Free Cara O'Shea's Return by Mackenzie Crowne

yeah, he’s still mad as hell.
    Before she could chicken out, she plunged into the apology she owed him. “I’m sorry, Finn. I made an assumption and…I’m sorry.”
    He stood silently, a blank expression on his face while his eyes studied her. The moment stretched out until she decided he could stick her sincere apology in any orifice he chose. She was about to suggest just that, when he swung the door wide.
    “Come on in,” he invited grudgingly.
    She moved passed him and her eyes widened at the truly incredible staircase at the end of the grand foyer. The eight-foot wide flight leading to the second story curved majestically, the intricate carvings of the banister continuing all the way to the top to run along the hallway to the second floor rooms.
    The door clicked shut behind her, and she whirled to face him. Swallowing, she held out the six pack of beer she picked up on her way.
    “A peace offering.”
    He took the package from her hand, and motioned for her to follow, guiding her down a long corridor to the left of the staircase.
    “Oh.” She inhaled an admiring gasp as he pushed open a swinging wooden panel, and she stepped into a huge, homey kitchen. Her eyes roamed over the custom cabinets, the wide plank wooden floor, and finally, the built-in breakfast nook below a large bay window.
    “This is gorgeous, Finn.” He grunted and pulled two beers from the box, holding one out to her. She shook her head. “I don’t drink beer.”
    His eyes narrowed. “You drank wine at the wedding. What’s the matter? Is beer too common for a famous artist like yourself?”
    Definitely still mad.
    Well, she’d accused him of something pretty nasty. He was entitled to a little retribution. She’d allow him a swipe or two.
    “No.” Ignoring his sneer, she glanced around the beautiful kitchen. “I just don’t metabolize beer very well.” He’d never know how true that was. She had learned the hard way on a cool June night years ago.
    He replaced the bottle in the empty slot with a shrug. “Would you like a tour?”
    “I think I would. Thank you.”
    “This is the kitchen.”
    His sharp tone told her he hadn’t expected her to accept, and wasn’t happy she had. Too bad. She didn’t mind throwing him a few curves while he got in his swipes.
    “It’s beautiful.” The rich wood of the cabinetry reminded her of the built-in shelving in the bookstore. She smiled, recognizing his work. “Did you do the woodwork in here?”
    “I’ve done all the renovation around here,” he said in a clipped tone.
    He marched ahead of her, hurrying her through the sixteen room, seventy-five hundred square-foot home. Most of the renovation was finished from what she could see. Only two of the six bedrooms on the second floor still had the neglected appearance she expected to find throughout the house, considering how long the place had been vacant.
    The seven fireplaces throughout the home were each more impressive than the last, the mantels amazing. He said the spiral staircase he’d seen was a work of art, but he was an artist himself.
    He grunted noncommittally when she told him so. Did he think she was using flattery to soften him up so he’d accept her apology? She shrugged inwardly. That was fine with her. It allowed her to praise him in a way she would have been reluctant to do under normal circumstances. The warm, stunning showcase of a home he had created reinforced her belief he should do the work in her studio.
    To that end, she took Maive’s advice when he ended the tour a few short minutes later, staring at her like a not-so-polite stranger at the open front door.
    “I wish you’d reconsider taking on the work I need done at the studio. You’ve done beautiful work here, Finn. I want the same attention to detail for my own home.”
    Hard blue eyes pinned her to the spot. “Gillespie is a harmless grandfather and a passable carpenter. He’ll give you what you want without making you freeze up like a frightened