Her Money, His Pride

Chapter 19: The Consultation

Mrs. Whitmore’s house did not need restoration.

It needed someone to tell her that replacing one set of expensive cabinets with another was not preservation.

I arrived at ten on Saturday morning and found her waiting in the driveway wearing sunglasses large enough to hide half her face.

“You came alone,” she said.

“It’s a consultation.”

“I thought you might bring your daughter.”

“Sophie has plans.”

With Victoria.

I did not say that part.

The school had organized a Saturday art workshop, and Sophie had insisted on attending because Miss Ashford would be there. I had dropped her off an hour earlier and watched Victoria kneel beside her to admire the yellow paint already covering both hands.

Mrs. Whitmore led me through the house.

For forty minutes, she ignored every practical recommendation I made. She asked whether removing an original staircase would increase the property value, whether white marble could replace the old brick fireplace, and whether I was available for dinner.

“No,” I said.

She turned from the window. “No to which question?”

“All of them.”

Her smile faded.

“I paid a great deal for this consultation.”

“You donated to the school.”

“And won your time.”

“My professional time.”

I opened my notebook and continued measuring the damaged window frame.

She stood too close.

“I saw the way Victoria Ashford watched you at the auction.”

I stopped writing.

“That has nothing to do with your house.”

“She was jealous.”

“You should choose a contractor before the moisture damage spreads.”

Mrs. Whitmore laughed softly. “You don’t deny it.”

There was nothing to deny.

Victoria had been jealous.

The thought had followed me home, stayed with me through dinner, and returned every time I remembered the way she had lifted that paddle.

It should have pleased me.

Instead, it made me cautious.

Attraction was easy when it existed inside an argument. It was harder when Sophie stood between us, trusting both of us not to make her world more complicated.

I closed my notebook.

“I’ll email the report on Monday.”

“Our two hours aren’t finished.”

“The consultation is.”

“You’re very proud for a man who could use better clients.”

I met her gaze.

“Pride is cheaper than regret.”

Then I left.

At the school, the art workshop was still in progress.

Children sat around long tables covered with paper, brushes, and cups of cloudy water. Victoria stood at the far end of the room wearing an old apron over jeans and a white shirt.

I had never seen her in jeans.

She was helping Sophie paint a house with three windows and a yellow door.

“Dad!” Sophie waved her brush.

A line of blue paint crossed Victoria’s cheek when she turned too quickly.

She did not seem to notice.

“How was the consultation?” she asked.

“Educational.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means Mrs. Whitmore does not need a restoration company.”

“Then what does she need?”

“Better judgment.”

Victoria tried not to smile.

Sophie leaned over the painting. “Miss Ashford said my windows don’t have to match.”

“They don’t,” Victoria said. “Art doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The words sounded strange coming from her.

She caught me looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Expressive silence again?”

“Very.”

Sophie carried her painting to the drying rack, leaving us beside the table.

Victoria lowered her voice.

“I’m sorry about the auction.”

“You already apologized.”

“No. I apologized for being embarrassed. Not for behaving like an idiot.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“That is unusually accurate.”

She folded her arms.

“I was not jealous.”

“Then why were you bidding?”

“I dislike Mrs. Whitmore.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I should have let her retreat.

Instead, I took a paper towel, dampened it in the clean-water cup, and held it out.

“You have paint on your face.”

She reached for it, but I moved before thinking.

My thumb brushed the blue mark near her cheek.

Victoria went still.

So did I.

The noise of the classroom faded.

Her eyes lifted to mine.

This time, neither of us stepped away immediately.

Then Sophie called from across the room.

“Dad, look!”

Victoria turned first.

I dropped my hand.

Sophie held up her painting, proud and smiling.

I looked at her, then at Victoria.

Whatever was happening between us could wait.

It had to.

Because wanting Victoria was becoming simple.

Knowing what to do about it was not.