5. Darcy
Chapter 5
Darcy
I T’S THE FIRST Saturday in June, and on any other normal time, I’d be making plans with my bestie Amanda to pack up and spend the entire day at the beach. But because I’m determined to get this project done on time and on budget, I’m letting myself into Hall’s Balls far too early in the day for the place to be open. Earlier even than I’ve come during the week, because I woke up early and figured I may as well get this done.
Obviously, Anthony did not give me a key to the main building. Obviously, I already had one from working at the town’s only hardware and key-making store. We have copies of all the merchant’s keys, which is probably weird, but it’s been this agreed-upon thing for so long that I rarely stop to think about it.
Making a note to figure out why Anthony’s fire escape door wasn’t one of the keys we had to copy, I open the door leading up to his loft. It’s dark in the small hallway, which makes sense; the only light fixture is from the loft. Which needs to be fixed, and it’s so easy to do that I add it to my list.
Knocking on the door, I wait for any kind of answer: a grunt, a yell, or, even better, a door opening and a smiling Anthony waiting on the other side.
Yeah, that’s delusional.
I try again, but after no response, I finally try the knob. It’s open. Stepping over the threshold, I determine that he’s probably not even here. With the way that man looks, he’s probably running on the beach like a madman. Or lifting weights in the corner of the loft with earbuds in and music so loud he’d never hear me.
I’m a few steps in and heading toward the kitchen when the floor shakes with footsteps. I turn, and there’s Anthony.
Almost entirely naked.
Wrapped only in a white towel that hangs low and loose on his hips, showing off that delicious dip between hip and heaven.
Holy. Fuck.
I shouldn’t stare. I should absolutely look away, but there is no way I’m doing that. Not even close. I couldn’t stop gaping at him if I tried.
I might be drooling.
His arms are covered in tattoos that go up and over his front shoulders, gracing his unbelievably huge chest as they give way to a thin layer of dark hair. And so help me, I have never thought a hairy chest was sexy, but I’m changing my mind effective immediately. The magnitude of him, the sheer breadth of him, is on full display as he stops and regards me, an expression of surprise flitting across his face moments before he schools it into something else.
“Miss Belle,” he smirks. He smirks .
Wait. Is Anthony Hall actually…flirting with me? No way. He would never.
Unless he would.
“I…” Yep, still unable to talk. Good job by me.
“Quit staring,” he snaps, his voice sharp but also…hot?
I shake my head, forcing myself out of the near-catatonic state his body put me in, and blink rapidly. “Sorry.” My cheeks are on fire. Why is it that sometimes I feel completely in control of the conversation with him, and other times, I’m absolutely on my metaphorical back?
Not that I wouldn’t mind him putting me on my physical back.
He resumes his path toward the bedroom, calling out as he goes, “You should be.”
I press my hands to my face, desperate to cool off. I can’t believe I just saw what I saw. I can’t believe I stared at him like a total pervert. I can’t believe how fucking hot he is.
“Coffee’s made.” His voice carries easily across the expanse. “May as well pour yourself a cup since you’re helping yourself to everything else in my house.”
Shit. I know he’s trying to embarrass me, and in many ways it’s working. My pride won’t quit, though, so pour a cup of coffee I do. Maybe the scalding temperature will get me back in a working state of mind. But when he emerges from his bedroom and finds me in the kitchen, clad in gray sweatpants and a ratty white T-shirt, I nearly sink to my knees.
The man is entirely unfair.
He’s. Wearing. Gray. Sweatpants. Come. On .
A gleam of something approaching playfulness sparks in his eyes. “Figured I may as well help you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to break into my home at seven a.m. on a Saturday morning, but here we are,” he shoots back.
I throw my shoulders back. Nope. He’s not making me feel bad about this. “I’m committed to getting this done. On time and on budget.”
He snorts an amused laugh, but it’s not unkind. “Darcy. The only time a project is done on time is if the person lies about how long it’s going to take in the first place. And even then, it’s up for grabs.”
“Not on my watch.” God, I hope I can stick to that.
“Uh-huh.” His eyes dance over the rim of a coffee cup. “What are we doing today, boss?”
Boss? I swallow. Guess we’re really doing this. Fuck me. Here’s hoping I don’t slice a finger off with as distracted as he’s going to make me. “First, we get some music going.” I take the speaker out of my tote, followed by my phone.
“Oh no,” he says, stepping forward. “I’m in charge of the music today.” He pulls his phone out of his sweatpants—and thank God, because they were threatening to slide lower and I’m not sure if I could have behaved enough to keep my eyes to myself. No idea if he’s wearing underwear with those pants, but if he is, they’re not doing much to, um, contain him. Because…yeah.
It’s hot in here.
