The Wishing Season (8 page)

Just a quick peek. PJ walked across the subfloor and moved aside the plastic sheeting covering her soon-to-be bedroom.

Her eyes fell on the empty space where the boxes had been. They traveled around the room and back to the empty space. Her heart thrashed against her ribs. Where were they?

She’d left them right here. Maybe someone had moved them. She bustled past the plastic and through the kitchen, scanning
the area. She looked in the dining rooms, in the closets. She took the stairs quickly and looked in all the rooms upstairs, even though there was no reason they’d be up there.

She raked her fingers through her hair, squeezing at the roots. It made no sense. They couldn’t have just disappeared. Her eyes fell on the attic steps. She hadn’t been up there since he’d moved in. She didn’t want to think it of Cole, but the cookware was worth a lot of money—almost five thousand dollars.

You spent five thousand dollars on pots and pans! Pots and pans that are gone!

She trotted up the attic steps and tapped on the narrow door, just in case. After a moment of silence she swung it open. One twin mattress hugged the bare floor across from her. A crate, turned upside down, held a book, a shadeless lamp, and a tube of ChapStick. Other than a duffel bag and some stacks of clothing, the room was empty.

Where could they be? The only person who’d been in the house other than Cole was the contractor. But Brad had come highly recommended by her pastor and had given her a reference list a mile long. She hadn’t actually called any of the names; she was too eager to get started, but still.

Wait. While she was at work, her dad had come by to unplug the sink drain in the bathroom. Maybe he’d moved the boxes. She pulled her phone from her purse, then remembered he had a committee meeting tonight.

She went back downstairs, deep in thought, her mind working hard on the puzzle. The front door opened as she reached the foyer.

Cole blew in, a hardware bag rattling in his hands. “Hey.”

“Hi.” She looked him over, biting the inside of her mouth,
wondering if he was capable of stealing from her. He didn’t seem the type, but—

“What?” he asked.

She realized he was right beside her, trying to go upstairs, and she was blocking his way.

“Have you—have you seen some big white boxes? They were in the room off the kitchen.”

“Nope. Never go in there.” He paused to look at her. “Why? What’s wrong?”

His calm green eyes settled on her, probing, as if sensing her panic despite her nonchalance. Her thoughts went back several days to when he’d caught her fall. When he’d reacted so quickly, pulling her safely against him.

She was being paranoid. Cole wouldn’t steal from her. He was starting a home for kids, for heaven’s sake. Her dad had probably just moved them.

“Nothing. I just—misplaced something.” Dad had moved them. That had to be it.

But the next day the cookware still hadn’t turned up. Her father didn’t even remember seeing them. She’d confronted the contractor, but he claimed not to know anything about any white boxes, and he seemed sincere, had even helped her look around the house. Maybe someone had come in off the streets while Cole was upstairs working.

She had no choice but to notify Sheriff Simmons, who wasn’t very encouraging about recovering the cookware. Though the house was insured, PJ was supposed to take out a policy for the contents. She hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Now she was short five thousand dollars and she still needed cookware. She was
going to have to borrow money from her parents, a thought that sucked the life out of her.

Cole shone his flashlight under the sink. The leak had warped the cabinet base, and he was afraid water would go through to the floor when the sink was used regularly.

A drip beaded on the old pipe where a fitting bulged. He went for his toolbox in the other room. Downstairs was quiet. PJ hadn’t been around all day, which was strange. She was usually there on Wednesdays. The house seemed empty without her self-talk and loud country music.

His lips twitched as he thought of her karaoke. Despite her bad harmonies, the girl sang with the gusto of a rock star. Something miraculous must happen between her mouth and ears, because if she heard herself the way he did, she’d never sing another note.

He grabbed the pliers and crawled into the space under the sink, the smile falling away as he worked the pliers. The rusty fitting wouldn’t budge. After another minute he took a break, frustration setting in.

That emotion hovered pretty close to the surface these days. Between the pressure of getting this house ready, his worry over Lizzy, and his attraction—yes, he was going to call it what it was—to his opponent, he was a little on edge.

He couldn’t help staring at her sometimes. She was so different. Quirky. And yeah, she was beautiful. Those big brown eyes, that wide smile. When they weren’t bickering she was fun,
even if her mouth did run constantly. It sure was a pretty little mouth, though.

Cole clenched his jaw and went at the fitting again. What was he doing? He had no business thinking of her that way. But ever since he’d caught her in his arms, he’d hardly been able to think of anything else. It had been so long since he’d held a woman. And she’d been so soft, her slender curves pressed against him. Smelled so good. It wasn’t perfume, he’d surmised from that too-short embrace. It was her hair that smelled all sweet and womanly. He’d wanted to bury his nose in there and never come up for air.

That’s enough, Evans. Last thing she needs is someone like you screwing up her life.

“Cole?”

He jumped, his forehead banging against the trap. He bit back a few choice words. “
What?
”

PJ’s bare feet stopped at the doorway. Hidden in the cabinet, he let his eyes travel up her long legs to the cutoffs, which was as far as he could see.

“I’m starting to think grumpy is your default.”

“What do you want?”

“Just wanted to tell you to keep the house locked up, even when you’re here.”

He gave the pliers another futile twist. “Why’s that?”

“Someone stole my cookware.”

He lowered his arm and eased out of the cabinet, sitting up. “What?”

“Those boxes I mentioned yesterday—they’re gone. Along with the very expensive cookware inside.”

“Are you sure?”

“They didn’t walk away.”

He didn’t miss the flicker of suspicion in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that look. Seemed once you were in foster care everyone assumed you were a bad person.

