heard someone yelling,” said the man, “but maybe it was somebody else.”
Nicole winced. “It was me, releasing my frustration. I didn’t know anyone else was around.”
The concern faded from Harvard Guy’s face. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him at the moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing serious, but I’ve painted twice and can still see the original green.”
“Oh.” He gazed at the wall. “That’s strange. A primer usually takes care of color bleed-through.”
“Primer?”
His eyes widened and Nicole got the impression he thought she was dense. “Yeah. It’s a special first coat used as a sealant.”
“I’m using what the clerk at the store recommended.” She gestured to a stack of paint cans.
Harvard Guy went over and picked up one of the cans and studied it. “Some paint has primer included, but not this one.”
Nicole sighed. Maybe the clerk had assumed she already knew about primer. He had been busy, with a long line of customers.
“I didn’t know—I’ve never tried this before.” Painting was hard work and the remaining green glow meant she had to start all over again. Maybe that was why her parents had always hired someone to do painting at their house, which had left her completely ignorant about the process.
“Really?”
What looked like condescension showed on Harvard Guy’s face, and the sense of familiarity increased.
“The condo I used to own came freshly painted, so it never came up. Anyhow, it was nice of you to check that I was okay.”
“Happy to help, or at least try to.”
“Obviously I’m new here, but from what I’ve seen, that’s what this neighborhood is like,” Nicole said. “Lots of vintage architecture and friendly residents.” She’d met the elementary school teacher who lived next door, and he’d told her about a neighborhood barbecue coming up in a couple of months. A businesswoman two houses over had brought a casserole, and a nurse further down the street had delivered a bouquet of flowers from her own garden.
“You like old homes?”
She nodded. “The Arts and Crafts era is my favorite. This house only mimics the style, but it’s just as well. While I love American Craftsman architecture, I prefer modern kitchens and bathrooms.”
Harvard Guy’s eyebrows rose and the sensation that she knew him hit her again. Maybe if he wasn’t backlighted by the sun coming through the door and windows, it would be easier to say for certain. The “have we ever met before” or “you seem really familiar” comment felt like a cliché... Just as she decided to ask anyway, he spoke again.
“Some critics think Arts and Crafts architecture is passé.”
Nicole narrowed her eyes; he hadn’t insulted her tastes, but was treading close to it. “I’m not bound by the opinions of other people,” she returned calmly.
“Fair enough.” His cell phone rang. “Sorry, I’m expecting a family call.” He hurried outside.
After releasing Toby from his leash so he was free to use his dog door into the fenced yard, Nicole grabbed her purse and an empty can of paint, then headed out herself. Harvard Guy was on the front walkway, talking urgently on his phone. It looked as if it might be a long conversation.
She’d parked on the driveway and he looked at her as she walked to the car. She pointed at the paint can, figuring he’d realize she was going to the store.
“Thanks,” she mouthed. He seemed distracted, but made a gesture of acknowledgment.
When she glanced in the rearview mirror, Harvard Guy was still on his phone and the face above his beard was carved in tense, sharp lines. She realized she hadn’t even gotten his name. But if he lived in the area, she would probably run across him again.
Nostalgia had played a big part in her decision to purchase the house. The Seattle-area neighborhood reminded her of the one where she’d grown up in Southern California—friendly for the most part, with everyone looking out for each other. Not that her family had been home much, particularly after her modeling career had really taken off.
The thought led to remembering again how upset her mother and father had been that she’d quit modeling. You would have thought she was betraying them in some hideous, underhanded way. We handed you a fabulous career and you’re turning your back on it, her mother had wailed.
Jeez, why couldn’t they just want grandchildren like other people? She supposed they were counting on her older sister for that. As a matter of fact, Emily was already pregnant and expecting her first baby.
Patience, Nicole reminded herself. She didn’t have any reason to feel guilty and her parents were starting to come around, anyhow. They were even making recommendations for the agency, though mostly she’d thanked them and ignored their advice. They simply didn’t understand how she and her friends wanted to run Moonlight Ventures. Nicole just hoped she was doing it right. She had regular conference calls with her three partners, and they flew in to help out whenever possible—like Adam had the past few days—but implementation was mostly up to her. And that included working with a reporter over the next several weeks for some magazine articles.
Her phone rang; it was Ashley Vanders, one of the agency’s longtime clients.
“Hi, Ashley,” she said, pulling over to the side of the road. She could have talked while driving, but preferred to focus on what she was discussing. Still, she wasn’t concentrating as much as she would have liked, because Harvard Guy’s face kept intruding.
Was it the strange sense of familiarity, or the tingle of awareness he’d evoked?
* * *
JORDAN MASTERS RETURNED to his condo. It was an ironic twist that he lived relatively close to Nicole’s new home. In fact, he commonly used the nearby fitness trail. The area was popular with new residents in the Seattle area. An old high school pal had moved there, even before Jordan had.
If only he could have managed a more productive first encounter with Nicole. He’d driven over to make a casual contact, to get reacquainted...and lay the groundwork for the articles he was writing for PostModern magazine. He wasn’t sure how Nicole was going to react since Sydnie Winslow had arranged the interviews with Nicole before asking him to do them.
Jordan cursed mentally.
As editor in chief, Syd had turned PostModern into one of the trendiest publications on the market. They were old friends and she’d begged him to do the articles, saying it was ideal since he also lived in Seattle. She’d figured he would have an “in” with Nicole because they’d grown up on the same block in Southern California. Syd was wrong, but after everything they’d been through together in the early days of his career, he hadn’t tried too hard to get out of it.
But that didn’t stop him from wishing he could forget the whole thing and head down to his boat. A sail on Lake Washington would be wonderful.
