“Summer?”
That’d taken me by surprise. We’d discussed timelines early in the process. Two years had been thrown into the ring, and it was better than I expected. Antonia didn’t challenge the proposal. But now she was.
“Yes, summer. Things are progressing well. If we keep up the heat, there’s no reason we can’t be open. Do you agree?”
I’d nodded, too speechless to disagree. She was so certain there wasn’t an argument to be had. Things have been smooth so far. Who was I to argue? Opengate was my lifeline to breaking ground at all. Antonia was the one who threw down the rope. If she wants it opened by summer, then I’ll do everything in my power for it to happen.
“So,” Amy says, reminding me she’s washing dishes at the sink while I sit at the counter. “This Antonia, is she pretty?”
I look up, cursing her under my breath for reigniting a discussion that was already put to bed, not comfortable admitting I’ve noticed out loud.
She pauses, pan in one hand and scrubbing brush in the other. Waiting.
“By normal standards, she is.”
“Hmm…”
“What does hmm… mean?”
Both boys turn, peering over the back of the sofa. I glare at my sister-in-law.
“Well, if you like her…”
“That’s not what I said,” I snap. This discussion needs to be closed down. “We’re working together. I don’t think about her like that.”
“Maybe it’s time to start thinking a little more.”
“You haven’t met her,” I mutter. “She argued with me and won about the color of paint.”
Amy snorts. “What?”
I shake my head, our conversation roaring back to life in vivid color from a few days ago in my mind’s eye. Standing in what would become the retreat’s communal dining hall, she disagreed with my color choice by two shades.
My choice was a lighter blue. Fresh and uplifting.
She wanted a tone that mimicked the ocean.
“The children can imagine the seaside,” she said, nose high, expression steel. “We can have an artist draw a mural of the beach.”
“No, I already ordered this shade.” My finger stabbed at the color book lying open on a dust-covered wooden table. Shade #3467. “It’s bought and paid for.”
She shrugged. “Return it. I want this one.” A long, slender finger landed on the alternative. She leaned in, and so did I, neither of us backing down. The air crackled with heat I couldn’t name the source of.
“Return it,” she repeated. “I’ll have Clara do it. If you don’t know how to contact a delivery company.”
I’d bit back a retort, not wanting the standoff to turn into a full-blown argument over paint color. But something deep in my stomach didn’t want to stop. I was enjoying the banter.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I muttered. “Though I don’t see why your color is so important.”
She giggled then, her icy façade disintegrating when she realized she’d won. I ran my hand through my hair, beaten.
Her breath was warm on my lips, only centimeters apart. “Because it’s my choice of color,” she whispered, so no one else working around us could hear. “And I like being right.”
“So…” Amy prompts. “Are you going to tell me the story or just stand there smiling to yourself?”
I swallow. “Not today.”
Her scrub brush pauses mid-stroke on the pan, her eyes landing where they see too much. “Yes, I think it’s time to startthinking a little more,” my sister-in-law confirms to herself. “It’s time.”