Page 11 of The Focal Point

“My assistant hates it because it takes her twice as long to transcribe, but I’m not changing anytime soon.” I mirrored his grin.

“You know”—he took a sip of what looked like iced tea—“I have a friend developing technology to read notes like that. I can get it to your assistant as a beta tester if you think she would like that.”

“She would probably fall at your feet and worship you,” I laughed. It was an exaggeration, but knowing how much Kristen complained about transcribing my notes, it probably wasn’t too far off.

Liam picked up his phone and typed a quick note. “I’ll shoot him a text later.”

“Thank you,” I replied, again unsure what to make of the man across the table from me. He was laid-back, full of bright sunshine, and had access to cutting-edge tech.

And obviously made enough money to afford a kitchen like the one we were sitting in. And I still couldn’t place his name.

Liam also looked incredible in a button-down and slacks, relaxed and comfortable in not just his clothes but his own skin, the first faint smile lines at the corners of his eyes hinting at an optimistic, even cheerful approach to life. He was maybe five or six years older than me—35 or 36?

“Okay, so let’s start with you.” I pushed the highly unprofessional thoughts down as far as possible and turned my pen to push out the nib. “Tell me what you need and what you were thinking.”

We spent the next twenty minutes discussing Liam's vision for his home, which wasn’t a ton. He seemed far less interested in the style as much as asking me questions about my job, and I found myself consistently having to steer the conversation back on the right track, just like on the phone the other day.

Exasperated, I finally took a deep breath and looked Liam in the eyes. “Can you tell me why you want to redo your house? I’m having trouble picturing what you’re trying to accomplish.”

That was an understatement.

But at the query, Liam blinked as though he hadn’t considered the answer before—or even the question. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling and thought for a long moment, the first time he had stopped questioning me since we had begun talking.

When he finally spoke, I heard sincerity. “Because this is my childhood home. I want to modernize it, but I also want to keep the general feel of it because it reminds me of my parents. I want it to feel a bit more like it’s mine, but I want to keep the memories.”

“Oh.” This time was my turn to blink. That was the last answer I had expected.

“For example, right over there, Mom told my brothers and me not to build a ramp for our bikes, but we didn’t listen. You can imagine what happened.” Liam’s finger indicated the backyard and lop-sided tree. “You can still see where my oldest brother and his bike knocked out two big branches on that side. They never grew back.”

“Oh,” I said again, unsure how to respond. The story was halfway to horrifying, but Liam was grinning, his eyes alight with humor at the memory.

“I really thought he was dead at the time. And then I thought we would all die when Mom got a hold of us after we got home from the hospital. And that—” Liam’s hand moved to a picture on the wall, an image of an old farmhouse with an ornate gold frame that seemed incongruous with the rest of the kitchen. “If you move that picture, there’s a dent in the wall no one has ever been able to patch.”

“Another brother?” I asked.

“No, that was me. I was playing with my chemistry set and was trying to create alternative rocket fuel, but the stuff went off before I could take it outside, and it went into the wall.”

I felt my eyebrows inch up. “Alternative rocket fuel?”

Liam shrugged. “Yeah. It worked, obviously, but it turned out to be too volatile.”

A giggle worked its way up my throat to the back of my mouth. I tried to swallow it, but it came out anyway as a half-laugh, half-snort, and I clapped a hand to my mouth to cover it. The sound still caused Liam’s grin to grow.

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Nine.”

“Nine?” I demanded. “You were trying to develop alternative rocket fuel at nine?”

“What can I say? I was a nerd,” Liam chuckled. “Still am, of course. Just a better-dressed nerd.”

I covered my hearty agreement by clearing my throat and tried to pick up the design conversation again. Liam had other ideas, of course.

“My sister started a fire with a kids’ oven right there. The burn mark was there for years. Until I redid the kitchen, actually.” His hand indicated the kitchen wall now covered by the wine fridge, which I supposed at one time had been more open.

I stopped, my pen poised above the notepad, my annoyance vanishing. It was clear this house was special to Liam—very special. After all, he had chosen to stay in it, and he had to have a million more stories where those came from. Raising my head, I met his gaze and smiled.

“Tell you what—let’s make this a special project to preserve everything we can. You let me know which pieces and rooms stay as they are, which pieces and parts mean the most to you, and I will find a way to use them, no problem.”