In moments, he’s paired his phone with the speaker and the sound of Noah Kahan streams out. It’s a perfect complement to the overcast weather outside, and I can’t stop the look of surprise on my face.
“What?”
I grin. “Nothing. Just…didn’t take you for a Noah Kahan fan.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Darcy. Despite snooping through my medicine cabinet.” He winks and turns away, leaving me gaping after him.
Holy shit . He’s funny and playful. I have never seen this side of him. And then I realize something else: He’s talking . Like, not just speaking in one-word sentences or grunting at me when I ask something. Talking.
Also—he totally knows I went snooping in his medicine cabinet. Whoops.
With another sip of my coffee—which is delicious, by the way, he had the perfect creamer and I knew exactly where the sugar was—I hustle after him. “We’re installing trim today.”
He nods, his gaze finding the stack of custom trim I’ve spent the past week making in the few spare hours I have between this job and helping Dad at the store. “Over there?”
“Yep.”
His long stride eats up the distance as he nears the stack, then pulls one out to look at it. “I don’t know shit about this stuff, but this doesn’t look like store-bought.”
I don’t bother hiding my smile. “Because I made it.” Stepping closer, I say, “That’s a larger trim than you’d find in a normal store. Trim is a total luxury for a space this huge, but I knew I could do it for a good price, and I thought it’d go a long way towards making it feel homey. Getting up there to install it is another thing entirely, so I’m actually glad you decided to help today. That way, I don’t have to fear for my life when I go up this ten-foot ladder.”
But he’s staring at me when I turn back to him. “You…made this?”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s not like it’s hard.”
His eyes bug out. “It’s hard, Darcy. It’s very hard. Don’t put yourself down like that.”
Damn him. Because that makes me feel things I shouldn’t. Things like him being more than hot. Things like, I could really be into this man, and that’s a bad idea.
Such a bad idea.
“You ready?” I say instead. “We’ll start in the kitchen. That’s the smallest area and we’ll feel like we’re really accomplishing something once it’s done.”
Without waiting on an answer, I get set up, strapping my tool belt around my waist and looking up in time to catch a hint of something in his eyes that I can’t quite place. Does Anthony have a tool girl kink?
Scratch that. The man is significantly older than me. He’s guaranteed to have kinks I probably don’t even know exist.
“You’re going to hold the ladder while I get up there, then hand me the first piece when I ask, okay?”
He nods wordlessly. Which is good.
I shimmy up the ladder, forcing myself to forget everything except the job at hand, and position myself in the perfect spot to nail the first piece of trim. “Hand it up.”
A long, five-foot piece of trim comes into view as I pop some nails between my lips. Grabbing it, I nestle the wood into place and keep it steady with one hand, then pull my nail gun out of my tool belt with my other. One well-placed aim later, the first nail is in. I stretch to the right to get the next nail in, then reach the opposite way to get the third. That’s enough to keep the trim in place while I move positions, so I put the gun in my belt and climb down.
“Let’s move to the right,” I instruct Anthony, who’s remained incredibly quiet during this entire portion of the morning. He does as requested, and we repeat the pattern. In no time at all, we’ve got the kitchen done.
“There.” With no small amount of satisfaction, I stand back to inspect my work. The trim is tight against the ceiling, the nails invisible to the eye from down here already, and of course, I’ll putty over them to smooth the surface before they get painted.
“Looks good,” Anthony remarks. “How long would it have taken you without me here?”
“Longer,” I laugh. “That’s all you need to know. Ready for more?”
His eyes flash, and I swear he’s thinking something dirty. “Sure.”
“Time for a music change, though.” I throw on an 80s mix, and his lip curls in amusement.
“How old do you think I am, Darcy?”
Laughing as I make my way to the next area of the loft we’re going to focus on, I answer, “Your age has nothing to do with what I chose to put on. I like this music. But for the record, I have no idea. Fifty? Fifty-three?” I’m ribbing him, and when I turn to him, his jaw is wide open.
“What?” he sputters. “You don’t honestly think I’m that old, do you?”
I grin. “I don’t know, Mr. Hall. Why don’t you tell me?”
There goes that flash of heat in his eyes again. I think he hates me calling him that because he loves me calling him that. Wonder what would happen if I called him Daddy?
“I’m forty-one.” He delivers it in a gruff voice, as if he’s both proud of the number but also maybe a bit embarrassed.
“Forty’s a great decade,” I shoot back. “Or so I’ve heard from my grandfather.”
His mouth quirks, and something suspiciously like a laugh comes out when he says, “You little brat.”
I should get an award for how diligently I ignore the almost-smile, the almost-laugh, and the word he used. Because my insides just turned to lava. “C’mon. Bring the ladder over here.” I point him in the direction I want, then head to grab more trim.
Forty-one years old. He’s seventeen years older than me.
It’s way hotter than it should be.