Chapter 6
HOLLY
It’s late afternoon by the time I leave my next client’s apartment.
This one is a sleek downtown space with polished concrete floors and a couple who don’t agree on much, but at least they both trust me.
Which, let’s be honest, is what really matters.
We’re actually ahead of schedule, a rare event, and I’m riding that high all the way to the train.
There’s still one wall left to paint: a full mural, hand-done by Marcia Bailey, the artist I bring in when I want jaws to drop.
The clients chose a jungle. When their little one arrives, he’ll fall asleep and wake up protected by friendly tigers, playing elephants and a cozy wilderness full of other creatures.
I love that. A whole little world waiting for him and keeping him company before he can even crawl.
Back at the office, I step into the mess I left behind. Carpet samples are still stacked across my keyboard, so I toss them to the side and fire up my computer. It’s barely blinking to life when my phone screen lights up.
Incoming FaceTime.
Shelby.
“You would not believe the week I’ve had. Absolute crap.” She lifts her mug. “Are you still working? I’m already in pajamas.”
“Some of us still have daylight,” I say, glancing out at the sun dipping low over the street.
“Good point. Anyway, darling, how are you?”
“I’m good.”
Apparently not convincing, because she narrows her eyes. “Are you? You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“That look. The one that says ‘I’m totally fine, except actually I’m spiraling quietly in my designer chair.’ Out with it.”
“You could have just said hi.”
“Hi. Now spit it out.”
I hesitate for half a second.
“I asked Dexter.”
Shelby’s jaw drops. “You did not. What on earth did he say? Did he run for the hills?”
“Nope. He took it like Dexter always does. Calm. Thoughtful. Slightly over-logical.”
“And?”
“And he said yes.”
Her squeal almost bursts my eardrums. “Well of course he did! He’d be a complete idiot to say no. Oh, Holly! You’re going to be a mum!”
“Hold on. We still have to figure out the details. It’s not all set in stone.”
“But still.” Her eyes shine. “That’s a big step forward.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It really is.”
“You know what? This is one of those rare times when you’re absolutely allowed to be over the moon. This is huge. I know how much you want this. You’re allowed to be happy.”
“I am happy, Shelby. It’s just… there are a lot of moving pieces here. Once Dexter and I get to sit down and talk everything through face-to-face, I’ll feel better.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, of course not.”
Shelby raises an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”
Truth is, I’m dying.
“Maybe a little. Is it working?”
“Not even a little bit.” Her grin turns sly. “To be honest, I don’t know how you’ve resisted this long. You can call it practical all you want, but men like Dexter don’t exactly stay in the ‘just friends’ box forever.”
“Please. Dexter’s been in that box for decades. We’re adults. He’s seen me at my worst. I’ve seen him at his. We can handle this.”
“Careful now. Fate’s got a wicked sense of humor.” She laughs and adds, “Kidding. You’ll be fine. Change can be good, you know.”
“Exactly. Change can be good. You’re right.”
She cups a hand to her ear. “Sorry darling, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you say it again?”
I roll my eyes. “You. Are. Right.”
Shelby raises an eyebrow. “Finally. Took you long enough. Shame I didn’t record it really. Would have made a lovely ringtone.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Don’t you dare.”
“I bet he’s amazing in bed.” I stare at her, trying to work out how we leapt to this particular topic. She wiggles her eyebrows and sips from her mug. “Hot. Passionate. Fierce.”
Against my better judgment, I ask, “What makes you so sure?”
“Do you really want me to tell you?”
Shelby is thirty-three, and she’s been around enough men—husbands, colleagues, pushy school dads, you name it—to develop this unnerving sixth sense about men.
Married for years, a teacher even longer, her radar is frighteningly accurate, that is, unless her own feelings are involved.
Then it goes completely offline. She may have missed a few signs in her own marriage, but when it comes to everyone else, she spots red flags (or their bedroom potential) before they’ve even said hello. And yes, she’s smug about it.
“Fine. Go ahead,” I say. “Ruin my ability to look him in the eye.”
“His energy. It’s beastly. Pure sex. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Is it?”
“Body awareness is body awareness, darling. The way he moves, the way he holds himself. Men who are clumsy in everyday life don’t suddenly turn graceful behind closed doors.
It’s obvious within seconds whether a man has it or not.
Dexter absolutely does. He isn’t calm by accident.
It’s his beast sitting quietly and behaving.
Watch the way he touches anything and tell me you don’t feel it. ”
I swallow. “Really.” I snap back to reality. “Well, good thing it doesn’t matter. We won’t be having hot, passionate, or fierce sex. It’ll be quick. Functional. Reproductive. Clothes on… mostly. No kissing. No strings. No heartbreak. Just a clean, one-time, one-minute... thing.”
“A clean one-minute thing?”
“Maybe less than that.”
Shelby stares like I’ve grown three heads. “And he agreed to that?”
“Well... sort of. I mean, he didn’t object. And I made the rules clear.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“You do realize he’s a guy, don’t you? With, you know, a cock?”
“Yes, Shelby, I’m aware of his anatomy. That’s kind of the point.”
“Right. So what are these so-called rules?”
“Two things: No kissing. No controlling me or my life.”
Shelby blinks. “No kissing? You absolute weirdo. I bet he’s a spectacular kisser.”
“Shelby! Stop planting these pointless thoughts in my head. He’s a friend. That’s it. There’s nothing romantic here. That’s why he’s perfect for this procedure.”
“Uh-huh. Procedure.”
“Also, he’s not a spectacular kisser. He’s got dimples.”
Shelby has never been a fan of my “men with dimples can’t kiss” theory, though she can’t fully disprove it either, since none of the men she’s been with have had them.
Dexter does. Which means, he sucks at kissing. Not open to debate.
She just rolls her eyes. “Still clinging to that old chestnut, are we?”
I groan and let my head drop into my hands. “Stop talking. I’m begging you.”
“You started it,” she says sweetly. “I’m just here, sipping my tea and blessing you with insight.”
“Shelby,” I warn.
“Holly,” she mimics, tone syrupy. “I’m just trying to support your deeply unconvincing plan to have perfunctory sex with your hot best friend.” She makes air quotes.
“You’re not supporting. You’re mocking.”
“Call it what you like, darling. But let’s be honest: You’ve chosen the hottest possible donor. No shame in that.”
I take a deep breath to recenter myself. “Okay, enough of that. Let’s talk about you.”
We shift gears, chatting for a bit about her week, her three kids, the little things she’s planning to lift their spirits this weekend, and our plans for the private kindergarten we dream of opening together.
As proud as I am of how far Bishop Interior Design has come, I’m excited to step back for a while and build something new, with my sister, no less.
If any projects need finishing while I’m overseas, I’ll loop in Kenzie.
We survived design school together, and both swore off bosses, so trust me, she’s tough.
We’ve covered for each other before: When one of us is swamped, the other steps in.
Clients love her, and she knows exactly how I work.
And when I return from London, whether that’s in two years or five, I know I’ll be able to pick things up right where I left off.
Time slips by us, and when I finally glance at the clock, I jump.
“Shit, I’ve gotta run,” I say, already grabbing my purse. “Dexter wants to meet for dinner at his place.”
“Ooh, romantic.”
“Shut it.” I laugh as I leave the office, locking the door behind me.
“Don’t keep me waiting. I want every awkward detail.”
“Speaking of awkward. Try not to terrorize the school board again this week. You’re not technically on staff anymore, remember?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Not yet, but soon.”