Maggie Moves On(7)

“Wow,” she said.

“Speaking of wow, how about you show me this view?” he suggested, pointing toward the bluff.





3



Maggie did her best to not watch Silas Wright take measurements of the terrace, the front of the house, the back fence. She had plenty on her plate without adding a flirty, not-terrible-to-look-at landscaper to it.

Dean—who was on the second floor and wailing along to a Britney Spears classic—had outdone himself in the research department. Mr. Wright was exactly right for the camera.

Her followers would eat up the curling, dirty-blond hair that peeked out from beneath the hat. The crinkles around the gray eyes. His stubble beard toed the line between careless bad boy and hometown heartthrob who was too busy to shave.

He was tall with a rangy, muscled build that filled out his T-shirt, advertising more than just the name of his business. Broad chest and shoulders with tan skin. The peek of a tattoo just under the sleeve of his shirt.

He bent to examine the stone at the far end of the terrace, and she had to turn away before she started thinking too hard about that very firm butt he came equipped with.

The sunroom. Yes. She should be thinking about whether she needed to replace all of the molding around the windows, not about man-butt.

She peeked again and had no regrets before prying another piece of casing free. Some owner in the recent lineage had replaced the glass in the enclosed porch, and Maggie’s budget cheered.

Satisfied that the casing needed to be replaced on only one of the dozen windows—thank you, baby Jesus—she added the item to her growing list on the iPad and then put her gloves back on and loaded rotted wood into the wheelbarrow on top of the orange shag carpeting she’d ripped out of the small hall closet.

With a short running start, she bumped the wheel over the threshold into the kitchen. No rest for the busy. Not with a mammoth project ahead of her.

But she could see the finish line even though it was miles and months away. She could see cups of coffee in the brand-new kitchen with its wall of windows over quartz countertops and glossy new cabinetry. On nice, bright days, someone would take that coffee onto the sunporch or terrace. In the winter, instead of the small collection of cheap empty beer cans and liquor bottles she’d found, there’d be a fire in the high-ceilinged library at the back of the house. Of course, it wouldn’t be her doing the living after the work. But someone would be here, enjoying the treasure she reclaimed for them.

Pushing for the front door, she wheeled through the rotunda, past the Scarlett O’Hara–worthy staircase, and paused outside the study’s pocket doors she’d popped off their tracks to get a look at their hardware. The portrait above the fireplace beckoned again.

Mr. and Mrs. Campbell made a dignified couple. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder if it was her imagination or the talented hand of the artist that had her seeing the Mona Lisa smirk on Mrs. Campbell’s lips.

“Don’t worry, Campbells. It’s only trash,” she promised them before backing out of the open front door.

“Mags, Mags, Mags.” Silas was standing hipshot at the foot of the porch steps. “Got a hell of a place here,” he observed.

The man certainly wasn’t shy. Getting him on camera with his doofy dog and crooked grin probably wouldn’t take much more than a “please.”

“I am aware,” she said mildly, parking the wheelbarrow on the porch, above the dumpster. “Now, before you start working numbers and figuring out how to sweet-talk me into doing more than I want to do, let me give you the rest of it.”

“I’m all yours,” he said with that easy grin.

Silas Wright was used to charming the ladies. But this particular lady was more interested in his prowess outside of the bedroom.

“Renovations are just part of what I do,” she began, stepping off the porch. “I also film everything for my YouTube channel. It’s a weekly show. I started it a few years ago mostly to teach women how to tackle renovations, and it grew from there. If I hire you—”

“You will,” he said.

“If I hire you,” she repeated, “I’d want you and your crew to be comfortable being on camera. To talk about what you’re doing. Tell the story of your business, your town. I have a feeling you won’t be deeply offended if I tell you you’ve got a face for the camera.”

“I’ve heard I’m not completely hideous,” he said with feigned seriousness. “But that came from my moms, so they’re biased.”

“Moms?”

“Two moms. Two dads. Three sibs,” he offered.

“Your moms might be biased, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

“Why, Ms. Nichols, are you flirting with me?”

“I’m not flirting. I’m flattering you. Because if I do hire you, I’d want you to be okay with me using my sweaty, good-looking landscaper to keep the show interesting.”

“Hmm.” Silas rubbed a hand over his truly excellent beard of stubble. She could practically hear her female viewership—and a good percentage of the men—purr. “Is this the same pitch you gave Jim?”

She did laugh then. “No. I went more with the ‘free advertising for his business’ angle. I have a few thousand followers in Idaho, a few hundred that could be considered local. I’ll get more with this project. The more viewers who see your business, who see the people and hear the stories behind them, the more customers you’ll get out of the deal. I’ve got numbers on new sales leads after working with me. They’re good and getting better. And with all of that said, I sure don’t mind seeing a discount worked out here or there for my troubles.”