Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
Emilia
“I am certain your window is going to win this year,” Jane Waters said. She and her husband owned Rosewood Brew, a place I usually stopped in at least once a day.
“I agree.” Beatrice wrapped the gorgeous white roses in brown paper and handed them across the counter.
“Well, I think your window is super cute, too,” I said, after handing her the change and closing the register.
“You’re being too kind. Laney said it was, and I quote, ‘very mid.’” Jane chuckled. “Am I supposed to know what ‘mid’ means?”
Laney was her seventeen-year-old daughter, whom I’d known since she was a baby.
Beatrice and I both laughed.
“Teenagers,” I said with a smirk. “Enjoy the flowers.”
“Thank you. Have a great day.” She waved and pushed the door open, and a gust of wind moved through the space and then quieted once she’d closed it behind her.
I moved to pick up a piece of ribbon that had fallen off the counter, and I still smiled every time I took in the black-and-white-checkered floors. I’d renovated this place three years ago. My parents and my grandmother had agreed to pull some money out of the business for much-needed updates.
“The Vintage Rose” was a very fitting name.
The black-and-white floors brought all the charm, and we had a huge rustic reclaimed wood counter that ran the length of the space.
Antique duck egg–blue shelving lined the entire back wall, where we kept vases and baskets.
The two facing walls had floor-to-ceiling glass refrigerators filled with the most beautiful blooms.
Running a flower shop had never been my dream, but it was something that came naturally to me. I wouldn’t say it challenged me the way I longed to be challenged, but it was comfortable.
I mean, how can you complain about being surrounded by beautiful flowers every day?
At the moment, the smell of pine flooded the store, because we were making wreaths and swags today.
My stomach twisted when I looked at the clock and realized I’d be meeting with Bridger soon. It was my first opportunity to show off my skills.
Obviously, I was nervous because he would definitely be a difficult client. Not to mention the fact that I was also running the flower shop, so my time would be split, and his home was massive. It would be a lot to balance.
But taking on the largest home in Rosewood River would have its benefits. Everyone would know that I had renovated it, which would hopefully make people realize I was a legit designer.
I hadn’t slept much last night, as I’d stayed up late putting a presentation together for tonight. I knew he’d have no problem telling me if he wasn’t impressed.
And I was determined to impress him.
“You need to go and let me finish this up,” Beatrice said as she stacked another wreath on top of the tall pile we had going. “If you’re going to take this gig, things are going to change here, right? So let’s start now.”
I nodded before moving to the sink to wash my hands.
Was I nervous?
Why was I nervous?
Maybe because it was Bridger Chadwick.
Childhood crush. Broody billionaire.
The man who’d starred in every one of my teenage fantasies and gone on to torture me as a grown woman.
The most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on.
Also, the most aggravating man I’d ever known.
He was bossy and intimidating—yet he’d finally apologized to me and offered me my first design job.
Well, he’d offered me the shot. Not the job.
I’d have to prove myself worthy, and I had a feeling he’d let me know after my presentation tonight what he thought. He didn’t seem like the type of man to linger over a decision, nor did he appear to be a guy who’d give someone multiple chances.
So, the pressure was on.
“Well, I don’t have the job yet. But if I get it, yes, things will change.” I blew out a breath as I pulled my coat on.
“Go dazzle the shit out of him. I’m so proud of you,” Beatrice said as she wrapped her arms around me. “And I’ve got things handled here if he hires you. It’s time for you to chase those dreams of yours, Em.”
I sniffed a few times, not expecting to get emotional about a potential new client.
But it was the fact that Beatrice believed in me.
I hadn’t even told my parents yet, because my mother would go to great lengths to convince me that he wouldn’t hire me.
I didn’t need her negativity in my head.
My mother’s voice had become the voice of shattered hopes and broken dreams for me.
She’d always appeared to find joy in my failures, something that I’d spent most of my life trying to overcome.
