way. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the other faucets, including the small guest bath next to her second bedroom. All dry. Someone had shut off the water supply.
No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. An overwhelming need to pout and stomp her feet bubbled up inside her. Where was her water? Had she missed a notice about work here, too? Just to be certain, she peeked outside to see if a note had been stuck to her front door. Nothing.
The pouting urge rose again. Of all the days to suffer her first home-owner problem. Why couldn’t the water wait until tomorrow to fail? Or better yet, this past weekend.
Weekend. Of course! As the realization hit her, Sophie did stomp—all the way to her front door. She knew exactly what happened. And it involved a claw-foot bathtub.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT do you mean you said no?”
Grant ignored the incredulous tone of his brother, Mike, opting instead for taking a swig of beer. On the wall, the latest edition of the Boston–New York baseball rivalry played out in high definition. That’s where he focused his attention. As far as Mike was concerned, he knew what was coming next.
“What heinous sin did the potential client commit this time? Choose the wrong paint color?”
Predictable as ever. “He wanted to go modern.”
“Oh, well that explains everything. God forbid someone might like contemporary design.”
“It was an original Feldman. Do you have any idea how rare those buildings are?” Scratch that. His brother had no idea. “There’s maybe a handful of them left and this guy wanted to gut the place and turn it into two-bedroom condos.”
“Better have him rung up on charges then. He’s obviously committing a crime against humanity.” Neither of them mentioned the fact that not so long ago, Grant would have committed the exact same crime.
“I hate to remind you, little brother, but there are people in this world who actually like living in buildings designed for the twenty-first century.”
Grant didn’t need reminding. “Then let them move into one built in the last twenty or thirty years, not rip apart an Art Deco gemstone.”
“Says the man ripping up his own apartment.”
“I’m not ripping apart anything, I’m righting a wrong.” In more ways than one. He raised the bottle to his lips. “Somewhere my historical architecture professor is pulling out his hair.”
“Give him a call, you two can ride off into the sunset on your matching high horses.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Mike had been born on a high horse. “Since when is having principles a bad thing?” So what if he developed them a little late? He had them now.
“There’s principles and then there’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. Sooner or later this attitude of yours is going to rear back and bite you in the ass.”
Couldn’t be worse than the injuries his old attitude caused. “Least then I’ll be symmetrical.”
Mike’s sigh could be heard in New Jersey. “Seriously, you can’t keep turning jobs down. Not if you want to build a successful business.”
Ah yes, success. The Templeton family mantra. Settle for nothing less than the top. Grant knew it well. Hell, for the first twenty-seven years of his life he’d embodied it. Better than his older brother even.
“Maybe I’m not looking for my business to grow,” he replied.
From the way his brother huffed, he might as well have suggested running naked through Central Park. “How about survive then? Did you miss the part of economics class where they explained you needed to have an income?”
“I didn’t take economics.” And he had income. Investment income, anyway. Enough to survive a good long dry spell as his brother knew perfectly well. “Another job will turn up. One always does.”
“You hope. One of these days there won’t be a job floating around. Then what? You’re not going to be able to rely on that boyish charm of yours forever.”
“Why not? Served me well so far.” Though he preferred to use it for more personal transactions these days. Seduction was so much more pleasant without business attached. Less weight on the conscience.
“You need to think about the future, Grant.”
Meaning he should get back on the corporate ladder where he belonged.
On television, the Boston first baseman watched a ball bound in front of home plate. Grant took a sip of beer in disgust, though whether it was over the team’s million-dollar-arm’s lousy performance or Mike’s lecture was up for debate. No matter how many times he tried to get his family to understand, they just kept pitching. They thought he was wasting his education. Drifting. Wallowing.
“Do you and Dad draw straws to see who gets this week’s ‘straighten Grant out’ phone call?” Grant asked. “I haven’t talked to Nicole in a while, maybe she’d like a shot, too, in between surgical rounds.”
“We’re concerned about you is all. You used to be so focused.”
No, he’d been a tunnel-visioned tool. Why couldn’t they see that he couldn’t go back to being that man? Not and live with himself. Just thinking about those days made him sick to his stomach. He took another swig to wash away the bile.
“It’s been two years,” Mike said in a quiet voice.
“Two years, four months,” Grant corrected. Did Mike really think that because some time had gone by, Grant would simply spring back to form? Nate Silverman wasn’t springing anywhere, and Grant wouldn’t, either, thanks to his self-centeredness.
“Nate would want—”
“Don’t,” Grant snapped. “Just don’t.” They both knew what Nate would want, and it had nothing to do with Grant or his future.
This time the bile couldn’t be washed away. It never would be completely.
You were his best friend, Grant. How could you not see something was wrong? He called you for God’s sake.
And Grant didn’t take the call.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we change the subject? Please?” The accusation haunted him enough. He didn’t want to go there right now.
To his credit, Mike relented. Even he knew when to back off. “Sure. For now.”
“Thank you.”
“But you can’t avoid the subject forever.”
No kidding. His family wouldn’t let him. “Did I tell you I met my new neighbor the other day?” Speaking of workaholics.
“The one who’s been slipping notes under your door.”
“In the
