A Kiss to Build a Dream On (5 page)

Burk stopped. “I'm outlining everything. You don't want a new washer? Fine, I won't install one.”

“That's right, you won't.”

Burk straightened. “Don't shoot the messenger. It's an old house. Your mom left it a long time ago, and you didn't do anything with it. It's just been sitting here for twelve years. If it costs money to fix as a result, that's no one's fault but your family's.”

Ouch.
Willa wanted to fire back, but she couldn't deny he was right. She couldn't blame Burk if everything needed to get overhauled. He'd been a caretaker, not an owner.

The people who should have cared about the house—Willa and her mom, namely—never had. So now it was up to Willa. The weight of the responsibility pressed down on her in the basement's close space. The memories of her family, and of Burk if she was being truthful, were practically mixed into the plaster and paint of this old place. She'd have to face them the same as she faced the rotting wood and leaky pipes.

With a deep breath, she met Burk's gaze. “You're right,” she said, “let's keep going.” The repairs had to get done, no matter what had led to them.

They worked their way back upstairs. New windows were needed everywhere. The kitchen had to be ripped down to studs. Floors had to be sanded. New outlets had to be put in. The ceiling had to be replastered. The bathroom pipes had to be refitted. And that was just the basics—it didn't even begin to cover the changes Willa wanted in order to turn the place into a thriving B and B.

On and on Burk went, pointing his flashlight at things and writing it all down. Not to mention frowning over the costs. “That's gonna be a steep one,” he'd mutter, scribbling furiously.

At the end of it all, Willa's head hurt and her eyes smarted from studying all the minute details everywhere. She was exhausted, and more than a little bit worried. At this rate, she wondered if she should just raze the house and start anew. It would probably be cheaper.

When it was all over, she slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Burk puttered on the front porch, making sure he didn't miss anything.

Dear God
, she thought,
the man takes thorough to a new level.
His notes were meticulous. His ideas were articulate. It was as if he'd spent weeks preplanning some of these fixes. How to redo the built-in bookshelves in the living room, for example. What kind of flooring would be best in the kitchen, or how to maximize space in the reading room on the first floor.

She heard the front door close and the thump of his work boots as he came back inside. The warped floorboards creaked as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Can I join you?” he asked, gesturing to a metal chair next to her, the one with its upholstery ripped. Clumpy yellow stuffing leaked out of the tear.

“Of course,” she replied, trying to smile. She didn't want Burk to see the repairs weighing on her.

He eased his body next to her. She could smell the fresh air on him, and resisted the urge to sidle closer.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked, folding his massive hands on the table. Willa stared at the depths of his blue eyes, thinking about how to answer. She noted the flecks of green there, like dark pine needles floating in a deep stream. There was something else, too—a hardness she hadn't expected. When they were together, he'd been the one to shake his hips and sing to her like Elvis, making her guffaw with laughter. She was the one who needed to loosen up, not him. Now stress tightened the muscles around his neck. She could see the strain just underneath the skin. She suddenly pictured her fingers on his flesh, working out all the knots and tension.

Because it would be helpful to him, that is. Not because of anything…else.

“I—I don't know,” she answered, erasing the picture of the imaginary massage. “It's a lot.”

“You could always sell,” he said. “If it was me, that's what I'd consider. Make it someone else's problem.”

“But it's
my
problem,” Willa said, wondering where she'd go if it wasn't here. How would she make money? She had no friends. No college degree. And no career prospects.

“Doesn't have to be all yours,” Burk shrugged. “House like this, even with all its needs, could still go. Market's soft, but you might find someone.”

“Oh,” Willa replied, wondering why Burk sounded like he didn't want the job. It would probably pay for his kids' college. If he had kids.

She sat back, very much aware that she didn't know anything about him these days. Was he married? All these years, and she still selfishly thought of Burk as hers in some way. It never occurred to her that he'd find someone else, though of course, that would only be natural.

“A big project like this would take time,” she said. “It might keep you away from…Mrs. Olmstead.”

Burk paused. “There is no Mrs. Olmstead.”

Relief flooded her. It shouldn't have mattered. But it suddenly did.

“This is no small thing,” Burk said, barreling ahead. “If you want to sell, now's the time. I would even discuss that option with you.”

Willa felt her eyes widen. “You? Want to buy this house?”

“I'd consider it. I'd make you a fair offer. I've been taking care of it all these years, after all.”

