Edward
The tour was over.
Alistair was standing in the foyer again with his tablet tucked under his arm, looking like a man who had survived a natural disaster and wasn't sure if he was allowed to exhale yet.
Connor and I looked at each other. I could feel it in my chest, that buzzing, giddy thing that had been there since we walked through the front doors yesterday.
"Alistair," I said.
"Yes, Mr. Chernyshevsky-Coleman?"
"Can we have a moment? Just us. To talk."
His professional mask slipped for half a second and he looked almost relieved. "Of course. Take all the time you need. I'll be in the car."
"Thank you," Connor said. His voice was soft.
We didn't move until we heard the front door click shut. Then I took Connor's hand.
"Garden?" I asked.
"Garden," he said.
We walked out through the french doors off the living room and into the back.
It was the picture. The one I'd seen in the listing and hadn't believed was real.
