The House That Found Us

Chapter Clara Bennett was seven minutes late.

Not five.

Not approximately seven.

Exactly seven minutes.

She knew this because she'd checked the clock three times while driving, once while parking, and once again when she caught sight of the enormous black car waiting outside Hawthorne House.

She also knew that seven minutes was enough time for a man like Alex Mercer to decide she was unreliable.

Unfortunately, she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction.

She climbed out of her car with a portfolio tucked beneath one arm and a takeaway coffee in the other.

Her hair had escaped its clip somewhere between the florist on Harbour Road and the turn toward the coast. One strand was stuck to her cheek.

She brushed it away.

"Professional," she muttered.

The historic house stood beyond the gates.

Hawthorne House.

Even neglected, it was beautiful.

Old stone walls climbed toward a steep roof softened by years of salt and weather. Ivy curled around the edges of tall windows. The ocean stretched beyond the gardens, silver-blue beneath the morning sun.

Clara stopped for half a second.

She had seen photographs.

The photographs hadn't prepared her.

There were houses that looked expensive.

There were houses that looked impressive.

And then there were houses that looked as though they remembered things.

Hawthorne House was the third kind.

She checked her watch.

Seven minutes.

"Right."

She hurried up the path.

The front door opened before she reached it.

Clara stopped.

The man standing there was not what she'd expected.

Alex Mercer was younger.

Or perhaps the photographs she'd seen had simply failed to capture him properly.

He was thirty-four, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed almost too observant. He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing designed to announce money.

Which somehow made him look wealthier.

His gaze moved briefly to her portfolio.

Then to her coffee.

Then back to her face.

"Ms Bennett."

"Mr Mercer."

"You’re late."

She winced.

"Seven minutes."

"I know."

Of course he did.

She held up the coffee.

"I have an explanation."

His expression remained perfectly neutral.

"Do you?"

"An elderly man was trying to reverse a Mercedes out of a parking space."

Alex waited.

"He couldn't do it."

Still waiting.

"He was very committed."

A pause.

"So you were late because you helped him?"

"I was emotionally invested."

For the first time, something changed in his expression.

The faintest movement at the corner of his mouth.

Almost a smile.

Almost.

Clara noticed.

She smiled back.

"Thank you for understanding."

"I haven't said I understand."

"No, but your face nearly did."

His eyebrow lifted.

"Come in."

She stepped through the doorway.

And forgot, briefly, that she was supposed to be nervous.

The entrance hall was extraordinary.

Tall windows flooded the space with pale morning light. Original timber flooring ran beneath their feet. A sweeping staircase curved toward the upper floor, its carved banister worn smooth by decades of hands.

Clara looked around slowly.

"Oh."

Alex closed the door behind her.

"Good oh?"

She walked farther inside.

"No."

He waited.

She turned toward him.

"It's better than incredible."

His expression was unreadable.

"That's a fairly strong opinion for someone who's been inside for twelve seconds."

"That's because I know houses."

She looked toward the staircase.

"This place has been neglected."

"Yes."

"But it's still here."

Alex's gaze followed hers.

Clara touched the edge of an old wooden console.

"That's the important part."

Something quiet passed across his face.

Then footsteps approached from the adjoining room.

A man appeared in the doorway, carrying a tablet and wearing a grin that suggested he enjoyed himself far too much.

"Please tell me I'm not late."

Alex sighed.

"Unfortunately, you're exactly on time."

The man grinned.

"Daniel Mercer."

He held out his hand.

"Alex's best friend, business partner, occasional therapist and full-time nuisance."

"Daniel."

"What?"

"Stop introducing yourself."

"I've been trying to get Alex to say something nice about me for fifteen years."

Clara laughed.

Alex gave Daniel a look.

"She's here to work."

"Of course she is."

Daniel turned to Clara.

"Don't mind him. He becomes less intimidating after coffee."

Clara glanced at her cup.

"How many coffees?"

"Usually three."

"Before lunch?"

"Usually."

She looked at Alex.

"That explains a lot."

Daniel laughed.

Alex didn't.

But his eyes did.

They moved into the adjoining room where the others were waiting.

Richard Vale, the project architect, was already standing over a table covered in plans.

Emily Foster, who handled the development administration, introduced herself and passed Clara a folder.

Richard began immediately.

"We've been looking at a contemporary luxury direction."

Clara opened the folder.

