If she had to look at one more spreadsheet, she’d go batty.
Overdue for a break, Carly Wagner pushed away from her laptop at the oak kitchen table, poured another cup of tea and wandered into the parlor of her Victorian home. The late morning sun filtered through the windows, bathing the somewhat formal though still cozy room in warmth. Taking a sip of her Cream Earl Grey, she glimpsed the photo of her great-grandmother on the mantel and smiled. Granger House was more than just her home. The bed-and-breakfast was a way of life.
She let go a sigh. If only she didn’t have to keep taking in these bookkeeping jobs to help build up her savings. But if she hoped to send her daughter, Megan, to college one day...
She was just about to sit in the powder-blue accent chair when something outside caught her attention. Easing toward the side window, she noticed a vehicle in the driveway next door. She fingered the lace curtain aside and peered through the antique glass pane.
That truck did not belong there.
Her neighbor, Olivia Monroe, Livie to everyone who knew her, had been dead for six months. Since then, no one had set foot in that house without Carly’s knowledge. Until now.
Narrowing her gaze on the ginormous black F-350, curiosity mingled with concern. After all, Livie’s house now belonged to her. Well, maybe not completely, but Lord willing, it would, just as soon as she convinced Livie’s grandson, Andrew, to sell her his half. That is, once she finally mustered the courage to call her old high school boyfriend. Then she would finally be able to act on her dream of expanding Granger House Inn and kiss bookkeeping goodbye.
Allowing the curtain to fall back into place, she paced from the wooden floor to the large Persian rug in the center of the room and back again. What should she do? She hated to bother the police. Not that they had much to do in a quiet town like Ouray, Colorado. Then again, if it was nothing, she’d look like the nosy neighbor who worried over everything.
No, she needed to do a little investigation before calling the cops.
She headed back into the kitchen, depositing her cup on the butcher-block island before grabbing her trusty Louisville Slugger on her way out the back door. The cool air sent a shiver down her spine. At least, that’s what she told herself. Realistically, it was rather mild for the second day of March. Perhaps the sun would help rid them of what remained of their most recent snowfall.
Making herself as small as possible, she crept across the drive and around the back of Livie’s folk Victorian. Banging echoed from inside. Or was it her own heart slamming against her rib cage?
With Livie’s house key clenched in her sweaty palm, Carly drew in a bolstering breath and continued a few more feet. She soundlessly eased the metal storm door open just enough to insert her key into the lock of the old wooden door. Then, thanks to the ongoing hammering sound, she slipped inside undetected.
The seventies-era kitchen, complete with avocado-green appliances and gold countertops, looked the same as it had every other time she’d been there in recent weeks. Pathetic. She still couldn’t understand why Livie would do such a horrendous thing to this charming house. Carly could hardly wait to get rid of that ugly old stuff and replace it with a look that was truer to the home’s original character.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Carly jumped, sending her renovation ideas flying out the window. At least until she took care of whoever was in the parlor.
Raising the bat, she tiptoed into the short hallway, past the closet, until she could see who was making that racket.
She peered around the corner, nearly coming unglued when she spotted the male figure crouched beside the wall on the other side of the kitchen, using a hammer and a crowbar to remove the original trim moldings.
She slammed the tip of the bat onto the worn wooden floor with a crash. “What are you doing to my house?”
The man jumped. Jerking his head in her direction, he hustled to his feet until he towered over her.
Carly gasped. What is he doing here?
Eyes wide, she simply gaped. The perpetrator wasn’t just any man. Instead, Andrew Stephens, Livie’s grandson, stood before her, looking none too pleased.
Heat started in her belly, quickly rising to her cheeks. Though it had been nearly twenty years since they’d dated and she’d seen him a few times since, her mind failed to recall that the boy she once knew so well was now a man. A very tall, muscular man with thick, dark brown hair, penetrating brown eyes and a stubble beard that gave him a slightly dangerous, albeit very appealing, look.
His surprise morphed into irritation. “Your house?”
She struggled for composure, jutting her chin in the air while trying to ignore the scent of raw masculinity. “You