Willa studied him. If she sold, she could take the profits of the house, mix them with the little bit of money she had left, and…what? Start over somewhere else maybe. And do…something. She didn't know what. But maybe she could think of a new plan. Even if it meant shirking her dad's financial advice.

“What do you think is a reasonable price?” she asked.

“I would say one twenty-five. In this town, that's solid. Respectable. And this place needs a lot of fixes.”

“One hundred twenty-five thousand?” she asked, her voice tight with incredulity.

“Yes.”

She drew her brows together. “Are you kidding me? In New York, that would buy a closet. With a rat's nest in it. And no bathroom. This house is more than three thousand square feet. It sits on nearly an acre of land.”

“We're not in New York. This is White Pine, Minnesota. And a house just down the street with no problems and no issues just sold for one forty. So I'm telling you, one twenty-five is a very fair price.”

Willa shook her head. She could remember a day of shopping for clothes where she'd spent close to what Burk was offering for an entire
home
. It made no sense. That couldn't possibly be right, could it?

“No. That's too low. I wouldn't take any less than five hundred.”

Burk's mouth made a little O. “Are you kidding me? A half million dollars for this dump?”

“No less,” Willa said, sitting up straighter. “And while we're at it, you seem like you're inflating a lot of the repairs here. I think maybe I need a second opinion on this job.”

Burk's face reddened. “That's not necessary.” He seemed to be struggling for words. “My crew—they'll do a good job here. They want this project.”

Willa wondered what Burk wasn't saying. Was there something more going on here? “A good contractor finds a way to work with their clients,” Willa said, “not against them.”

“I
am
a good contractor.”

“We'll see.” She knew she sounded like a bitch, but she also knew she needed to keep costs down, too. And the best way to do that was to have Burk think she could give the project away to anyone else at a moment's notice. “We'll revisit estimates as they come up. I also want to be able to pick out kitchen cabinets, as well as floors and paint. I don't want you doing any of that.”

Burk scoffed. “I don't care about kitchen cabinets.”

Willa stared at him. “You know, I realize I don't deserve a warm homecoming from you. But this whole grumpy contractor routine is really grating.”

There was a flash of something behind his eyes. Hurt? Surprise? “I never thought I'd see you again,” he replied stiffly.

“Disappointed?” She forced a playful smile onto her lips, even though her heart was racing. It wasn't fair to bait him like this, she knew. For crying out loud, she'd fled. She'd
hurt
him. No matter that her hands were clenched together with regret under the table. No matter that New York had failed her, Willa had failed
herself
even, but Burk Olmstead had never once failed her. Not ever. And now she'd just tempted him to say
yes
, that he was disappointed she was back around. It was a terrible move, especially since, deep in her bones, she wanted him to say no—to confess that he was delighted to have her back around again. Never mind that Burk would never use the word
delighted
.

Burk inched closer to her. She could feel his body heat, could feel something inside her twist at his nearness. Even sitting, he towered over her, and she had to tip her head back a little. If she inclined his head toward hers just slightly, she realized, their lips might meet.

“I'm not disappointed you're back,” he said, his voice low, “but I don't think you're suddenly going to like White Pine.”

According to the way her neck hairs stood on end and the way her skin prickled deliciously at the heat of his breath, she liked being in White Pine very much. Or at least her body did, as long as it was this close to Burk.

He pushed away from the table and stood, the gap of air between them suddenly cold. Willa shivered.

“I'll be up on the roof if you need me. I'll call my crew later in the afternoon to get started on some plastering.” His clinical tone had her muscles tightening with both frustration and disappointment. And then he smiled, big and catlike. Willa wondered what that was about, until she looked down and realized her robe had fallen open again. Her nipples were pebbled against her nightgown, and he had certainly gotten another big eyeful of them.

As she heard his boots on the shingles above, Willa steeled her resolve. Burk Olmstead wasn't going to tell her whether or not this new house—or this new life in White Pine for that matter—was a good idea. It was too late for that.

She was going to make it work. She had no other choice.

B
urk nearly fell off the ladder.

Twice.

Damn Willa Masterson and that stupid nightgown and those emerald eyes of hers, he thought. She'd followed him around the house all morning tousled from sleep and looking like the most delectable thing he'd seen in days.

No, weeks.