Photographs.

Renderings.

Neutral walls.

Polished surfaces.

Sharp lines.

Glass.

Metal.

Everything immaculate.

Everything expensive.

Everything wrong.

She closed the folder.

"No."

The room went quiet.

Daniel looked delighted.

Richard frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

"No."

Clara set the folder on the table.

"This isn't right."

Richard crossed his arms.

"It's a luxury development."

"I know."

"So?"

"So Hawthorne House isn't a luxury development."

She gestured toward the windows.

"It's a house."

Richard looked unconvinced.

"The market expects—"

"The market can expect whatever it likes."

Clara walked toward the fireplace.

"The original stone stays."

She pointed toward the floor.

"The timber stays."

"The proportions stay."

"The old doors stay."

Richard sighed.

"Some of these things need replacing."

"Some."

She turned toward him.

"Not everything."

Alex had said nothing.

He was watching her.

Clara continued.

"Use linen. Aged brass. Natural timber. Stone. Warm plaster. Keep the imperfections."

Richard shook his head.

"People paying this kind of money don't want imperfections."

Clara looked at him.

"Then they can buy something new."

Silence.

Daniel looked down at his tablet, very obviously hiding a smile.

Alex finally spoke.

"What do you want the house to feel like?"

Clara looked at him.

She hadn't expected the question.

She glanced around the room.

"Like somewhere people want to stay."

"That's vague."

"Fine."

She thought for a moment.

"Like somewhere you can take your shoes off."

Daniel stopped pretending not to listen.

Clara continued.

"Somewhere you can spill wine on the table and not feel like you've ruined it. Somewhere the furniture doesn't look like it came out of a showroom yesterday. Somewhere the ocean is part of the house instead of just something you photograph through the windows."

Alex's gaze remained fixed on her.

"And commercially?"

She smiled slightly.

"Commercially?"

"Will it sell?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Clara met his eyes.

"Because you don't make the house valuable."

A beat.

"You make it worth loving."

Nobody spoke.

Outside, waves broke against the rocks below the cliffs.

Alex looked down at the plans.

Then back at her.

"Show me."

Clara blinked.

"What?"

"Show me."

She glanced at Richard.

Then at Alex.

"You want me to proceed?"

"I want to see what you can do."

A small smile appeared on her face.

"I can do quite a lot."

"I noticed."

There was something in the way he said it.

Not flirtation.

Not quite.

But enough to make her suddenly aware that they were standing very close to each other.

She stepped back.

"I'll send a revised proposal tonight."

"Good."

She gathered her portfolio.

As she turned toward the door, she noticed the staircase again.

Something about the upper floor caught her attention.

At the end of the corridor was a closed door.

Old.

Dark wood.

A brass handle.

"What's in there?"

Alex followed her gaze.

The warmth disappeared from his expression.

"Nothing that's part of the project."

"Old storage?"

"No."

She looked at him.

He held her gaze.

"Don't go in there."

Clara considered the door.

Then nodded.

"Okay."

Alex seemed almost surprised.

She shrugged.

"I respect a boundary sometimes."

Daniel made a strangled noise behind them.

Clara smiled.

"Sometimes."

She walked toward the entrance.

Alex followed.

At the doorway, she turned.

"Thank you for the opportunity."

"Thank you for being late."

She stared at him.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"No."

"Goodbye, Mr Mercer."

"Alex."

She paused.

"What?"

"If we're going to spend the next several months arguing about my house, you can call me Alex."

Clara smiled.

"All right."

She stepped outside.

"Goodbye, Alex."

He stood in the doorway watching her walk down the path.

She didn't look back.

Not once.

Alex remained there until her car disappeared through the gates.

Then Daniel came to stand beside him.

"You're interested."

Alex looked at him.

"I hired her because she's good."

Daniel nodded solemnly.

"Of course."

Alex closed the door.

"She is."

"Obviously."

"Daniel."

"Alex."

Alex walked away.

Daniel followed.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Alex ignored him.

But as he climbed the stairs, his thoughts returned to the woman who had walked into his house seven minutes late, challenged nearly every decision his team had made, and somehow made Hawthorne House feel different simply by looking at it.

At the end of the corridor, the old locked door waited in silence.

Alex stopped.

His gaze lingered on it.

He had spent twelve years making sure nobody ever opened it.

And now, for the first time in a very long time, he found himself wondering what might happen if someone did.