Their Forever Home. Syndi Powell

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      WITH DEMOLITION FINISHED by the first week, it was time for John to finalize the design ideas since they would determine the floor plan and flow of the layout. He invited Cassie and the Buttucci brothers after work Saturday night for dessert and coffee at his apartment to present his vision to the team. He glanced around the living room at the twenty-inch square foam boards he’d used to pin the design elements, including swatches of color and fabric. He hoped Cassie would approve.

      A buzz at the intercom by the front door told him that his first guest had arrived. He pressed the button to speak. “Cassie?”

      “Yep, it’s me.”

      “I’m on the fourth floor. Four-o-eight.”

      He pressed another button to unlock the front door of the apartment building, then waited a few minutes for her to make it to his floor. A soft knock on his door, and he opened it to find her standing alone. He looked behind her, but the hallway was empty. “No brothers tonight?”

      “They’re tired. I told them to go home.”

      He’d hoped for their input, but he could understand her concern for the guys. She passed by him, and he could smell the fresh floral scent of her shampoo. She must have showered before coming over. She walked to the first foam board, arms akimbo, and frowned at the design. He stepped in front of her to block her view. “You can see it all after dessert.”

      She eyed him as if ready to argue but then acquiesced with a nod. He led her into the dining room, where he had set the apple pie, four plates and forks. “I’ve got ice cream if you’d like it à la mode.”

      She took a seat in one of the chairs. “It’s been a long day, and I’d rather get this finished and go home to my bed.”

      He put a piece of pie on a plate and handed it to her with a fork and spoon. “Coffee’s brewing. Just sugar, right?”

      “Thanks.” She took a bite of the pie and moaned. “Is that caramel in the sauce? I’m dying.”

      He placed the coffee in front of her. “I’m glad you like it. It’s my mom’s own recipe.”

      She paused in her chewing and peered at the pie. After she swallowed, she asked, “You made this yourself?”

      “You know I don’t cook. But I did ask my mom to make it for our evening.” He placed a slice of pie on his own plate and joined her at the table.

      “If you want to bring one of these to the work site, I wouldn’t turn it away.”

      He chuckled, and they ate in companionable silence. He pointed at her with his fork. “I know you’re not sold on the salvaging idea for the design yet, but by the end of the night you’ll be convinced.”

      She paused in her eating and considered his words. “It’s not that I don’t like the idea, but I’m not confident it’s one that can win us the contest. Everything we do has to be top-notch. No room for error.”