Don't You Wanna Stay Read online

  “Damned straight,” Mateo agreed. “You just need a new project. Something you can really sink your teeth into.”

  “I need something bigger. Something that shows more of my capabilities and skills. Something I can document from start to finish and prove I’m not just small time. I just haven’t found it yet.”

  “Well, when you find it, if you need another strong back, I’ve got some downtime. Griff’s not the only one at loose ends. I know my way around a construction site,” Levi offered.

  “Appreciate that, man. I don’t know what it’ll be or when, but I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “You came all the way down here to Hamilton. Maybe you should go check in with Carson at Reclamation Station while you’re here,” Mateo suggested. “I know how much you love that place.”

  It was true that the hardware salvage store was practically Mecca for Wyatt. A huge chunk of what he knew about restoration had come from old man Carson during all those summers he’d worked on salvage jobs with him. Carson usually had his finger on the pulse of what properties were about to be destroyed that had materials worth saving. Maybe he’d know of something that would be a suitable candidate for a more involved flip. If nothing else, Wyatt knew he could get on as hired labor for a deconstruction job or two while he waited for the next right project to appear.

  “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

  Mateo slapped the heavy bag. “Good. Now that your head’s clear, it’s time to work. Hands up. Combinations.”

  Chapter 4

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? I can be there in forty-five minutes, as soon as I wrap the edit on this wedding video.”

  Deanna was already shaking her head, though Bennet couldn’t see her over the phone. “No, there’s no need for you to come all the way out here.”

  “Are you already there?”

  “GPS says I’m a mile away.” The closer she got, the tighter her hands clamped around the steering wheel.

  “I can’t believe you managed to stay away the last few days.”

  “That’s more a matter of heading off the latest potential PR disaster where one of my clients decided it would be a good idea to pick a fight with fans on social media than lack of desire. Plus, I didn’t get the keys until today.” She’d needed those for it to feel really real. The deed with her name on it had gone a long way on that front, as well. Whatever she was into, she owned this place outright. The idea of that was still sinking in.

  “Well, I’m available for whatever. Moral support. Hugs. Alcohol.”

  She cringed. “I may never drink again. That’s what got me into this mess.”

  “Fair point.”

  The GPS’s robotic voice filled the confines of the car. “Turn left in one hundred feet.”

  Deanna’s pulse jumped, part dread but also part excitement. “Nearly there.”

  A board fence that might once have been white gave way to a tree-lined drive.

  “Turn left.”

  On a deep breath, she turned, her tires crunching on gravel.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS announced.

  “Well?” Bennet demanded.

  “I’m not actually there yet. The driveway is pretty long and there are a lot of trees.”

  Almost as soon as she said it, the tunnel of trees opened up to what was technically a yard. Or had been in some long ago decade. Beyond it was the house, half swallowed by overgrowth. She pulled to a stop and took it in, noting the heavy columns holding up the massive front porch and second-floor gallery. At least she thought that was what lay under the vines. No wonder the pictures had been dark and crappy. There was no way to get decent shots of the full house for all the vegetation that had encroached.

  “Deanna! Are you there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the house itself. Big and boxy, it was two stories of what had once been antebellum splendor. Now it was.... Well, it was hard to tell what it was.

  “Well?”

  “It’s…” Beautiful. Full of personality. It needs me. “Big.”

  “Does it look… safe?”

  Valid question given its age. “I don’t think its going to collapse on me when I open the door. I’m gonna call you back later.” She wanted to be alone with her thoughts this first time she took in the place.

  “Take pictures!”

  Deanna grunted a noncommittal noise and hung up.

  Stepping out of the car, she approached the house. A breeze whispered through trees, and only the distant whine of a lawnmower reminded her she hadn’t stepped back into the past. Beyond the eight-acre lot, the rest of the world waited. But right here and now it felt like the house held its breath, waiting to be judged and found wanting. Or maybe that was just her.

  She circled the perimeter. Several shutters were missing from the multitude of windows, and most of those that remained were missing louvers or were hanging catty wampus on a single hinge. But she could see how they’d have lent a stately grandeur and balance to the facade. Two chimneys anchored either side of the house, and a ramshackle structure that might optimistically be considered a sun porch was tacked on one side. Beyond it, she could make out the glint of water through more overgrowth. That turned out to be a choked and overgrown pond. Not somewhere she was venturing without long pants and sturdy boots. In the summer heat, snakes would be out.

  Continuing on around the perimeter, she noted some kind of outbuilding set among more trees about fifty yards from the back of the house. A barn or carriage house. She’d check that out later. What she could see of the roof looked pretty good to her inexpert eye. No missing shingles or obvious dips. The siding that should’ve been white was dingy gray with mold, at least where the paint wasn’t peeling. But her mind scrubbed it clean, reattached the shutters, cleared out the encroaching flora and replaced it with neat landscaping. In its day, Blackborne Hall was a beautiful house.

  And it was hers.

  Spinning in a circle, she began to grin. All of this was hers. Yes, the property looked a bit like something from where The Wild Things Are, and bringing this old girl back to glory would take forever. But she wanted it. Wanted to do the work and put her stamp on the place. It could be her labor of love.

