“You read King?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone does.”

“But you’re not looking for King in your own book, right? You’re more of a Jane Austen babe.”

“Of course.”

He relaxed. Yeah, he was right about her. She might show breaks in her facade, but he still bet late at night, with her proper heels and white suit on, her pleasure reads contained stuffy, old-fashioned, and very proper characters who’d put him to sleep if he ever deigned to pick them up. “Just as I thought. So your perfect book would contain structural rules regarding relationships, neatness, and as few twists and turns as possible. Right?”

“Correct.”

Now he was the one who felt smug. He knew her just as well. “What book are you reading at the moment?”

She jumped a bit and averted her gaze. Pulled at the hem of her white skirt. “It’s a series of books called the Inn BoonsBoro. They focus on certain stories linked to a historic inn located in Boonsboro, Maryland. Quite interesting.”

“Sounds it.” Not. Sounded more like B for boring, but at least he had his hormones under control again. Nonfiction books other than those about construction were the worst. Dry, dry, dry. At least they confirmed what books they were both looking for. Of course, they were polar opposites. “We’re here.”

He pulled the truck off the road and down the isolated winding path up the hill that led to the prime piece of real estate overlooking the harbor. He cut the engine and stared at the sprawling acres in front of him.

The Rosenthals had picked well. Both solitary like a king overlooking from his throne and close enough to the bustle of the marina, where expensive, artsy shops, seafood restaurants, and cafés tempted pedestrians to lose their money and their time. Surrounded by rolling hills and sparkling water, and nestled snug in the center of town, where retired Wall Street bankers, celebrities, and old money mingled. Harrington was pure aristocrat, as sought-after as upcoming Chelsea in Manhattan, as pricey as Westchester County in New York, and as beautiful as the Hudson Valley.

But even more exclusive, if possible.

The land was shrinking, and opportunities were scarce. Having a zip code in Harrington meant something, and Caleb knew that was another reason for this pick. A part of him withered at throwing his blood, sweat, and tears into a property that wouldn’t be loved on a permanent basis. But as his father used to say over and over, business was business and green was green. Money ruled, not emotions. In work, play, love, and family.

His mother had thought differently and fought to raise them with other values. She lost when she left. His father’s victory was a total eradication of anything they’d had with their mother.

Pushing the thought aside, he concentrated on the job at hand. He grabbed the paint spray can, the initial plans, and a pen. “Let’s go.”

Initial markers had already been set, but Caleb wanted to inspect every inch before his team came in and broke ground. His brothers excelled at renovation, customization, and property. But he loved the process of building, one beam at a time, watching something beautiful come from nothing. It soothed his soul and quieted his mind. The smell of sawdust, the bang of a hammer, the whine of saw against wood. It was worth everything. Another reason he went from project to project without rest, without relaxing vacations or torrid love affairs that eventually broke into pieces. This, out of everything in the world, was solid.

This lasted forever. Or as long as forever could get.

“They chose well,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping the horizon. Birds screeched overhead, and the wind blew hot and heavy against his face. The spread of vivid green seemed to stretch endlessly, burning his eyes.

“I picked it out,” she said quietly. “They wanted to be in the center of town next to the water, but I finally convinced them to build here.”

He raised a brow. Yes, the town center had the highest, most exclusive properties, but Caleb agreed with Morgan. This had more potential and a quieter dignity you couldn’t get from bordering the water. She had vision, too.

Caleb got down to business. They went over the markings, confirming where the deck and hot tub would be placed to guarantee both privacy and stellar views. Walking around the sketch lines, they talked porches and garage and isolated the garden areas where his landscapers would sweep in and make everything look like Martha Stewart lived here.

He caught the soft smile curving her lips and the dreamy look in her eyes as she gazed at the empty land, seeing something no one else could. “How’d you get into this business?” he asked abruptly. “It’s kind of an odd job to get interested in.”

She tilted her head as if considering. Her white-blond hair brushed her neck and cheek. His fingers itched to briefly reach out and confirm her skin was as soft as it looked. “It is, right? My mother is actually an interior designer, one of the best in Charleston. I grew up learning the right way to set up a room for both aesthetic and spatial purposes. I got in trouble when I was seven years old for trying to redecorate the classroom during my lunch hour. I couldn’t concentrate until the bulletin board was perpendicular to the reading charts and we changed the wall colors to purple.”

He quirked a brow. “OCD or control freak?”

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Probably a combination. And too much knowledge of feng shui.”

He laughed. “Okay, so you have this need to beautify the world. It’s still different from building houses.”

Her face lit up. “I think I’m stealing that tagline. Beautifying the world one house at a time. Marketing genius.”

“You don’t have to pay me royalties.”

“Good. I never intended to. I became fascinated not only by structuring the inside but how the frame and design of a house fits with the type of person living in it. It’s hard to explain, but I played these games as a kid to try to fit people with their perfect home. Instead of sketching out Barbie dolls or fashion outfits, I sketched mansions or quirky cottages. For graduation, I gave each of my friends a specialized design of the home I thought they’d love, along with furniture, color design, and room setup.”

Fascinated, he studied her face. “You began your own business at eighteen years old. Pretty impressive.”

She shrugged. “Fitting someone with their dream house is a rush for me. I began studying construction and design, but I never wanted to be the actual architect. I tried to set up a clientele list at home, but my mother had full reign and didn’t approve of me trying to change things up. She’d locked up Charleston tight and had firm ideas of how she wanted the business to run. She wanted me to join as her assistant. She’s a bit overprotective.”