3. Darcy
Chapter 3
Darcy
I CAN’T BELIEVE he said yes. It’s been a week, and I still pinch myself when I remember the conversation. The whole thing was like a fever dream, because I didn’t mean to do any of it. But I saw the ocean and suddenly I just needed to do it. Before I knew it, I was babbling about discounts and practically begging him to say yes, and he was all growly and “No discounts” and honestly, what was I supposed to do? Insist on it because I have quite literally never done something like this?
No way.
The man wants to pay me full freight, then by all means, give me your money, my dude.
My mouth has gotten me into plenty of interesting situations before. Like the time in fourth grade when I bragged about the tree house that was most definitely not in the trees in our backyard and declared the whole class should come over for a party, and Todd, the sniveling meanie that he was, totally didn’t believe me and said they’d be there on Saturday. Dad wouldn’t help me, but he did supervise.
The tree house remains in the back yard. It’s almost certainly a safety hazard now, but then? Then, it was a thing of beauty—as much as four walls, a floor, and a crooked roof could be. How no one commented on the new-wood smell that weekend is beyond me.
I still think about the look on Todd’s face when he saw that I actually had a tree house. God, it was good.
Anyway, here I am again, in another self-made situation that I’m absolutely unprepared for, in a loft I would probably murder someone to live in, figuring out how to move forward. He’s barely touched the place, that much is obvious. But it’s clean. No dusty corners, no grimy windows. He cares about his home, even if he hasn’t done anything with it. Something about it is, I don’t know, touching? It’s weird. I can’t describe it.
“Where should we put this?” Jeff holds one side of the drywall while his partner Kevin holds the other.
I point to the long expanse of blank wall along the east side of the building, and the guys head there. Once I’m sure they know where to put the stacks of drywall, I turn back to inspect the space. I have so many ideas. Ways to separate the open areas into something warm and inviting. I may have bulldozed my way in here, but honestly, it’s a dream to get to design this. It’s so far out of my comfort zone that it’s in another country, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere, right?
I scoff. My dreams are so big that sometimes I don’t know how I’ll ever find the time to make them all come true. Because it’s not just the furniture and custom trim that I’m interested in. It’s full-on design and bespoke items that are meant to fit one space and one space only. Heirlooms for families. Pieces that matter. I love a good Ikea bookshelf as much as the next girl, but there is nothing better than staining a set of shelves that you’ve worked hard to build yourself. I have no business doing a full-on renovation of someone’s loft, but if you think that’s going to keep me from doing it, you clearly haven’t met me.
After Kevin and Jeff finish their delivery and leave, I inspect the kitchen—maybe more thoroughly than is strictly necessary, but hey, do you blame me?—and head to the bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, I decide to do the very thing that, were I a girlfriend, I would never do. Or probably wouldn’t do. Maybe I would. Hell, I don’t know. Either way, I take a little tour of the grumpy man’s medicine cabinet.
The damn thing creaks when I open it, the stupid rusty hinges. I squawk like I’m about to get caught, then peek out of the pitiful excuse for a door to make sure that Anthony hasn’t shown up.
Coast is clear.
Back to snooping.
Yes, I can totally admit I’m snooping. Of course I am. But since I’m not an unhinged girlfriend, that’s okay, right? No shade to unhinged girlfriends. In fact, let’s not call them unhinged. We’ll say they’re…over-invested.
Toothbrush, whitening toothpaste for sensitive teeth, some ibuprofen, Q-tips, and ooh, what’s this? Beard oil.
With zero hesitation, I grab it, twisting the lid off and bringing it to my nose to sniff. Whoa . This smells amazing. Like a winter bonfire on the beach. Bet it’s even more amazing when it’s on the man himself.
“Darcy?”
Shit.
I screw the lid back on and shove the oil onto the tiny shelf, then pray to the gods that the door doesn’t squeak when I close it. It’s quiet, thank goodness. Then I flush, again, and wash my hands a second time to keep the ruse going.
Opening the flimsy door, I flash Anthony a bright smile. “Mr. Hall!”
He frowns. “Anthony.”
God, it’s ridiculously fun to annoy him. I shrug. “I like Mr. Hall better. Let’s not rehash it.”
His frown deepens, and honestly, I didn’t know that was possible. “What are you doing in there?”
I tilt my head. “What was I doing in the bathroom? What do you think I was doing in there?” I consider waving my hands in his face and asking him if he wants to smell them, then reconsider. He’d probably lose his mind.
Also, that’s gross. I wouldn’t want anyone doing that to me.
He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a grunt, then turns away from me. “What is all this?”
“The drywall? It’s…drywall.” I follow him to the kitchen. It’s the only area that’s clearly seen some updating, but it’s still in desperate need of some design love.
