He sounds just like me, when I’m convincing someone that my design is better than whatever they have in mind.
I turn to Sebastian, who stands with his arms folded over his chest. The other painter already stripped the window of its shade in order to prepare all the work surfaces—filling holes, patching cracks—so the front of the store is wide open and bare. He looks every bit the guard that he said I didn’t need, surveying the street. I’m starting to think he was lying to me.
“What do you think, Sebastian?”
He turns at his name, his eyebrow pops up from behind dark sunglasses. He has no idea what I’m talking about. He’s barely paid two seconds of attention to me since we stepped in here. The flirtatious guy from last night, who had his hands on me at every chance, has disappeared, replaced with this cool, detached replica of the first day we met.
“I was going to have him paint everything black again but he said—”
“Go with Ice.” He turns back to watch the street again.
I smirk. He’s probably always listening, and watching, even when I don’t know it.
I heave a sigh. “All right, Fausto. I’m going to trust you on this.” What do I care? Ned is dead and repainting it black isn’t going to bring him back. Stripping it of all character and personality might give some closure.
Fausto claps his hands together. “Buono! I’ll get this mixed. Jimmy will stay and prep.”
I dangle the spare key on a finger and then toss it to his waiting hands. “How long do you think this will take?”
“Depending on how many coats it takes to cover the black . . .” His face twists into an exaggerated frown with his thought, reminding me of Ned. “With two more of my guys to help, give us three days and we should be done.”
“All right. You have my number if anything comes up.” I glance at Sebastian. “Ready to go, driver?”
He nods, not acknowledging my dig with so much as an eyebrow spike, now focused on Fausto. “If anyone shows up here and starts asking questions or is poking around, I want you to take down a physical description and call Ivy immediately.”
Fausto snorts. “What the hell do I look like? I’m the painter, not your fucking secretary.”
Sebastian slides his glasses off and takes several steps forward, peering down at the short Italian man. There’s a shift in the air. I can feel his dominance radiating; he somehow seems taller, stronger, his presence more ominous. I think I’m going to have to dive in between them. Sebastian can’t go breaking my painter’s arms. “This is important. I would appreciate the help.” His tone is always on the clipped side. Now, though, it’s laced with a threat.
“Yeah. Okay. Either me or Jimmy will relay to Ivy if something comes up,” Fausto mumbles, adjusting his baseball cap several times as he takes a step back.
I slip a hand around Sebastian’s arm and tug his arm. “Ready?”
He slides his glasses back over his eyes. With a hand on the small of my back, he leads me out without another word to the guys.
“What was that?”
“That was your painter being smart.” He opens the passenger-side door for me, his eyes veering to the left and right. Everywhere but to me.
I sigh and climb in.
The broom handle clatters loudly against the tile floor and I gasp at the sudden noise.
Sebastian simply props it up in the corner again without a word. I’ve been jumpy since the moment we climbed the steps out front, and I’ve done a terrible job of hiding it.
I hate that the assholes who did this have made me nervous to simply be in this house.
Shaking it off, I right the wooden end table in the living room and focus on the silver lining. “At least this makes cleaning the house out and getting it ready to sell easier for me.” Pretty much everything—right down to the Raisin Bran and mac & cheese from the kitchen pantry—is now trash. I need to rent a Dumpster.