But I hesitate.
First off, it’ll be a busy day as it is. The house we’re going to is 45 minutes in the opposite direction, and I have no idea what time we’ll get back.
But the biggest factor is Rhodes. I’m spending all day with him. What if he wants to do dinner? Should I keep my schedule open? Or is it sad and pathetic of me to hope for that?
And who am I, juggling two guys? This is not my style at all. I feel like I’ve entered an alternate universe.
I put my phone down without responding when the oven timer goes off. I take the food out, plate it, and walk to the living room. I place Nana’s dinner on her TV tray and curl up on the couch to watch reruns ofGolden Girls. I leave my phone in the kitchen, but it dings again, so I get up to check it. It’s Garrett again.
I miss you.
Just like that, my decision is made.
I’d love to see you tomorrow night. I miss you too.
This is a first. He’s never said that before. It’s the closest thing toI love youhe’s ever said. Hell, it’s the closest thing toI love youany guy has ever said to me.
I pocket my phone and go back to the sofa and pretend to pay attention to the television while I think about the next day.
Now I have to plan two sexy outfits.
RHODES
My day in Magnolia Row is hyper-productive. I meet with Jaxon and we do an in-depth inspection of the hotel. He has a structural engineer lined up to come to the property next week. We have lunch, catch up, and present our plans to Wilhelmina. She flirts so hard with Jaxon I think she’s going to take her clothes off right there in the ruins of the old hotel lobby, but I’m glad her attention is off me for the moment.
By far, the highlight of the day is seeing Micah. I could tell she was awkward, and I don’t blame her. I guess I was sending some mixed signals with the whole go-on-a-date-without-following-up thing, but hopefully I’ll make up for it on my outing with her and her grandmother, which I admit is an odd second date. Or maybe it’s not a date? I don’t even know anymore.
After a night of restless sleep, I’m sitting in the cheap hotel chair in my room, looking out the window, waiting for them to pick me up. I extended my stay by one day in the hopes of having dinner with Micah tonight, so I haven’t checked out yet.
My button-down and khakis with dress shoes are probably too dressy for today, but those are the clothes I brought, so they’ll have to do. Micah’s blue hatchback pulls into the parking lot, so I put my keys, wallet, and phone in my pockets and meet them outside.
It’s only eight in the morning—the sun is still low in the sky—and it’s already blazing hot. I should’ve brought lighter clothes to wear.
I get into the back seat of the car on the passenger side, mostly so I can see Micah better.
“Good morning, Rhodes,” says Ms. Barbara.
“Good morning, ladies.”
Micah smiles at me. Her thick hair is down and she has it wrapped over one shoulder. She’s wearing a long white linen dress with a lavender cardigan. The dress is cut low, showing off an amethyst necklace with matching earrings.
“So where is this place?” I ask.
“About forty-five minutes from here,” answers Micah. “It’s a beautiful house. I can’t wait to see the inside.”
“I assume the owners passed away?”
“Yes,” answered Ms. Barbara. “The real estate agent is meeting us there. He does appraisals for these estate sales in addition to selling houses.”
“That’s convenient,” I say.
On the drive, Micah is mostly quiet while Ms. Barbara points out various landmarks and tells me the history of the area. She’s lived in this part of Alabama her entire life, so it seems like she has a story for every mailbox we pass. She speaks with a deep, musical drawl that is rare nowadays, even in the South. It’s a generational accent slowly being lost. I could listen to her all day.
Finally, Micah pulls off the highway and turns down a long driveway with old white fencing on each side. It looks like there used to be cows or horses on the massive property, but the land has been left fallow for what looks like years.
The house itself is stunning. It’s a late Victorian farmhouse—dating from the 1890s, I would guess—and though it’s clearly been neglected for some time, it has a lot of character. It doesn’t have the dainty, gingerbread house-looking woodwork a lot of people associate with Victorian architecture, but it has the characteristic gabled roof and bay windows with a huge wraparound porch.
We get out of the car and approach the house. There’s another car in the driveway, which I presume belongs to the realtor/estate sale manager. The haint blue paint on the ceiling of the porch is flaking off, and the boards below our feet creak.