So, I wouldn’t be sharing anything with her until I knew I had the job.
“Okay, thank you. You sure you’re fine closing up here on your own?”
“Pfffttt… I’ve been waiting for you to pass the torch to me for years. Get out of here. I’ve got this.” She winked.
“Good luck, Em. Break a leg,” Melanie called out from next door. “Actually, let’s not put the ‘broken leg’ thing out into the universe. Let’s just close the deal.”
Beatrice and I both laughed.
“Thank you! I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you,” I said as I pushed out into the blustery cold of the evening.
Once I slipped into my car, I tore open my protein bar and took a bite. I glanced in the rearview mirror and gave myself a little pep talk. “You’ve got this. You’ve been preparing for this day for years. You have a great presentation, so go in there and own it!”
I’d been pumping myself up since I was a kid, and it always helped to calm my nerves. I took another bite of my protein bar and put the car in drive before pulling away from the curb.
Downtown was lit up with twinkle lights strung in a zigzag formation across the road. People were moving along the street, doing their holiday shopping, and the town was bustling with holiday fever.
I turned up the volume when Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” came through the speakers.
I sang along with her, and my nerves relaxed a bit.
When I pulled up to his home, I turned into the driveway, immediately noticing that his place was the only house on the block that didn’t have holiday lights strung on the outside. He did, however, have a ton of outdoor lights that were on sensors, because the driveway illuminated when I pulled in.
I put the car in park and reached for my backpack, which held my laptop and my purse, and I made my way to the front door.
He pulled the large wood door open just before I reached for the doorbell.
“I see you’re right on time, Emilia.” He smirked, and I took in his dark wavy hair and piercing gray eyes. He wore a tan business suit, tailored to perfection, and I’d never seen Bridger in a suit before—but wow.
Just wow.
My ovaries nearly exploded at the sight of him.
How can I be so attracted to a man who irritates me so much?
“Does that earn me brownie points?” I asked as he stepped back, allowing me to step inside. My arm brushed against his chest, and I felt my body heat instantly.
“You don’t get brownie points for showing up. You get brownie points for showing me you’re the right person for the job.” His tone was flat, giving nothing away. It was impossible to tell if he was joking or hostile. The thought made me laugh, and he glanced over at me and raised a brow.
“Something funny?”
“No. No, of course not. I just can’t read you most of the time,” I admitted.
“And are you used to reading everyone you encounter?”
We stopped in the kitchen. I took my bag over to the dining table, which happened to be too small for the space, but I’d save that tidbit for later, once I officially had the job.
“Yes. I find most people to be readable.”
“Really?” he asked. He slipped his suit jacket off and dropped it on the barstool, and I tried not to stare at the way his broad shoulders strained against his white dress shirt. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them up a few times.
And holy forearms.
Who knew forearms could be so sexy.
“Sure. I’ve always been an observer. I get a vibe from people.” I sat down and pulled out my laptop as his gaze scanned my brown leather backpack. Was he judging me for not having a briefcase?
I mean, this was my first gig, and I’d just found out about it last night.
“Is that backpack a Flyer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My college roommate started that company. That’s some well-made shit right there,” he said, and my shoulders relaxed as I pulled up the presentation on my computer. He added, “So, Miss Reader of People, I’m curious—what was the vibe you got when you met Henley?” he asked.
“Sweet, smart, down to earth, and genuine,” I said with zero hesitation as I stared at my laptop, hovering over the first slide.
His lips turned up in the corners. “Lulu?”
“Hilarious, spunky, bold, and brilliant.”
“What about Eloise?” he asked.
“Driven, determined, kind, loving, and a friend for life. All three of them gave me the ‘friend for life’ vibes, actually.”
He nodded. “All right. Fair assessments. And you can’t read me?”
“You are a mixed bag, Chadwick.” I looked up, my gaze locking with his. “Sometimes you appear to despise me, and other times you act like a normal human, and then you go back to seeming highly annoyed. You’re completely unpredictable.”