  Of course, she’d have to give up her apartment to do it. The money currently going to rent would go at least some way toward repairs each month. No matter what she’d told Bennet, part of the house was bound to be habitable with a good cleaning and some paint. She could rough it and do the work. And have something of her own. Something untouched by Blake.

  With a surge of renewed hope, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. A garish, patterned wallpaper hung in tatters from the walls, missing in places where someone apparently started ripping it out. But oh... the staircase. She laid her hand on the newel post, running her fingers over the gorgeous millwork hidden beneath about a million layers of paint. The paint could be stripped and sanded, the treads re-stained and it would be a showpiece. It was a staircase meant for making an entrance. Her mind already filled in fresh greenery garlands on the banister for some future Christmas, and she could practically hear the notes of some classical Christmas album playing in her head.

  The front parlor showed signs of rodent infestation. In a place this big, in this kind of condition, she might want to consider a cat. Except she wouldn’t want one to get trapped somewhere in the chaos of renovation once that started. So maybe she’d just buy some traps and start there. The enormous windows were coated in a thick layer of dust on the inside and what was probably several seasons’ worth of pollen on the outside. They obscured the view and the light. But that plaster ceiling medallion was gorgeous and in remarkably good shape. It needed a lovely, elegant light fixture to go with it. Something that fit with the picture in her head for how the rest of the room might be, with luxurious custom curtains and comfortable furniture arranged around the restored fireplace.

  As she continued moving through t
he house, she made a mental note of the signs of rot and mold, but they took a backseat to all the beautiful architectural features that just couldn’t be found anywhere else. The picture rail and wainscoting in the dark dining room made the vines growing through a broken window worth dealing with. The built-in bookcases in what might once have been a study gave her fantasies of cozy winter days reading in an overstuffed chair, despite the abrupt way the room seemed to have been divided. In the room beyond that, which served no purpose she could discern, a wavy mirror propped against one wall looked like it might lead to another world. Everywhere she looked, she saw potential.

  Then she found the kitchen.

  “Oh, God.”

  It was… bad. Some previous owner had done a partial demo in here. Walls gaped open, revealing pipes and electrical wires. The brick floor was uneven and cracked in several places. A noxious odor made it clear some kind of wildlife was in residence. One entire wall showed clear signs of water damage, including the obvious evidence of mold, and it looked like all the cabinets were a lost cause. One of them looked in danger of crashing to the floor at any moment. As she gingerly opened a cabinet door, she was pretty sure she saw something scurry behind the avocado green fridge. The source of the smell? Or something else?

  A little desperate, she tried to find something good about the room, some glimmer of hope.

  The antique faucet looked cool. She wondered if it was the original brass fixture. Moving to test the water, she twisted one of the knobs. With a horrifying shudder, the faucet began to groan and spit, until a stream of foul looking water gushed into the sink. No telling how long it had been since any of this plumbing had been used. Deanna reached to turn it off, and the knob spun right off into her hand.

  Dumbfounded, she could only stare at it for a moment as water continued to beat into the sink. Maybe she could twist it back on? Fumbling with the knob, she attempted to reattach it with no success.

  The phone in her pocket vibrated, propelling her into motion. No time for whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “Shut-off valve. Gotta find a shut-off valve.”

  But there was none under the sink. None of the plumbing down there looked like what she grew up with. A further search of the surrounding rooms turned nothing up. She didn’t have the first clue where the shut off was for the main house, and even if she did, she didn’t have a water meter shutoff key. Did a house this old even use something like that? That was a question for later. If she didn’t do something, water was just going to keep on running.

  What if the pipes were bad? What if this constant stream of water meant the leak got worse and did more damage? What if something straight up exploded and flooded the house while she was out trying to find help?

  Bowing under the weight of all the what ifs, Deanna acknowledged the truth. This was all another gigantic mistake. She was in serious trouble, and no amount of dreaming was going to save her.

  Wyatt stepped inside the twenty-thousand-square-foot warehouse that made up Reclamation Station and paused for a few moments, soaking up the scents of wood and metal and dust. This place was his own personal Cave of Wonders, and he was Aladdin, more than willing to get lost in here for hours, exploring the myriad of treasures. But this wasn’t a pleasure trip. At least, not to start. He needed to speak with Carson first.

  Ignoring the lure of the rows of salvage doors and the siren song of all the bins of antique cabinet hardware, Wyatt made his way down the center aisle. In the center of the warehouse, a two-story office had been erected. The lower level had wide counters and pass-throughs where employees could help waiting customers. Up a set of spiral stairs was the office proper, where Carson liked to look out through the reclaimed windows on his little kingdom. The whole thing had a kind of treehouse vibe that delighted Wyatt. It was a unique showcase of upcycling and reinvention.

  Carson Colwell himself was behind one of the ground-floor counters. An old man of indeterminate age, with a shoe-leather face half hidden by a wiry silver beard that he’d grown long to make up for his balding pate, he habitually wore red suspenders with everything. Today it was a pair of ancient painter pants and a gray T-shirt with the Restoration Station logo. Wyatt had always privately thought of him as Santa’s redneck cousin. But the rosy cheeks and unquestionable belly didn’t diminish his capability at all. The man had probably forgotten more about historic restoration than Wyatt could ever hope to learn.