She crossed her arms. “I filed a report with Sheriff Simmons, but he wasn’t too encouraging. He might want to ask you a few questions at some point, since, you know, you live here.”

“Sheriff Simmons . . . Is he—”

“Yeah, Mrs. Simmons’s nephew. Great-nephew, I think. He was there the night you showed up at my house, but you probably don’t remember.”

Great. He was suspected of theft by a family member of the woman deciding his fate. “I’m happy to answer his questions, but I never even saw the boxes.” He thought of the contractor who’d been working in the house. “I doubt someone just walked in off the street and took your stuff.”

She arched a brow. “Got any better ideas?”

He clenched his teeth. She was thinking it, but she wasn’t going to say it. “What about that contractor you hired?”

“I already checked him out.”

“Did you tell the sheriff about him?”

“Of course.”

“Is anything else missing?”

She shrugged. “Just my cookware. I don’t suppose you’re missing anything?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. If someone broke in, they’d take more than that, wouldn’t they? We have tools lying around.”

“You’d think.” She continued looking at him.

He wished she weren’t standing over him, looking down her pert little nose at him with a seemingly innocent expression. He should just say it, get it out in the open.

“Just—keep the doors locked, okay?” She turned and left.

He shoved back under the sink and a few minutes later finally worked the fitting loose. But the ugly feeling swelling inside him didn’t go away.

Chapter Twelve

PJ
DASHED UP THE
W
ISHING
H
OUSE PORCH
,
DUCKING IN
out of the rain. It had poured all day, and the fudge shop had been dead. She entered the house, shaking the water from her hair. The stale smell of paint fumes lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of sawdust and rain.

She entered the kitchen, admiring the first coat of paint she’d applied the night before. It was only glossy white, but it brightened the place. One more coat. The ceramic tile was being laid tomorrow, an expensive but necessary expenditure. The warped wood floor wouldn’t do, and it would be too hard to replace the flooring later after the appliances and steel shelving were installed.

“Yoohoo!” a voice called from the foyer. “PJ?”

“In the kitchen.”

Madison appeared in the doorway, a T-shirt hanging on her like a burlap bag. “Got my painting gear on.”

“I hope you’re wearing shorts under there.”

Her sister gave her a look. “It’s one of Beckett’s old shirts. Mom’ll be here after supper. And just so you know, she’s planning to confront you about church. Like a good sister, I’m giving you advance notice.”

“Great.” It was true she’d missed a few Sundays. Okay, more
than a few. But she was on a tight schedule here. Surely God understood.

“She also heard you’re going to be open for brunch on Sundays, once the restaurant opens. She’s worried about you.”

“It’s true I’ll be working Sundays for a while, but once my staff settles in, they’ll be able to handle it without me.” She’d get back to church once all the craziness passed.

Madison wandered into the dining room, and PJ followed, wanting to check the touch-up she’d done late last night.

“Hey, this is looking great. It’ll be romantic with some soft candlelight.”

“I think so too.”

Madison stopped abruptly. “Uh-oh.”

PJ looked over her shoulder, noticing the water that covered an entire corner of the room. She followed the source to the window. The curtains she’d rehung the day before slapped against the wall. Rain still pelted in.

“What in the world?” PJ hustled to the window and put the sash down. Water, an inch deep, seeped into her tennis shoes. She splashed back to the center of the room where it was dry. She’d closed that window last night. She knew she had. She’d been a little paranoid about having them open since Cole had complained about the air conditioning.

“You have any towels?”

“In the kitchen.”

“You should go downstairs and see if it’s leaking through.”

Madison soaked up the water while PJ checked the basement.

“Any leaks?” Madison asked when she returned.

“No, thank goodness.”

PJ grabbed a dry towel and helped with the last of the mess,
water soaking through her jeans. “I thought for sure I shut this window last night.” She’d done it after putting the lid on the paint can and wrapping the wet brush with Saran Wrap. Hadn’t she? Yes, she was practically positive.

“At least there’s no permanent damage.”

That still didn’t explain the window. Had Cole opened it? But she couldn’t imagine why he’d need to. It had been hot and muggy, and she already knew he wasn’t a fan of open windows.

Unless . . . No, he wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t purposely flood her dining room.

Would he?

The suspicions she’d stuffed down over the past week rose to the surface again. Anyone could’ve taken the cookware. It was worth a lot. But who else would want to flood her dining room?

It had started raining right after she’d left last night. Could Cole have come down and opened the window? He wanted the house badly. As badly as PJ. But would he stoop to sabotage?

As a foster kid he’d probably scrapped for everything he had. Was he scrapping for the house too? At her expense?

She sat back on her haunches and opened her mouth to let Madison in on her suspicions.

“Unless you have a ghost, you need to be more careful, PJ. This could’ve been a lot worse, and you really don’t have the money to waste—or the time.”

She wanted to defend herself. Tell Madison it hadn’t been her fault, that she suspected it was Cole’s. But she’d been defending him since day one. Her family already thought she lacked good judgment—she’d been chided about the expensive cookware. She wasn’t setting herself up for a round of I-told-you-so’s.

Besides, it was possible it wasn’t Cole, right? He’d been distant
since she’d asked him to keep the house locked up. An image of him under the bathroom sink formed, his long legs extending out into the hall, his T-shirt riding up, exposing a couple inches of his muscled stomach. She’d almost forgotten what she’d come for until he’d snapped at her.

Stop that, PJ.

If she thought about it, he’d actually been distant since the tripping incident. Since he’d caught her against him. She’d found herself reliving those long seconds too often. The way he’d felt against her. The way his breath had stirred her hair.

The man is likely sabotaging you, and you’re getting swoony over him?