With his back to me, he reaches to grab a glass from the cabinet, and the movement serves to bring my focus entirely on the way his T-shirt rides up, revealing the tiniest strip of skin above his jeans.
Damn, Mr. Hall is giving some serious ass. It’s not as noticeable behind the bar because it’s dark down there, but up here, where the sun is streaming and I’m not waiting on a drink, there’s nothing to do but watch this behemoth of a man move around his kitchen.
Our eyes meet when he faces me again, and I snap my mouth shut—because clearly I was this close to drooling—and I think…was he…?
Did his eyes do what I think they did?
No. No way. Anthony Hall isn’t interested in me. And I don’t think I’m interested in him. Not really. Unless I am.
That’s probably not the best idea since I’m going to spend the next few months working in his loft.
Eh, good ideas are overrated. Why be cautious when you’re twenty-four?
Okay, that’s such a lie. I have spent my entire life being cautious. Hard not to when you learn to wield a saw before you’re three feet tall. And being raised by an overprotective yet remarkably oblivious father who would sooner put me in a bubble than see me do anything that could harm me. Are those two things a little opposed to each other? Yes. But Jim Belle is a man of contradictions, and I am his unwilling victim.
It’s one of the many reasons I moved out of our house. That, and if I ever want to prove to him that I have what it takes to make it on my own, then I need to get out from under his wing.
“Water?”
“Huh?” Wow, Darcy. Excellent conversational skills.
“Would youlike some water?” Anthony holds the glass out for me. And it’s actual glass, too, nothing like the plastic cheap cups I got for five for a dollar at the Dollar General when I moved into the cottage behind Agatha.
I take it, admiring the pattern cut into it: one row of diamonds surrounded on both sides by smaller diamonds, then parallel lines cut around the glass for even more texture. It’s a dusty rose color, too, something I wouldn’t have placed in this man’s house if you held a nail gun to my head.
“Thanks.”
We drink and stare at each other for longer than is polite. When I realize what’s happening, I blink and look away.He clears his throat and busies himself with getting his own glass of water.
Have I mentioned how sexy smelling that beard oil was? And why am I thinking about it when I should be drinking my water and getting on with it?
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs? Working?” I emphasize the last word.
He tilts the glass up to empty it, and how is it that the man freaking swallowing is hot? Shit. I am unwell.
The glass hits the counter with a clink and his eyes narrow. “I told you, I wanted to check on things up here.”
I push off the counter and set my now-emptied glass in the sink. See? You may set your glass on the counter, but here I am, going one better and putting mine in the sink. So there. “You’ve checked. Now leave. I have things to do.”
I sway my hips more than strictly necessary as I walk away, confident he’s watching. I’m a curvy girl, and even in overalls, I’m well aware of what I’ve got to work with.
Behind me, I hear his grunt of frustration and bite back a smile. The man is beyond fun to irritate.
But also? I might want a little more than to just mess with him. He’s older than me—at least ten years, but maybe more, it’s hard to tell—but why not? He’s hot as hell, and something tells me he’d be a lot of fun in bed. Those tattooed arms wrapped around me as he flattened me into the mattress? Yes, please.
After he’s gone and I’m deep in concentration, measuring the space and brainstorming on how to make it cozy, my dad calls.
“Hey, Dad.” I put the phone on speaker and toss it onto the floor beside me. “What’s up?”
“Just checking on you.”
I bristle. What is it with these men and the need to check in on me? I’m not a child. “Everything’s fine. Doing the job.” It’s nearly impossible to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Good, good. How is it over there? Anthony being nice?”
“Anthony is working. Same as me.” When has this man ever wanted to be this involved? The answer is never. But in fairness, he’s never been the one to do any kind of interior work. He owns the hardware store. I’m the one who insisted on learning how to use damn near every tool in the store. I’m the one who insisted on building an infinite number of bird houses, then mailboxes, then flower boxes, and on and on, until I was smelling of sawdust instead of the beach like the rest of my grade school friends. I have never been on par with most people my own age—not when I was a kid, and certainly not now. “But it’s wide open and beautiful,” I answer. “Lots of space to do just about anything he’ll let me do.”
“When will you be coming by the store? I have some invoices I need your help with. The software’s giving me trouble.”
“I’ve shown you what to do, Dad. You have to pay attention next time.”
“Why pay attention when I know you’re going to do it?” he jokes.
Yeah, it’s not funny. I’ve explained that I’m working to get my own shop off the ground, but I don’t think he’s really let it sink in. Like, at all. I’ve always worked with Dad, and it was only recently that I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was time to branch off on my own. Not that I’m ready to do it just yet, and not that Dad’s ready to hear it.
Sighing, I say, “I’ll be there soon. I’m in the middle of things over here. Talk to you later.”