Chapter Eleven
Gemma
We’ve been kicked out.
Who knew exploring an old building could be so much fun? It was so much fun, in fact, that Two and I overstayed our welcome. It was nearly nine when Paula kindly asked us to go home.
“I think we should do a miniature replica,” Two says as he attempts for a third time in a row to get his car to start. “It will help the client visualize the outcome during our proposal. Plus, I’m skilled at this. No one else in our class will come close.”
“Like your Cedarwood model?”
“You remember me talking about that. Interesting.” The engine finally sputters to life and he glances my way, his face dimly lit by the glow of his dash lights. “You think that’s stupid or something?”
His voice is tight and defensive. When Two was in Hemingford Hall with me, he was a totally different person. Someone I enjoyed being around. Now he’s back to his usual prickly self.
“No,” I say with a sigh. “I wanted to see it. You shared your pictures with Mr. Pederson and sort of lit up when you spoke about it. I thought maybe—”
“You really want to see it?”
I smirk at him. “Yes. I want to see your model. There’s no ulterior motive, Two.”
“Fine. I’ll take you to it.”
My brows lift in surprise. “I get to see the real one? Not just a picture?”
“If we’re going to be partners in this project, you need to see what I’m capable of.” He glances my way as he backs out of the lot. “You can’t go into the house, though. If you have to pee, hold it.”
He’s definitely a strange, cantankerous man, but I’m slowly learning not to let it rattle me. Two just says whatever is on his mind, not caring how people interpret it. Me, on the other hand, care too much about what people think.
“I’ll hold my pee,” I promise, making a show of crossing my heart. “I’m excited to see this thing.”
He straightens at my words. As he drives, I can see the tease of a smile tugging at his lips. I know he wants to hate me, but he’s having trouble right now. That makes me stupidly happy like I achieved something truly difficult.
While we ride through town to his house, I shoot Mom a quick text to let her know I’m still working on the project with my partner but we’re moving locations.
My stomach growls when we pass by a fast-food joint. Two looks over at me and then checks his watch. The next restaurant we see, he pulls into the drive-through.
“I can eat later at home,” I tell him. “We don’t have to stop.”
“We both missed dinner. It’s fine. You have money, right?”
“As long as it’s under ten dollars, then yes.”
He whips his head my way. “All you have is ten dollars to your name? I saw your house. You’re loaded.”
“It’s not about that. I just don’t want to waste my money on food.”
“Food is never a waste of money.” He rolls his window down and looks at the lit-up menu board. “If you go over ten bucks, I’ll cover you.”
We tell the person on the speaker what we want and then I hand Two my crinkled-up ten-dollar bill. He shakes his head as though he can’t believe all I have is ten dollars.
“Do your parents not give you an allowance? What about a job? Do rich girls even have to get jobs?”
“I have a job,” I say dryly, swatting at his arm. “I’m not this girl you’ve painted me out to be. Honestly, I don’t understand what you have against me.”
He glances my way as he drives to the next window. “What is it?”
Just like when I talk about my job to my brothers, embarrassment washes over me. It’s not like Two will understand it. He’ll just give me a hard time about this too.
Luckily, I’m saved from answering as he pays for our food. Once he’s passed my drink and our bags over to me, we’re on the road again.
“Stripper?”
I almost choke on my sip of Pepsi. “W-What?”
He cackles with laughter, the sound pleasant enough I instantly forgive him. “You should see the look on your face. Do you have something against strippers?”
“No,” I grumble. “Ugh. Why are you so difficult?”
“It’s fun watching you squirm.”
I roll my eyes and take another refreshing sip of my drink. “If you absolutely must know, I’m a social media content creator. I have over a million followers.”
“Be for real.”
“I am being for real.” I pull out my phone and access my main account to show him. “See. Million-plus.”
He peeks over at my phone at the next stoplight. “They pay you to do what?”
“The followers don’t pay me anything,” I explain, trying not to bristle at his insinuation that it’s for something sinister. “Because of my reach and my original content, I’m approached by many brands to help me advertise for them. If the brand’s products align with my values and aesthetic, I entertain doing a collaboration with them. It has to be a good fit, though, and something I can easily incorporate into my usual content or I won’t do it. Before we met up, I signed two contracts for two grand each.”
Two gapes at me, not moving when the light turns green. Someone honks, zapping him out of his stupor. “Two thousand for what?”
“One is for a hair mask. They sent me some freebies to try. I absolutely loved how it made my hair feel. We’ve negotiated that I’ll do an ad for their product on my page and I’ll be compensated for it.”
“Two grand for a hair mask.” He shakes his head, voice filled with awe. “This is a legit thing? They’re not scamming you? Or are you scamming them?”
I snigger. “I’m not scamming anyone. And yes, it’s a legit thing. Welcome to the future, Two. So glad you could join us.”
