Page 19 of She's Like the Wind

The Quarter had burned down twice. First in 1788 and then again in 1794.

The second fire took out over 200 buildings, and after that, the Spanish rewrote the rules. Clay tile roofs replaced thatch, courtyards were brought inward, and ironwork became the signature that people would later call French, even though they were Spanish with a Haitian touch.

The townhouse we’d been contracted to restore had Spanish walls and French bones, with American mistakes layered on top. Vinyl tile over heart pine. Drywall hiding hand-painted plaster. Modern windows where arched casements used to live.

My job was to strip away the bullshit and find what was worth saving. And if we did it right, you wouldn’t even know we’d been here. It would feel like stepping back in time, but with modern plumbing and electricity.

I walked into the house, Delphi behind me.

In the parlor, we’d ripped up decades of garbage to reveal an old cypress floor, stained and scuffed, but intact.

I knelt, running my palm along one of the long boards, my fingers finding the burn mark near the edge—probably from a coal ember, not a cigarette.

“I’ll get overalls on, and we can get started on the windows,” I told Delphi and walked into the bathroom.

I opened the duffel and pulled out my dungarees. I was looking for my dust mask when my fingers touched…silk.

I froze. I knew exactly what it was even before I pulled it out, could see it in my mind’s eye.

A silk robe. Deep plum. Soft as sin.

Naomi’s.

It had gotten mixed into my laundry the last time she stayed over. I’d meant to bring it back but forgot. Then things went south, and I shoved it in a drawer to avoid thinking about it.

Apparently, it had found its way into my duffel this morning.

I held it in my hands, suddenly winded.

The smell of her—orange blossoms and something sweeter underneath—rose up from the fabric like a fucking ghost.

I stood too quickly, blinking against the memory, clutching the silk.

Memories assailed me.

Naomi in that robe, hair damp from the shower, teasing me as she leaned against my kitchen counter and stole the last of the café au lait I’d made for myself.

“You drink it so sweet,” she complained, looking so damn cute.

I laughed. Pulled her into my arms. Kissed her neck because it made her sigh in that way that made me forget everything else.

Goddamn it.

“Hey, Gage?” Delphi out. “Got a question about the plaster molding—looks like the original frieze under the paint.”

I tucked the robe back into the duffel bag and shoved it under the sink like it hadn’t just sucker-punched me.

“Give me a fucking minute, will ya?”

I stormed out, angry that she still affected me—horrified that I’d been sniffing her robe.

What was I? A fucking teenager?

“Here.” Delphi pointed to the molding he wanted me to inspect.

He was right, it was indeed original—Spanish Colonial, with hints of Baroque curl and edge. I traced it with my thumb and nodded.

“Preserve it. Tell Matty to use hand tools only—no sanding block,” I instructed.