  “Wyatt Sullivan! Haven’t seen you for an eon. How’d that Craftsman flip go?”

  “Just closed on it a few days ago for a tidy profit.”

  “Good, good. What can I help you find today? What are you working on?”

  “Nothing at the moment. None of the properties I’ve looked at have been the right fit.” Not having one lined up was making him twitchy. “Your ear is always to the ground. You hear about anything interesting coming available?”

  “Well now, most of what I’ve been hearing lately are folks looking for contractors to do renovations on their current homes.”

  Certainly Wyatt was more than capable of that, but there was the matter of where he’d live for the duration of the project. There was only so much couch surfing he could reasonably do, and he wasn’t ready to make the jump to a travel trailer or some kind of property of his own.

  “No enticing candidates for flips?”

  “Not off the top of my head. At least not the kind you like.”

  Meaning none with much historic interest. Not that he couldn’t work on a newer house, but those were less interesting to both him and to his viewers. If nothing else turned up in the next week, he’d consider it for the sake of keeping the momentum going on his income, but it wasn’t his first choice.

  “Well, something is sure to come up. Meanwhile, do you suppose you could use me on any deconstruction jobs? I find myself with idle hands.”

  “I can always use somebody with the skills to tear down without breaking. There’s this property out in—”

  “Excuse me, I really need some help.” At the desperate tone, they both turned, and Wyatt lost his breath.

  Her hair fell in burnished gold waves down her shoulders. Fine-boned features were set in lines of panic, but that did nothing to detract from the picture she made in that tidy little skirt and blouse that absolutely didn’t fit this place. Slim hands moved restlessly as she spoke.

  “—I literally had to leave my house with the water still running in the kitchen because this broke off, and I couldn’t turn the faucet off or find the main shut-off valve.” She held out a faucet knob to Carson. “I’m praying I don’t get back to find a flood. Help!”

  Damsels in distress were Wyatt’s kryptonite. “Just curious. Why did you come here instead of calling a plumber?”

  Irritation rolled off her in waves as she turned heated hazel eyes his way. “Because I have no idea if a regular plumber can work on antique plumbing, and—” Her eyes widened as she fully focused on him. “You. You’re DIWyatt.”

  Delighted to be recognized, he offered a smile. “I am.” But his good humor disappeared in short order as her gaze narrowed.

  “This is all your fault.”

  Too surprised to be offended, he only blinked. “Come again?”

  She waved a hand in his direction. “You… with all your videos and your know-how. You make all this shit look easy, when it’s totally not.”

  The profanity made him like her more, even if he didn’t understand what she was talking about. “Well, I—”

  But the woman simply rolled right over him, words spilling out in a torrent, as if now that she’d started, she couldn’t turn them off any more than the faucet she’d apparently broken. “I thought I could do this. I thought I could take on a restoration slowly, in my own time, and I just can’t. I’m not even started, and I’m going to lose my house and be excommunicated from the family and hear I-told-you-sos until I’m six feet under. And I never would have even thought about it if not for you.”

  Wyatt might have
been offended at the accusation if she hadn’t appeared so absolutely panicked and defeated. The whole point of his show was to empower people to do things themselves. He’d inspired her. That went a long way toward soothing the ego left wounded by CMT network execs.

  Wanting to comfort, he took a half-step toward her, only just stopping himself from reaching out. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

  She sucked in a breath, and her eyes went shiny.

  Oh fuck. Please don’t cry. He absolutely, positively, could not handle a woman in tears.

  “Look, I’ve got some time. Why don’t I come out and help you with your faucet problem?” Even if he was only partly responsible for her biting off more than she could chew, it felt like the least he could do. Offering help was second nature.

  “He’s one of the best,” Carson added. “He’ll take good care of your house.”

  “You’d do that?” The look of hope on her face about cut him off at the knees, even as it made him feel ten feet tall.

  “Sure. I can at least get the water shut off so you don’t have to deal with flooding. Then we’ll see what’s what.” Maybe he could give her a better evaluation of the project she’d taken on and make some suggestions about what was and was not a reasonable DIY fix.

  On a long, slow inhale, she closed her eyes. The shoulders that had been halfway to her ears relaxed a little, and her hands unclenched. They were ringless, he noted, with a neat French manicure. Not someone who worked with her hands. Good to know.

  “Thank you.”

  Wyatt held out his hand to Carson for the knob, then gestured toward the front of the warehouse. “After you Miss...”

  “James. Deanna James.”

  Chapter 5

  “Eureka!” Wyatt’s muffled voice came from beneath the house, where he’d disappeared in search of the main water shutoff.

  It never would have occurred to Deanna to check in the crawlspace. She wasn’t squeamish about getting dirty, but belly crawling under there in the dirt, without a flashlight, unable to see what creepy critters with too many or too few legs occupied the dark was not something she had any inclination to do. And in her business attire from work, she certainly wasn’t dressed for such an expedition.