“True,” she said. But he heard the disappointment, and it gave him a spark of hope.
“Now, let’s move on to Estimate Dream Home.” He withdrew the next stack of pages from the folder.
“Hang on. Let me prepare.” Maggie took a quick swig of beer and a deep breath. “Okay. Hit me.”
He handed over the significantly longer punch list.
“Oh,” she said as she flipped the first page and then the second. “Oh. Ohhh. Ouch. That’s more—knock on wood—than the top-to-bottom rewire and the plumbing, Sy.”
“Yeah. But it’ll look like this.” He unfurled a short stack of drawings and let her page through them in silence.
“You sneaky son of a bitch,” she breathed. “It looks like a damn fairy tale.”
And she was the queen.
He grinned. “You like?”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “A circular driveway out front? Wait a minute. Is that a trellis draped in wisteria? What’s it lead to?”
“The rose garden. Stole some space from the backyard for it. Nothing too structured. This place feels more charming fairyland than manicured estate. Upkeep’s easier, too.”
“I hate you right now,” she said, flipping through the sketches again. “A fenced-in vegetable garden? Oh, come on. A secret path of wildflowers and grasses that leads to a firepit? Wait. Where’s this view?” she asked, looking up from the drawing and eyeballing the yard.
“We’d clear another twenty feet or so along the bluff through those woods,” he said, pointing to the west. “It’s mostly overgrowth right now. It would give you a damn good spot for campfires and stargazing.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Let me see it,” she said, holding out a hand.
He opened the folder again and placed the last drawing in her palm.
She opened it and immediately folded it back up. Then opened it again. “Damn you, Silas Hard-Work-Always-Prepared Andrew Wright.”
He took that as a very good sign. She’d been thinking about him. And not just because his dog vomited on her house and he ended up nearly naked in her truck.
“So you can make the fountain work again.”
“I’m confident we can bring it back to its glory. And while we’re there, we might as well add on to the terrace, do something interesting with the edging, string lights everywhere.”
She closed the drawing and drew long and deep on her beer.
When she studied the house, he knew she was seeing his vision.
“It’s official. You’re a diabolical jerk,” she said finally.
“That I am.”
“You know exactly what I’m looking for with this project, and then you have to go and show me what’s actually possible. I bet your ancestors were door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesmen.”
God, she was cute.
“I look at every project as if it were my place,” he said. “And I ask myself, what would I want?”
“This isn’t my place,” she argued, perusing the sketches again.
“It is right now. And if, for some reason, you don’t fall head over heels in love with me…I mean this house, the grounds will go from a Band-Aid fix to a selling point. I did my research. You haven’t really dug into the landscaping beyond basic curb appeal. Your fans might like to see what’s possible outdoors.”
She picked up her beer. “I need to think about it. I wouldn’t even know how to break it to Dean. He’d curl up into the fetal position on top of a mattress of profit-and-loss statements.”
“When’s the last time you were wrong about a house, Maggie?”
She looked surprised and then stubborn. “Never.”
“When’s the last time Dean questioned the investment?”
Her laugh was quick. “Every single time.”
“Some people have vision, and others can only see what’s right in front of them.”
“Aren’t you the philosophical landscaper?” She turned and studied him for a beat. “You know, for a number that painful, you’d have to make yourself available to the camera constantly. Charm it, flirt with it.”
“I’m very shy,” he fibbed. “But I could probably work up the nerve.”
“Hmm,” she said, hopping down. “Okay. Go away so I can think.”
“I won’t let you down, Mags,” he promised, sliding off the tailgate. “You can put your hopes and dreams in my hands, and I’ll make them come true.”