and get home. He needed to be on site, with his tools, by seven a.m.
He climbed out of the truck and into the frigid air, already pulling out his keys. Tall like his brothers, with a build leaning toward rangy, he hunched in his jacket as he walked around the stone courtyard wall toward the doors of The Lobby.
His keys were color coded—something his brothers called anal and he deemed efficient. In seconds he was out of the cold and into the building.
He hit the lights, then just stood there, grinning like a moron.
The decorative tile rug highlighted the span of the floor, added another note of charm to the softly painted walls with their custom, creamy wainscoting. Beckett had been right on target about leaving the exposed brick on the side wall. And their mother had been dead-on about the chandelier.
Not fancy, not traditional, but somehow organic with its bronzy branches and narrow, flowing globes centered over that tile rug. He glanced right, noted The Lobby restrooms, with their fancy tiles and green-veined stone sinks, had been painted.
He pulled out his notebook, jotted down the need for a few touch-ups before he walked through the stone arch to the left.
More exposed brick—yeah, Beckett had a knack. The laundry room shelves showed ruthless organization—and that would be Hope’s hand. Her iron will had booted his brother Ryder out of his site office so she could start organizing.
He paused at what would be Hope’s office, saw his brother’s mark there: the sawhorses and a sheet of plywood forming his rough desk, the fat white binder—the job bible—some tools, cans of paint.
Wouldn’t be much longer, Owen calculated, before Hope kicked Ryder out again.
He continued on, stopped to admire the open kitchen.
They’d installed the lights, the big iron fixture over the island, the smaller versions at each window. Warm wood cabinets, creamy accent pieces, and smooth granite complemented the gleaming stainless steel appliances.
He opened the fridge, started to reach for a beer. He’d be driving shortly, he reminded himself, and took a can of Pepsi instead before he made a note to call about the installation of the blinds and window treatments.
They were nearly ready for them.
He moved on to Reception, took another scan, grinned again.
The mantel Ryder had created out of a thick old plank of barn wood suited the old brick and the deep, open fireplace. At the moment, tarps, more paint cans, more tools crowded the space. He made a few more notes, wandered back, moved through the first arch, then paused on his way across The Lobby to what would be The Lounge, when he heard footsteps on the second floor.
He walked through the next arch leading down the short hallway toward the stairs. He saw Luther had been hard at work on the iron rail, and ran a hand over it as he started the climb.
“Okay, pretty damn gorgeous. Ry? You up here?”
A door shut smartly, made him jump a little. His quiet blue eyes narrowed as he finished the climb. His brothers weren’t against screwing with him—and damned if he’d give either of them an excuse to snicker.
“Ooooh,” he said in mock fear. “It must be the ghost. I’m so scared!”
He made the turn toward the front of the building, saw that the door to the Elizabeth and Darcy suite was indeed closed, unlike that of Titania and Oberon across from it.
Very funny, he thought sourly.
He crept toward the door, intending to shove it open, jump in, and possibly give whichever one of his brothers was playing games a jolt. He closed his hand on the curved handle, pulled it down smoothly, pushed.
The door didn’t budge.
“Cut it out, asshole.” But he laughed a little despite himself. At least until the door flew open, and both porch doors did the same.
He smelled honeysuckle, sweet as summer, on the rush of icy air.
“Well, Jesus.”
He’d mostly accepted they had a ghost—mostly believed it. After all, there’d been incidents, and Beckett was adamant. Adamant enough that he’d named her Elizabeth in honor of the room she preferred.
But this was Owen’s first personal, up-close and inarguable experience.
He stood, slack-jawed, as the bathroom door slammed, then flew open, then slammed again.
“Okay. Wow, okay. Um, sorry to intrude. I was just—” The door slammed in his face—or would have if he hadn’t jumped back in time to avoid the bust to the nose.
“Hey, come on. You’ve got to know me by now. I’m here almost every day. Owen, Beck’s brother. I, ah, come in