Page 18 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

“Piper?”

“I’m here.”

“How are you?”

I was good—on the road to fantastic. At least, I had been until this call. “What do you want, Adam?”

“I was just checking in. Wanted to see how your project is going.”

My project. I slid into the bench seat at my small table and looked out the Airstream’s window to my future home. “It’s coming along.”

The construction crew had nearly completed demolition. They’d ripped out all of the old finishes, carpet, cabinets and countertops. They’d already torn out one of the walls I was taking down between the kitchen and living room to brighten up the space. And they’d marked out places where we could add windows so the forest’s magical light would seep inside.

I smirked at the pile of trash next to the property line. The crew had gotten on a roll with demo, and rather than stop and wait for the industrial-sized Dumpster to be emptied, they’d piled junk beside the full one. My plan was to turn that area into a flower garden, so the bushes and shrubs in that area were getting ripped out anyway.

Kaine was averse to yellow cabinets and old carpet. How would he react to rose bushes?

“Are you happy with the crew you hired?” Adam asked.

“Yes.” I might be unable to decline his calls, but I didn’t feel the need to elaborate with long sentences.

“Are you, uh . . . seeing anyone?” Adam asked.

I rolled my eyes. He asked me that question every time we spoke.

Though I was tempted to say yes just to hear his reaction, I answered honestly. “No. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“That’s good. That’s . . . great.” He was overly happy about it, victorious even. “Listen, I ran into Gin Kaneko a couple of days ago. I mentioned to him that you’re renovating a house. He offered to make you a dining room table.”

“Really? I’d lov—” I stopped myself.

Out of habit, I’d nearly accepted the offer. Gin Kaneko was a well-known furniture designer to the wealthy elite. He’d done a few pieces for our home at one point, and his current waiting list was six years long.

As a local celebrity, Adam had connections all over New York, so getting elusive material items wasn’t hard for him. There was no such thing as a waiting list. Whether it be clothing or art, he used to come home every other week with something only available to people who ran in the right social circles.

The rich social circles.

And normally, I’d jump so fast at Gin’s offer my head would spin. But not today.

Gin’s style was minimalistic with an Asian flair, true to his roots. His pieces were stunning and had gone beautifully in the modern home I’d shared with Adam. The museum with white walls, white floors and white ceilings.

Except I wasn’t going for minimalistic or modern in my new home. I was going for rich and colorful. I wanted beautiful pieces full of details. I craved a life full of messes and dirty dishes and piles of laundry.

“Please give Gin my deepest appreciation,” I told Adam. “But no, thank you.”

“W-what?”

“It’s not the style I’m going for in this new house.”

His frown was audible. “You love Gin’s work.”

“Yes, I do. But I’m doing something different with this home. Something . . . me.”

Not me and Adam. Just me.

“I didn’t realize my style was so different than your own,” he snapped. “Many seem to share my tastes.”

“I’m going for something different. Something warmer.” I got up from the table and went down the short hall to the bedroom.