It almost made him feel badly for how he'd made sure to point out every flaw in the house during the tour. He'd inflated the seriousness of each issue, which was unprofessional to say the least. He'd left Willa with the impression that the whole thing could come toppling down at any moment, and he'd clouded her bright eyes with doubt. But it had been necessary.

And it had almost worked.

At least until it had backfired spectacularly. He'd pushed too far, and now he had her questioning whether or not she should get other estimates. He'd just have to keep the costs in check, is all. Especially if it meant giving his crew some work for the next few weeks.

Besides, Willa was already debating whether to sell. Granted, her price was ludicrous, but a few more days of this, and Burk might be able to talk her down. Once she realized what a project this house was going to be, she'd abandon the whole endeavor.

Or at least, he hoped she would. Then he could buy it for himself and transform it the way he'd imagined for the past twelve years.

Truth be told, though, the Willa he remembered wasn't so easily swayed. It was part of what he had loved about her—how she barreled through her life confidently. He smiled, thinking about the time she'd convinced the high school administration to start a newspaper. She'd prevailed upon the IT manager, Mr. Quaid, to load publishing software onto a handful of school computers, and she'd cajoled the bespeckled drama teacher, Mr. Wolcott, into supervising the publication.

On her own she'd figured out how to write headlines, decks, and stories. Even more impressively, she'd had kids thinking it was cool to be flipping through the paper as they ate their lunch in the cafeteria. Later, when she passed the role of editor along to a different student, she'd said she only wanted the paper so that the school would write about her track wins. In secret, though, she'd confessed to Burk that she had loved starting the paper and being its editor. “I can't believe I started something that will be here after I'm gone,” she'd whispered to him, her beautiful face shining with enough excitement to make his chest ache.

That version of Willa knew what she wanted and went for it. It was part of what had drawn him to her in the first place.

These days, however, she seemed less secure. Something about this situation wasn't right. She had concerns, and he could see them etched in her face. If he could better understand them, perhaps he could find an angle to exploit.

That wasn't the only thing he wanted to exploit, he realized, remembering the way her full, round breasts had brushed against her nightgown, and how her skin had been rosy with morning freshness.

He nearly groaned at how curvy and womanly her shape was now.

Burk remembered Willa being all plains and angles in high school. Now he could imagine getting lost in the sweet, soft space between her shoulders, along the lines of her collarbone, in the tender skin of her thighs, and then moving upward to—

The hammer slipped and came down directly on his thumb. Pain flared.

“Dammit,” he swore, so loudly that a pair of cardinals took flight from a nearby tree—a streak of scarlet angry enough to match his mood.

Get a hold of yourself, Burk.

He sat back on his heels, forcing his breathing to slow and his mind to stop racing. He reminded himself he didn't find success by accident. He ran out and chased after it, day after day, week after week, job after job. He found it because he was focused.
Disciplined.

Keep your eye on the prize
, his mom used to say to him. Usually after working a double shift at the bakery, her clothes dusted with sugar and flour and her skin smelling like bread.

For his mom, the prize was keeping him and his sister, Anna, clothed and fed. And hiding any extra money from his dad, who would just drink it away if he found it.
When
he found it, more like it. The apartment wasn't that big. There were only so many places to stash an old Coke can with the lid cut off, fat with change and rattling like an old car.

His mom might have lost the fight for the Coke can, but she had won the bigger battle. She'd taught her kids resilience. Especially Burk. And his prize was this house. The pleasure of working on it, of knowing that he, not Willa, would reap the benefits from all the improvements.

She'd throw up her hands eventually and scamper away. Just like she had in the past. And when she did, he'd have the house all to himself.

Burk picked the hammer back up and tried to picture the brunette from the bowling alley. He was meeting her later tonight.
Lori.
That was probably it. Or was that the name of the leggy blonde he'd met at the gym? He tried to imagine bowling alley girl's dark hair, her olive skin. But all he could see were Willa's nipples, the color of ripening strawberries.

I just have to work harder
, Burk thought. At forgetting Willa. At focusing on the house. At getting more done. At keeping his crew employed. At thinking about the woman with the pale skin and dark eyes who'd just moved into his apartment building.

He grabbed a handful of nails and brought the hammer down again and again, until sweat broke out on his forehead and soaked his flannel collar.

When he was exhausted, when it was lunchtime and his stomach was growling, he simply hauled up another pile of shingles and redoubled his efforts.

