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He grinned. “You’re astute.”
“Yeah, astute enough to know you’re a stubborn piece of work.”
“So, is that a yes?”
She glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at him, her teeth digging into her lower lip. “Fifteen minutes,” she grumbled. “I was just on my way to work.”
She had a job, then. He’d wondered if living with Jack and caring for him was her full-time occupation, but the older man was still spry and active, from what Rocco had observed. As if to underscore that, Maddie said, over her shoulder, as they entered the house, “Grandpa’s at golf—he plays every Thursday.”
Rocco knew that. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen today to visit. He understood things much more clearly now: Jack would sell to him, but only if Maddie agreed. It was Maddie he needed to win over, Maddie he had to convince.
On the way to the original kitchen, they passed a corridor lined with photographs. Jack and his late wife, a young woman with hair a little like Maddie’s, and then photos of Maddie—running at the beach, laughing as sparklers ignited in front of her, with her arm around another young woman, in a ballet costume, and sitting cross-legged on grass, eating a wedge of watermelon.
He slowed down, giving each picture a thorough scan. They reminded him of the sorts of portraits an advertising agency might submit for a Ralph Lauren campaign—All-American charm and beauty. Big smiles, flawless faces, wintry beaches. It painted the picture of a lifestyle that Rocco had always been fascinated by—because it was a part of him. The part of him he wanted to know and understand better: his American mother’s heritage. He’d been eleven when she’d died; too young to ask her about her life before. Too young to really even contemplate the fact that she came from a place that was different to their home, that she had been raised differently. And too unprepared for the fact she would leave on a charity trip one day and never return.
“It’s not an art gallery; those pictures aren’t for you to gawk at.” Maddie’s gruff rejoinder pulled him out of his reverie and for a moment, he almost forgot that he had come here to charm her. An in-kind response hovered on his lips, but he caught it just in time.
“You were a cute kid.”
Her eyes widened, the compliment clearly unexpected. Good. He could see only an advantage from keeping her in a state of surprise.
Almost against her will, Maddie’s eyes drifted to the photograph he’d been looking at, of her eating watermelon. Emotions flashed in her own eyes, and her lips tightened into a line of control.
“The kitchen’s through here.”
He gestured to another picture, though. “Is that your mother?”
She didn’t look at the photograph in question. “Yes.”
A sixth sense told Rocco there was something there—a reason she didn’t want to talk about her mother, didn’t want to so much as look at the picture, but he didn’t push it. This situation—and by ‘situation’, he meant Maddie—had to be handled with kid gloves.
“You look like her.”
Maddie’s eyes sliced through him. “I’m nothing like her.”
“I only meant your hair?—,”
She lifted a hand to her wild mane. “Yeah, our hair’s the same, but that’s the beginning and end of it. Come on, you’re wasting time.”
He moved then, following her into the kitchen, which was fitted out exactly as it would have been when the house was first built. But unlike the other homes he’d acquired, Jack Young had maintained this place with precision and care. While the fittings might have been original, they were all immaculately preserved; it was like a time capsule. A series of ceramic ducks were flying across one side of the kitchen wall, reminding Rocco of old fashioned movies. In the middle of the bench, there was a huge arrangement of flowers, expensive and beautiful, that made him wonder if Maddie or Jack had recently been celebrating a milestone.
“Someone’s birthday?” he asked, nodding towards the flowers.
She glanced at the arrangement, then back to him. “No.”
Conversation closed. This wasn’t going to be easy.
He passed the bag towards Maddie, who took it with a tight, perfunctory smile. Performative, but at least a small sign that she was willing to go through the motions of civility. For the next thirteen minutes or so, anyway.
“When did you move here?” he asked, gesturing to the kitchen, trying a different tack.
“That’s not important.”
“Is it a secret?”
“No, but it’s part of my life that you have no need to know about.”
Message received: she was not going to make this easy for him. And even though he wanted this deal wrapped up, at the same time, a flicker of excitement ignited in his belly. He loved a challenge, and Maddie was definitely that.
