On the other hand, he was decidedly not receptive when it came to practical issues like the placement and installation of infrared beams, motion-activated lights and alarm-system control panels. As much as she was grateful for his acceptance of the big picture, the constant back-and-forth about the details grated on her nerves.
Not that she blamed him. Much. If she owned a multi-million-dollar pile like his, she’d also be picky about what went where.
Thankfully she was at very little risk of ever having that problem.
“I can’t see it,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Let’s stick with just one control panel on this floor, next to the front door.”
Kate drew a steadying breath. “But as we discussed, you normally come into the house through the garage, right?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t want a control panel in the garage because you’re still deciding where to install shelving in there.”
“Right.”
“But you also don’t want a panel next to the back door, because you rarely use it to access the house, preferring to go through the garage to get to the backyard.”
“Right.”
“And we can’t put a panel anywhere else in the kitchen because it’ll mess up the tiling.”
“Exactly.”
“So.” She exhaled. “You’re about to go out. You turn on the alarm on the panel by the front door, and it gives you fifteen seconds to get into the garage before you set off the interior motion sensors. How far do you think it is from the front door to the garage?”
He squinted, calculating. “Well, the whole house is seven thousand square feet, so I guess you halve that to get the bottom floor. It’s a pretty straight shot except for the slight curve around the kitchen island, which—”
“It’s far,” she interrupted. “Too far for fifteen seconds.”
“I don’t know,” he countered, thoughtful and maybe, just maybe, a little bit playful. “My highest burst speed on the pitch was clocked at twenty miles an hour.”
Lord, give me strength.
“You need a second panel on the ground floor,” she informed him sternly. “Garage or backdoor. Pick.”
He huffed a sigh, but she could swear she saw a hint of bemusement on that handsome face. “Fine. Garage.”
“Great. Let’s choose the location for the one in the bedroom.”
She followed Oz up the stairs, which—like the banister and landing—were sealed instead of painted so the dark wood stood out against the white walls.
“This house is stunning,” she told him truthfully. “All this white—how do you keep it clean?”
“I pay an extremely talented and thorough housekeeper. Also”—he paused on the landing, peered at a place on the wall, pulled one of those reusable cleaning pads from his pocket and scrubbed the nearly imperceptible mark until it disappeared—“I’m obsessive.”
As if on cue, the sound of a drill whined from the direction of the kitchen. Oz leaned over the banister to have a look, but Kate ushered him up the stairs before he saw what she could: a fine spray of white dust as one of her workmen drilled holes to install the new panel.
“Well, it’s worth it, because this place is amazing.” She nodded for him to precede her to the second floor. “When was it built, originally?”
“Nineteen twenty-five. It had been totally modernized when I bought it—too modernized, in fact—and I wanted to strip everything back to a simple, minimal, Scandinavian style.” Distracted by what was clearly one of his favorite subjects, Oz’s posture eased as he led her down a carpeted corridor to the master bedroom. “The previous owners gutted it so the interior is all brand new, but at least it still has the gabled windows, the mature trees, and the carriage house out back.”
She joined him inside the master bedroom, refusing to hesitate at the intimacy of the space, and then biting back a surprisingly affectionate smile as she took in her surroundings. The light gray carpet, pristine white walls and teak furniture were in line with what she’d seen downstairs, but this room actually looked vaguely lived-in. The bed was made, but not immaculately. A towel hung on the back of a chair. One of the dresser drawers was slightly ajar.
She cast a sidelong glance at her frosty new client. Maybe he was human after all.
“I don’t know where we can put a panel in here. I like to sleep in pitch-black darkness. Those curtains are custom-made from special light-exclusion fabric. I can’t have that little green light from the alarm glowing all night long.”
Okay, half-human.
After twenty minutes of what Kate thought was impeccable patience on her part, they agreed to install the panel just inside the door to the en-suite bathroom. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing, and she dashed downstairs to inform the installer so he could start work before Oz changed his mind.
When she returned to the master bedroom she found Oz staring thoughtfully at the place they’d agreed on, and she quickly directed him into the hallway before he could object.
“Ideally I’d like to put one more panel on the second floor. Is there another room up here you use a lot?”
“The study,” he answered promptly.
“Perfect. Let’s have a look.”
The study was at the opposite end of the house from the bedroom. Oz pushed open the door and she almost burst out laughing the instant she glanced inside.
“So this is how you keep the house clean,” she remarked. “You hide the clutter in here.”
“You could say that,” he admitted. And then, to her astonishment, he smiled.
After their meeting the day before Kate spent a couple of hours trawling Oz’s social-media sites, trying to understand what had provoked Citizens First’s ire. His Twitter feed was inoffensive, active only once or twice a week as he wished a teammate happy birthday or made a comment about Skyline’s wins or losses on the soccer field (or “pitch” as Lorraine’s binder belatedly informed her it was called). He was more prolific on Instagram, where every couple of days he uploaded a photo.
She’d flicked through them methodically, building a concept of her new client. Oz with his friends. Oz in the gym with his teammates. Oz at an awards ceremony. Oz at the beach without a shirt—maybe she’d lingered a little longer on that one.
Click after click, photo after photo, a theme emerged: Oz never smiled.
He clenched his fist and shouted in triumph on the pitch. He narrowed those big eyes and stared broodingly in professional shoots. He arched a brow or glanced haughtily at the camera in casual shots with friends.
But the smile she’d caught as they walked into the study was rare.
Which was a shame, because it was delightful. His chiseled features warmed, the corners of his eyes creased, and for a split second he looked younger. More fun. Much less serious.
Then it disappeared. Back to the task at hand.
She put her hands on her hips, surveying the study. In the rest of the house, where everything was vacant, she had to fight Oz to make an addition. In this room, she wasn’t sure where they’d carve out space amidst all the clutter.
What he called the study was so big, she suspected it was actually a bedroom he’d turned into a man cave. A huge television occupied one end with an extremely comfortable-looking sectional positioned in front of it, easily big enough for six people. Built-in