Willa stared at the pile of decorating magazines open on the kitchen table, trying to ignore the sound of hammering on the roof. She gritted her teeth, concentrating on the pictures, but like the cacophony that surrounded her, the images grated on her every nerve.
Nothing was right.

All of the rooms she saw on the glossy pages were too polished, too perfect. The furniture was too minimal, the walls too white. She'd loved this look in her New York apartment—the gray tones, the silver accents, the dark hardwood floors—but she just couldn't picture it working in her old family home.

“Like trying to put lipstick on a pig,” Lance might say, though even that wasn't quite right. It was more like the house needed a homey touch she just couldn't identify—something beyond the leather books stacked just so, or the fresh-picked flowers arranged in sleek vases.

The only problem was, Willa didn't
do
homey.

She paced along the faded floorboards—past the sagging, flowered sofa in the living room and around the battered claw-footed table in the dining room—wracking her brain for how to fix her decorating problem. What would she have done at the Bishop Gallery? She tried to think of the house like an exhibit she needed to curate. Her thoughts didn't get very far with all the hammering, however. The ideas and sounds blurred together in her mind. She couldn't take it anymore. She had to get out of the house.

She grabbed her purse and marched toward the car, wondering how she was going to survive months of this. It would only get worse when Burk moved to the inside projects, and then there would be dust and paint and plaster chips covering everything, in addition to the noise. And when he was done, what then? She had no idea how to decorate anything. A bed-and-breakfast might be a revenue stream, it was true, but first you had to know how to run one.

She had to make this liability into an asset, to quote her dad—just like her one-time friends the Davenports had. They'd started a couple B and B's, mostly in Maine and Vermont. As far as she knew, they were doing well for themselves. Not pre-Lance levels of money, but they could afford vacations in Paris and could put
No Vacancy
on the front door whenever they felt like they needed a break.

It was an appealing lifestyle that beat out a desk job with a boss and boring meetings and no paid vacation. Sure, Willa would need to figure out a few B and B logistics like how to cook all the meals, change the sheets, clean the bathrooms, and God only knew what else. But she could handle it.

The rising tension in her shoulders wanted to convince her otherwise.
Easy does it
, she told herself.
Do not panic.
It was all going to work out somehow. She was a fast learner and could teach herself what she didn't know. And it would be worth it when her dream B and B was up and running, and guests were stepping over the threshold with bright eyes saying things like, “Breathtaking!” and “Stunning!”

Willa stabbed her key in the ignition and peeled off, letting the speed and freedom of her new vehicle clear her thoughts. She never drove in New York, where taxis and walking and the occasional hired car were more than sufficient, but here, the wide roads and open spaces gave her a thrill she didn't even know she wanted.

She could hear mud spattering the underside of her car and wondered at her vehicle choice: a Volvo. A practical car for an impractical girl.

Formerly
impractical, she reminded herself.

She was smart. Savvy. And determined to rebuild her life after Lance had squandered so much of it away, making reckless investments he thought would bring money in fast.

So what if it meant she had to cook some breakfasts and clean some sheets? With a little luck and hard work, she'd earn back her stolen fortune, plus build a thriving business in the interim.

Speaking of thriving businesses, Willa figured she should visit Knots and Bolts downtown before the crew gathered there tonight. Her new B and B would need custom drapes and possibly custom linens, and it made sense to talk to Betty Lindholm about it. Maybe sending some business her way this afternoon would help clear the air later that evening. She could have a chat with Betty, then come home and change before track practice and the recipe exchange.

Easy, breezy.

Right?

Willa's heart fluttered behind her breastbone.
Hardly.
Seeing Betty Lindholm meant more than just a conversation about custom fabrics. It meant Willa would have to face someone she'd been awful to in high school.

Not awful, Willa thought determinedly. Just…honest. That is, if you could say that making fun of someone's facial features was
honest
.

Willa suppressed a groan and tried to remind herself that she was the prom queen. She was the pageant winner, and she was the one who'd moved to New York to live the glamorous life—which she
had
. At least for a while. And now she was back, determined to start over as a successful B and B owner in her hometown.

The idea of talking to Betty Lindholm again should
not
make her skin prickle.

Only, it did.

Willa realized the sensation was more shame, akin to what she'd felt with Audrey. It crawled along her body and pinched her nerves.

The sun peeked out from behind spongy white clouds as she drove toward downtown. She tried to concentrate on the warm fall rays instead of her shivers of dread.