“Take down the porch. A ranch fits better with the new population they’re trying to attract. They’ll want to keep their kids off the front of the property since it faces a main road. Build them a nice deck instead so they can hang out as a family in the back.”

His face flickered with grudging admiration, which quickly vanished. Tristan didn’t believe in complimenting her. Most of the time he barely tolerated her presence, and his only nice actions revolved around one strong emotion.

Guilt.

“I’ll check into it.”

She nodded and tried to ignore the masculine waves of energy that emanated from his figure. He’d always been the quiet one of his brothers, but he’d never needed words or noise to make his presence known. When he walked into a room, everyone noticed—men and women. His demeanor conveyed competence and power in a whole different way than his brothers, Caleb and Dalton, did. As the middle child, he was a peacemaker, and able to make decisions with a confident quickness that most respected but never duplicated. His thoroughness was legendary. Tristan was able to see a problem at all angles and attack it with a single-minded intensity and level of control. Once he’d brought that same talent to the bedroom, concentrating on wringing pleasure from her body with a thoroughness that ruined her for other lovers.

She studied him from under heavy-lidded eyes. His suits were renowned—custom-made with the best fabrics and cuts that emphasized his powerful, lean body. Today he wore a charcoal-gray suit, snowy-white shirt, and a vivid-purple tie. Engraved gold cuff links. His shoes were polished to a high sheen and made of soft leather. He always reminded her of one of those jungle cats who prowled with grace, amber eyes lit with intention, taking their time before deciding what to do with their prey. His analytical mind was as drool-worthy as his body. Hard, supple muscles balanced with a beautiful grace most men could never pull off. His hair was thick, perfectly groomed, and a deep reddish brown. His face was an artistry of elegance, from the sharp blade of his nose to the square jaw, full lips, and high cheekbones. Lush lashes set off eyes that practically glowed, darkening to an intensity that made a woman’s heart beat madly. He was beauty incarnate, a feast for the senses a woman could never bore of, spending the rest of eternity studying every angle and curve and drowning in his cognac gaze.

Once she’d been that woman. Of course, that was centuries ago, before the ugliness between them sprouted from dark corners and swallowed them up whole.

Didn’t matter. She only dealt with Tristan for work now, though the past year had been more difficult as she was forced to spend so much time in his presence. Those five years he’d moved to New York and had been away from Harrington were hard, but she’d finally grown up. Become a mother and made her own niche in life, rather than waiting for him to dictate her wants and needs.

If only she wasn’t still attracted to the man.

Already, the room surged with the innate connection between them. Some things never disappeared. They’d always had chemistry. Now it was just a matter of accepting it as fact and ignoring it.

Most of the time she managed.

“Better get to work,” she announced in a fake voice.

“Have a muffin.”

“Maybe later.” She threw out the napkin, grabbed her mug, and turned.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

Her nerves ruffled. He still treated her like a child. Or an annoying kid sister. “Not hungry.”

“You skipped lunch the past few days. Do you think it’s smart to go all day without eating?”

Sydney ground her teeth. His arrogance pissed her off, as if he consistently knew what was right for her. Not anymore. “I think I’m able to handle getting myself something to eat when I’m hungry.”

He didn’t move. That gaze drilled into hers, searching and finding the past and heating up all the secret corners of her body. Damn him for still turning her on.

Damn her for still letting him.

“Don’t you owe it to Becca to keep yourself healthy?”

Her daughter’s name on his lips broke her out of the trance. With a low growl, she took a few steps forward to close the distance. The scent of his aftershave drifted in the air, reminding her of the ocean, but she ignored the pull and let out her anger full force.

“Don’t ever tell me what to do as a mother. I’ve been taking care of both of us for a long time. And I don’t want your damn muffin.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.

Tristan watched her leave and cursed under his breath.

Once again, after two minutes in her company, he’d screwed it up.

He grabbed a mug from the pine cabinets and poured himself a cup of coffee. Every conversation only proved how much she despised him. When he’d first come back to Harrington, he’d been tortured by thoughts of her. Their breakup had almost destroyed him, but after five long years, he’d ached to see her face again. How many nights in New York had he spent dreaming about her, twisted with rage and betrayal by her speedy replacement of him and what he thought they’d had together?

He’d always felt as if he led their relationship. He’d known Sydney had crushed on him for years, and he felt almost like a supergod around her. It was only when she turned eighteen that he began to regard her as a woman rather than an annoying younger sister. It was easy to take charge of the relationship, especially since he was four years older. He’d never expected such intensity from a teen crush, or that he’d react with a strange possessiveness around her. It was as if she brought out all his baser emotions, always contained right below the surface. But when they’d broken up and he came crawling back to her, ready to beg her to take him back, she’d proven how little he’d really meant.

And how she’d been in control the whole time.

The memory still stung, so he slapped it away like an annoying fly and pushed it aside. He’d tried, dammit. Tried to deal with her snippiness toward him even though he’d held out the olive branch many times. He hated the way she left a group conversation when he showed up. Hated how she ignored him when she came to dinner on Sundays, focusing her attention on Morgan and Cal, Dalton and Brady, and only offered him polite nods. He hated the way his gut lurched when he looked at her daughter, proof of her betrayal. But most of all, Tristan hated the way his dick hardened every time he caught her signature scent of orange blossoms, or heard her throaty voice say his name, or watched her ripe curves move toward him clad in those sexy designer suits and high heels.