6. Sutton #3
“Um, yes,” I push away my nerves and put on a confident face. “I’ve actually been planning to start a remodeling and interior design department. I’d love to help people find a great home, even if it’s a fixer, then help transform it to the home of their dreams.”
“That’s wonderful, Sutton!” Mrs. Weeks says.
“Do you have any experience with this type of thing?” Mr. Weeks asks.
I step around the small kitchen island, bracing my hands on the edge. “Technically, no. However, I’ve helped my mom renovate her house from top to bottom. And,” I take a deep breath, “Hunter recently hired me to work on his house.”
I guess I will be renovating Hunter’s house after all.
“Oh, really?” Mr. Weeks says. “Good for you. You sure have given us a lot to consider. Would it be okay for the wife and I to take the weekend to discuss it and get back to you on Monday?”
“Yes, of course,” I say even as I’m trying to contain the sudden need to jump up and down. “Should we head out?”
The storm arrived earlier than predicted, and a torrential downpour greets us when we step onto the wide porch. The Weeks wave and dash to their car, kicking up water and mud in their escape.
I step up to the porch railing, breathing in the rain-fresh air.
I smooth my hands over the balustrade, paint chipping each time I run them in the opposite direction.
Although a painted railing looks nice, I know a natural wood one will look amazing, especially against a fresh coat of white paint, maybe Aegean blue shutters.
I’m getting ahead of myself. The Weeks said they’d think about it, but it sure is fun playing what if.
But the one project I know for sure I’ll be taking on—Hunter’s.
I didn’t jump at the chance to renovate it because working side by side with Hunter every day feels like a terrible idea. Too much time together. Too many chances for the simmering heat between us to erupt.
Now hiding my feelings from him seems ridiculous, even if admitting them risks everything we’ve managed to hold onto.
The rain is still falling in sheets from the steep roof. There’s no way I’m going out in that mess, so I head inside and grab my sketchbook.
The dining room is the perfect shade of overcast, blinds fully open, framing the stormy sky.
My fingers itch to draft. It wouldn’t hurt to have preliminary sketches in the event they decide to go through with the project and hire me as the designer.
If they want a bed-and-breakfast, I’ll show them exactly what it means to have a Sutton Bradley design.
Later, a rumbling engine startles me from my thoughts.
I reach for my phone and tap the screen.
My eyes widen, shocked that an entire morning has passed by.
I lean back in the chair, my spine popping and muscles pulling.
I rub my hands, smiling to myself as I look down at my work.
From where I’m seated, I spy a certain Ford truck midway up the large dirt driveway.
I check for any missed texts or phone calls, but instead see the SOS in the upper right corner.
No wonder it’s been so blessedly quiet. Hunter’s truck, normally pristine with its white and red paint job, splashes through giant puddles.
The closer he gets, the more mud I see caked into the wheel wells, on the tires, and all over the side of his truck.
He’s going to have a hell of a time getting it clean.
I step onto the front porch just as he’s opening his door.
“Hey, babe,” he says, stepping out of his truck. He sidesteps muddy grass patches and jogs up to the house. By the time he makes it to the porch’s safety, his jeans are splattered, and his shirt is plastered to his chest. I swallow the lump in my throat.
This man has had the same style for most of our lives.
Where I live for fashion, he lives for simplicity.
In fact, I’ve rarely seen Hunter in anything except Wranglers, a pearl snap shirt—tucked in of course—and his cowboy boots and hat.
He likes what he likes, and that’s the end of it. Just so happens I’m a fan.
“What are you doing here?” I smooth my hands down the front of my pants and unkempt blouse.
“I asked you to keep in touch. When I didn’t hear from you, I got worried.” He takes off his hat, shakes the water from it, and hangs it on a rusty hook. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”
His eyes rake down the front of my body, lingering on my slightly untucked shirt and stopping on my bare feet. I’m glad he can’t see the gooseflesh now covering me from head to toe at his proximity.
“Am I interrupting?” He steps back, hands on his hips.
I scrunch my eyes, looking left, then right. “What are you talking about?”
“You look . . .” He gestures down my body.
“What?”
I look down. What is he seeing that I’m not? With each passing second, the nervous flutters in my belly intensify. This is exactly why we should have never crossed that invisible boundary between us. I knew it would change how things have always been between Hunter and I.
“Just spit it out,” I snap, crossing my arms protectively over my chest.
A devilish smirk transforms his whole face. He leans against the railing, braces his hands on his hips, and crosses his feet at the ankles.
“You look freshly fucked.”