He scratches at his cheek with his middle finger, which makes me grin. Though he’s still a complete asshole most of the time, I’m learning to navigate the treacherous depths of Two.
Our conversation is cut short when he pulls into a long driveway that takes us to an updated-looking farmhouse. I wish it were daylight so I could see it properly.
“My workshop is around back. We have to be quiet.”
We get out of his car with our food and drinks, and I follow him into the darkness on the side of the house. The moon illuminates a decent-sized shed. He has me hold his drink while he fiddles with the door.
“Ignore the mess,” Two says as he flicks on the light. “I do.”
As soon as I can see inside the shed, I’m in awe. Shelves line the walls and are covered with various tools, boards and textiles, and stacks of old magazines. There are several worktables, but one in particular seems to be the one that gets the most use as it’s the cleanest and has a model in progress sitting on top. Two leans over the table and flips on a space heater before returning to take his drink back from me.
“This is Cedarwood Mansion,” he says, motioning to the model. “I was in the middle of wallpapering when you texted.”
I set my drink and our food bags down on a clear spot on the table so I can take a closer look at the replica. The high level of detail on such a small thing instantly captivates me.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as I take it all in, “this is so cool.”
“Ideally, I’d have liked to repurpose materials found in Cedarwood for the replica, but the owners wouldn’t let me.”
“Rude,” I tease.
“That’s what I thought.” He picks up a thin piece of wood from the table. “Most of the material I use is leftover stuff from when my dads remodel places. They have a ton of stuff in their shop. Dad uses a lot for inspiration when he’s coming up with design ideas.”
The pride with which he speaks about his parents softens me toward him. I may complain about my family, but I love them dearly. They mean everything to me. It sounds as though he feels the same about his parents too. It makes me like him a little more.
“Do you think Paula will let us use stuff from Hemingford Hall for our replica?” I ask, turning to look at him.
He’s crouched near me, also taking in the sight of the model, so our faces are close—so close I notice flecks of dark green in his chilly gray eyes.
“We’re going to ask,” he says with a crooked grin. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll beg.”
We both grin before turning to inspect the piece some more. He goes through each part, showing me tiny details like the brass doorknob on the front with the initials CM carved on top.
“The real Cedarwood Mansion has this,” Two explains. “All of my replicas are as exact as they can be.”
“I love this,” I tell him, truly meaning it. “It’s so impressive and well thought out. You should be proud.”
He pulls back and refuses to meet my stare, shrugging. “Hungry?”
“Yup.” I stifle a sigh of frustration. Just when I thought we were making progress, he pulls away again. “Do you make the furniture and stuff too?”
He drags another stool over for me to sit down at. After he’s seated, we dig around in our bags, and once our burgers are out, he takes a huge bite of his, dropping shreds of lettuce all over his jeans. Messy, messy boy.
“I make everything,” he says around a mouthful of food. “Even the stuff that goes in the cupboards.”
I shove a napkin at him so he’ll deal with the ketchup on his lip. “Really? You must have tiny tools, huh?”
He nods, snatching up one of the little tools with his free hand. “The hardest part is finding the right tools for jobs like this. I’ve collected a lot of these over the years.”
“You should see my nail art arsenal.” As soon as I blurt it out, I freeze. Everyone in my family knows I do my own nail art, but it’s not something I tell my followers. They always ask where I go to get them done and I just tell them it’s a secret. My nail art is my hobby that feels sacred and something I don’t want to share with the world.
So why did I just tell Two about it?
“Nail art?” His eyebrow arches high.
“Yes,” I tell him with a smirk as I grab my phone. “This isn’t easy. It’s intricate and takes a lot of time. You of all people should get that.”
He takes my phone from my hand when I thrust it in his face and starts scrolling through the photo album. “You did all of these?”
“Yup.”
“Interesting.” He lifts his gaze for a moment, locking his intense eyes on mine. “What do your followers think of this?”
“They don’t know about it,” I mumble. “It’s my thing.”
“I share my thing with anyone who will listen to me about it,” he challenges. “Why don’t you show your zillion followers what you can do? It’s actually pretty good.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Because I’m not great at it. What if they think it’s stupid? What if they start expecting me to share about nail art all the time? Worse, what if they hate it and yell at me to share more makeup and hair stuff?”
“You really do worry about what others think. Just like the Enneagram website says.”
Oh great, we’re back to this.
“I guess I do.” I shrug my shoulders and sigh. “That’s dumb, right?”
“You said it, not me.” His grin is back. “Maybe I’ll let you do something on the replica since you’ve clearly got skills.”
I gape at him in mock surprise. “Ooh, I get to help on our project? You’re so generous, Two.”
He simply laughs, which makes my heart stutter a bit. Tonight feels like we’ve made progress. I actually had fun, too. Maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.