see why. The grass was ankle-high, all the landscaping was in need of watering and trimming. The windows were dirty, and there were flyers and free newspapers flung around the door.

      “Definitely no curb appeal,” she grumbled as she unhooked her seat belt. She gathered her purse, briefcase and the code she’d need to unlock the key lock. Cate had seen this situation before. The house was part of an estate, and the remaining family lived thousands of miles from Indian Lake. There was no one to oversee the house, and the listing agent realized early on that the place was a hard sell and, quite obviously, didn’t bother to mow the yard or have any work done. Efforts like those were paid for by the agent in hopes of a large commission. Even Cate would have given up on this house.

      As she approached, she could see that the house needed paint, repairs to the gutters and a new storm door. Cate tried to tuck the piece of screen that had come loose into the metal groove along the inside of the frame, but the screen was so old and rusty, she was afraid she’d need a tetanus shot.

      She was just about to punch in the security code when she heard a thundering rumble as a massive black Toyota Tacoma truck pulled up. The tires were so huge, the vehicle looked more like a military tank than a flatbed truck.

      The door opened, and a man dressed in blue jeans, work boots and a black T-shirt that looked spray-painted over his broad chest, shoulders and bulging biceps swung out of the truck. This was Rand Nelson. On the phone, he’d told her he was a fire jumper who’d just moved back to town. Rand was tall, she thought, but not as tall as Trent Davis.

      Fleetingly, she wondered what a black T-shirt would look like on Trent.

      What was the matter with her?

      She hadn’t thought about a man or his physique in years. And why on earth would Trent Davis come to mind?

      She felt the hairs on her arm stand on end as she put logic to her reactions. Trent was a lawman. Rand was a firefighter, but his job also skirted too close to those kinds of individuals who asked a lot of questions. How did the fire start? Were you anywhere near the house when it was set ablaze? When did you move to Indian Lake? What’s your real name?

      Questions like that. Though she’d legally changed her name before she enrolled in real-estate school—which also made Danny’s legal name Sullivan—she didn’t like probing questions. Of any kind.

      Rand stared at the house, feet sturdily apart, hands on his hips. Gnawing his bottom lip. Contemplating.

      Cate swallowed hard. Buyers had a way of keeping a check on their emotions when they looked at houses. She’d seen clients who could go through a house, even on a third walk-through, and still not register a single speck of desire or dislike. Some people didn’t want to get their hopes up. Others somehow believed they could keep the price down by appearing ambivalent.

      This guy was the best at stoicism she’d ever seen. He was stone. But she would still bet he wasn’t interested, and she didn’t blame him. She let the computerized lock dangle on the door latch. She wouldn’t need the code after all.

      “Hi.” She waved, starting toward him. “I’m Cate Sullivan. You must be Rand Nelson.”

      “I am,” he replied, still surveying the house and not once glancing at her.

      “After we talked on the phone and you told me your price range, I thought I’d start here. Clearly, the photo and specs I sent you are out-of-date.”

      “How long has it been on the market?” he asked, his ink-dark eyes tracking up to the roof.

      “Eleven months and a couple days. It needs a landscape crew to—”

      “No sprinkler system. That’s why the bushes died. The trees might make it.”

      “Uh-huh.” She flipped through the other printouts in the manila folder she carried. “I have a house over on Sutton Court, just off Lily Avenue, that you might like. It’s closer to town, and I could call the owner—”

      “Not yet. I like this one.”

      Cate’s eyes widened. “You do? Why?” Her gaze locked on him. He was unreadable.

      Rand pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “It needs me.”

      “It—”

      “Can we go inside? I need to see the kitchen. From the photographs, it looked awesome.”

      “Uh, yeah. Sure,” Cate replied, taking the key code out of her purse and walking to the house.

      While she pressed the buttons, Rand continued assessing the front yard.

      “Yep. I can put in the sprinkler system myself. Paint the house. It’s not that large a place, which is what I want. Shouldn’t take long. Fix that gutter up there. Some redbud trees would be nice along that side there, don’t you think? They’re pretty in the spring. Or flowering almond. I have to think about that.”

      Cate opened the door. She couldn’t believe it. Rand was sold before she’d made a pitch about the house only being four blocks from the lake or shown him the interior. Was this her lucky day or what?

      Cate walked into the living room and went to the white French doors that opened onto a small patio. She frowned at the weeds sticking up between the old bricks. “The backyard is fenced,” she said as she turned around.

      Rand had gone to the right and into the kitchen. “Would you look at this?”

      Cate entered the kitchen as Rand opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door. The kitchen had been remodeled three years prior. The owner had apparently died before using it much.

      “This stove looks like it’s never been turned on. Six gas burners. A dream. And did you see?” He pulled out a stainless-steel drawer. “A warming oven. The wall oven is convection. A microwave.” He ran a hand over the charcoal-gray, slate-looking countertop. “What is this?”

      “Soapstone,” Cate said. “Impervious to everything, I’m told. I’ve never had one, but one of the women in my office has it. She loves it.”

      “I never heard of it.” He frowned.

      This was one of those times that Cate was glad she’d done her homework. Showing a house was not the same as selling a house. She was not one of those agents who opened the door then went to her car to text her friends. She stayed on the job.

      “Soapstone is a natural quarried stone like granite. It just comes in shorter sheets. It’s metamorphic rock and feels a bit soft or soapy because of the talc in the stone. I believe this stone comes from the Appalachian Mountains. The owner who did the remodel was adamant that all the products be made in the USA.”

      “Hmm. СКАЧАТЬ