Page 12 of Something Old

Another pause. “That’s right. Great. I’ll see you then!”

Grant hadn’t been trying to listen in—oh, who was he kidding? Of course, he had been—but also, there wasn’t a lot of space to move around in. He couldn’t avoid hearing her side of the conversation, even if he’d wanted to. Still, what Madeline did next shocked him.

She jammed her phone back into her pocket, glanced around the room once, then clapped her hands briskly. “Right, then,” she announced. “I’ll do it.”

Grant just looked at her, slow on the uptake. “Do what?”

“Help you sort through this place.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I only asked if you could sell some pieces for me on consignment.”

“I can do that too, but I wasn’t lying when I said my floor’s too full right now. I’ll let you know as soon as I have space—and by then, I’ll also have a better feel for what you have here.”

Grant stared. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to help me clean up this freakshow? For free? Plus, you’ll sell pieces on consignment, as in I’ll still get money too?”

“Exactly, well . . . unless you turn my offer down, of course.”

“Is there something wrong with your head?”

Madeline arched an eyebrow. “More than likely—but your comment brings me to my only stipulation.”

“I figured there was a catch. Go on then. I’m all ears.”

“You’re all something all right, but it’s not ears. I’m only going to say it once. If you want my help—selling your stuff, organizing your stuff, or whatever—watch your tone from here on out. I’m not your verbal punching bag just because you’ve got a chip the size of a small country on your shoulder.’

Offended, Grant opened his mouth to defend himself, but he didn’t get a chance.

Madeline cut him off with a curt shake of her head. “I sympathize with whatever you’re going through, or went through, but I also don’t care what it was, and it doesn’t let you off the hook. I’ve cut you some slack, let you be a jerk without saying much about it—but the grace period is over. Everyone has had bad stuff happen to them. It’s no excuse.”

Grant blinked. “Have you always been this way?”

“Been what way?”

“Take no shit, say what you think, make no apologies.”

Madeline reddened, and she put one hand lightly to her throat—but not before he saw a nerve jump there. “No, I haven’t always been ‘this way,’ as you say. I used to waste a lot of time and energy trying to be ceaselessly polite and to disarm people with charm. I tried to fix other people’s bad behavior as if it was somehow my responsibility, not theirs. I still apologize if I’m the one in the wrong, though.” Her eyes glinted. “So yeah, rarely.”

“Hah. Good one,” Grant acknowledged, then added, “So what happened to cause the big change?”

For a second, Grant didn’t think she would answer, but then she let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say, I’m too old to take crap just because I feel sorry for someone. I don’t expect you to be a precious little sunflower all the time. In fact, you can be as miserable as you want, so long as you don’t make me your punching bag.”

Grant knew she was lying. Whatever she’d said “didn’t matter” obviously mattered deeply. But he also knew it wasn’t his place to say such a thing when being—justifiably—called out. “I don’t know,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Aren’t you a little young to be this wise and firm about your boundaries and such?”

Madeline stared at him, and he had to work hard to keep his face blank. Then she got it—realized his “aren’t you a little young” comment was a throwback to their first conversation—and laughed. It made him feel . . . oddly happy.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, by the way.” He stuck out his hand. “A bad deal, and one that shows you’re clearly nuts, but a deal, nonetheless.”

They shook on it, and Madeline smiled. “Takes a nut to know a nut.”

Until her hand slid into his, Grant hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d had physical human contact of any kind. Their eyes met, and he wondered if she felt the same dizzying sense of . . . connection. Her skin was smooth and soft, but her grip was firm, and he could feel the strength of her hand muscles.

He sensed he’d maintained the shake a little longer than the social norm, but she didn’t seem to mind—just extricated herself, still smiling.

Something awful occurred to him. Of course, her offer was too good to be true! She was opening a store, for crying out loud. This wreck that was his current occupation was a full-time job and then some. “Will you really have time to help? You’re going to be busy, and I don’t want to inconvenience you or take you away from your”—he stumbled a little over the last words—“family or partner or whatever.”

“After I open, I’ll only be available evenings when the store is closed, but that should work fine. Even if the shop’s hopping, it won’t be the kind of busy that will keep me from managing most of the details during the workday. It’s not that kind of business. And,” she added, addressing the second part of his statement, “there’s no one to take me away from—just Boots.”

“The cat?”