His head tipped back in a full-bodied laugh. It came from his chest, and I’d never heard him laugh that loudly or enthusiastically before.
Like I said. He was a mixed bag.
“You’re a good reader of people. You just nailed the way I feel most of the time.” He shrugged. “And a lot of that is by design. Not everyone wants to be read, Emilia.”
When he said my name in that deep throaty voice, my hormones spiked to those of a teenage girl on the brink of womanhood.
“Well, you’re good at not being read.” I blew out a breath and turned my screen toward him. “I brought several different aesthetics to show you first, to get a feel for your style.”
It was impossible to get a feel for what he liked by the way his home was currently decorated, because there was nothing here. I couldn’t even call him a minimalist, because at least minimalistic design involved a conscious effort.
Bridger’s home appeared as if he’d just moved in and was waiting for his things to arrive.
I had him look at several styles, moving from one page to the next and taking notes about what he said.
What he was drawn to. I was surprised by the things he liked.
It wasn’t what I had expected. I’d honestly assumed the whole process would be a fight.
I’d expected him to hate everything, and I thought I’d have a hard time nailing down the aesthetic that would work for him.
“I like that a lot,” he said, taking in the rich wood beams and the natural colors and fabrics. “That might be my favorite.”
“Okay, this is great.” I switched to the next page. “This is the last one. What do you think of this one?”
“I like that as much as the last one.”
I nodded. “That is super helpful because I can marry these two looks. Sort of a masculine, cozy, old-world vibe.”
“Cozy? I don’t know about that.”
I chuckled. “Cozy just means comfortable. It means that when people come into your home, they feel like they can plop down on the couch and make themselves at home.”
“I don’t want people making themselves at home,” he grumped.
I rolled my eyes but smiled because I couldn’t help myself. He was charming and funny and grumpy and moody, all at the same time.
“When Henley and Easton come over, you don’t want them to be comfortable?” I asked.
He thought it over. “Fine. They can be comfortable. But I don’t want to make it so comfortable that people just stop by whenever the hell they want to.”
“Noted,” I said, trying to hide my smile. “So, take a look at some of these photos, and tell me if you like the color schemes.”
“Yes, I like it.” He stared at all the photos as if they were important, which I appreciated.
“So you like natural colors and earth tones. I would have guessed you’d be dark and moody.” I chuckled.
“Well, I’m still dark and moody, so don’t get too excited.”
“Good point.” I continued showing him a few more design options for his style, and I was surprised that we’d nailed it down rather quickly.
He knew what he liked. He had a clear aesthetic that he was drawn to.
He just hadn’t thought to do it himself.
Sometimes people needed their hands held. They needed that guidance.
He pushed to his feet and moved to the kitchen. “You want something to drink? Wine, beer, soda, water?”
“Oh, sure. I’d love a water,” I said, jotting down a few more notes that I’d go over tonight when I got home.
He set the water down in front of me, then popped the top to his beer off as he leaned back in his chair.
He took a long pull from the bottle, the move so sexy I found it hard not to stare.
He could do an ad for a beer commercial, the way his dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the cuffs rolled up on his forearms, his large hand wrapped around the bottle, and his tongue swiping out along his bottom lip right before he took a sip.
I watched his Adam’s apple bob as the liquid glided down his throat.
Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Someone could make a sex tape of Bridger Chadwick drinking a beer.
It was that good.
“You want to take a picture? You’re staring.” His voice was deep and gravelly, lips flattened, giving nothing away.
And… the pompous ass just ruined the moment.
“This is how I think. I zone out. I’m not staring, I’m designing.” I cleared my throat, tipping my chin up defensively.
He leaned forward, his face coming dangerously close to mine. “I’m also very good at reading people, Emilia. And you weren’t designing anything. You were checking me out.”
Damn you, Bridger Chadwick.
The sexy, beer-drinking jackass was spot on.