The lake air always cleared my head better than anything else. I loved living near my job, but I often found myself drawn to the water. Especially this part of Crescent Lake.
The sun sparkled off the lapping waves and thanks to the endless rain we’d had in April, the water levels were higher than normal. I leaned into the gentle curve of Lakeview Road toward the less traveled side of the water. Signs for Maitland Enterprises were tacked up on more and more swaths of land on the lake. Thanks to working so closely with the realtors, I was aware Maitland was buying up every available plot of land to take the lakefront views and make condos and spas. However, he’d been getting pushback from a lot of the landowners and townspeople, which had stalled his plans.
And still, there were definitely more postings stating that new builds were coming soon.
As much as I loved progress, the thought of cutting off these views for condos made me sick to my stomach. All that cleared as my favorite house filled my windshield and I lost my breath. No matter how many times I’d driven out here, it never failed to astound me.
The sharp angles of the old Victorian with its deep green and black accents made my blood hum. She was a grand mansion and while technically a Victorian, she had many Gothic details that made the house breathtaking. Instead of the quaint gingerbread accents on the roofline, spiky ebony details leaned heavily into the decorative masonry of cathedrals, including elaborate chimneys and dormers.
There was even a widow’s walk that would give a perfect view out on the water—if it was ever rehabilitated. The towers and turrets reminded me of an old castle. The sun was blazing today, which showcased all the places that needed work—the peeling paint, crumbling masonry, and arched windows with broken panes of glass. Even so, I could still see the promise of its grandeur.
Slowly, I eased my way over the dips in the gravel drive that wound its way up to the front of the house.
I frowned at the realtor sign. The usual For Sale had been replaced with a splashy red sold across the Hamilton Realty logo.
My heart sunk.
“No.” I swung the door open. My stilettos sunk into the gravel as I picked my way over to the crumbling stone walkway. “Who bought my house?” I turned around and gasped at the Dumpster tucked in beside the house. The clunk of something heavy hitting metal had me stumbling up the side lawn to the coastal side of the house.
A silver truck was parked near the huge green monstrosity of a Dumpster full of stone and water-damaged wood from the porch.
Stupefied, I nearly twisted my ankle as I stumbled my way around the busted wood that littered the lawn. A tall man was swinging a sledgehammer at the posts of the porch, half his face hidden under the construction respirator he was wearing against the dust. The ancient, weathered wood splintered and shattered under the force of each blow. “What are you doing to my house?” I shrieked.
He didn’t even pause. Just took another whack at the other column with complete dedication to its destruction. He had long dark hair that was scraped back into a stubby tail on top of his head. Huge, high-grade stereo headphones were clamped over his stupid ears. With each methodical thunk of the hammer into the porch, my heart lurched.
I waved my arms. “You can’t do that!” Not only was this house my dream home, but it was also a historical building. There were permits and plans that had to be followed for any and all renovations.
Especially with a house of this age. It was dangerous and stupid, on top of ill-advised.
He came to a stop and turned my way, propping the sledgehammer on his massive shoulder.
“You!” His voice was little more than a mumble under the respirator. He flicked his headphones off his ears to hang around his neck and jerked down the mask. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Shock rocked me back a step. “What are you doing here?” Recovering quickly, I put my hands on my hips.
“Are you here to vandalize my house now too?” He dropped the sledgehammer onto the floor then hopped down to the lawn. The heaviness of his boots thudding on the ground like a mini earthquake. “You have a helluva lot of nerve, Hellcat.”
“This is my house.”
His eyebrows shot up. In the stark sunlight, his scar stood out, a shiny angry pink that was puckered in spaces as if it hadn’t quite healed. It traveled down his eye, cheek and neck in a jagged lightning bolt pattern that disappeared into his dusty black tank top. He lifted his chin at my obvious perusal of his body—and more specifically, his scar—then he crossed his arms. “Again, you are mistaken. This is my fucking house.”
“No.” The breath whooshed out of my chest as I bent at the waist. “No way.”
“If you faint, I’m leaving you on the lawn.” He turned around and climbed back up on the destroyed porch to lift his sledgehammer again.
“Even if this is your house, you can’t just whack away at the porch. This is a historic landmark!”
“The hell it is. There’s no paperwork on file with the state to say this place is under the purview of the historical society.”
My mouth snapped shut. “Okay, not exactly, but hello, it’s part of the lore of the town! Harriette Barrow was one of the original townspeople in Crescent Cove. You can’t just rip out the soul of this house. It’s my house.”
He whirled around. “Do you have an actual screw loose, lady? Not my truck and now not my house? You’re freaking crazy.” He started swinging again.
“Okay, not mine. I’m not crazy, but I’ve been babysitting this house since I moved here. I love this place. The grandeur and the history and the lore. Her ghost is here, for God’s sake. Harriette’s going to haunt your ass for ripping her house apart.” I rushed forward.
“I don’t believe in such things,” he announced, driving the hammer into the post. The gabled arch over the porch started to crumble.
“Watch out!”
He looked up, swore, and leaped off the porch, then he dove for me, tucking me against his body as we rolled away from the worst of the crumbling stone.
I was pretty sure I screamed as he tucked my face into his chest.
The rocks tore up my arms and knees, but he took the brunt of the fall until we finally landed on a patch of tall grass. He covered me as stone and wood debris exploded down upon us.
His huge hand cupped the back of my head, holding me close to his body. He smelled of cinnamon and earth and the unmistakable demolition cocktail of male sweat and wood.
Finally, the last of the dust settled and he looked down at me. Fear and anger lit his storm-blue eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
The cinnamon scent of his gum made my mouth water—sure, it was the gum.
He glanced down at me, then to my cleavage, which was currently crammed against his very broad, very muscled chest. This close, I could see every bit of his scar and the tantalizing edge that disappeared into his now torn tank top.
He released the back of my head and braced himself on his elbows on either side of me, but his hips still pinned me to the grass.
Very strong hips with a very strong…appendage.
