12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Dallas
“You’re coming, too?” I lean back in my office chair, a hand-me-down from Walter that is surprisingly comfortable. I just wish it fit the aesthetic I’m going for: gold accents, tones of pink to complement my dear, sherbet-colored office supplies, and some woven fabrics, like a throw in the perfect beige.
His mouth clenches as he shakes his head, then, “Integrity Construction is serious about safety, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be traipsing around the site alone at night.”
I consider pushing back but realize it’s a fool’s errand. “Okay then, I’ll meet you there. I don’t want it to take up my regular workday, but Beck, we can’t be finishing it up the day of the wedding. There are professional photos to take, inspections we have to pass. I could go on and on.”
He seems to measure my words, his jaw grating against itself. “I’m playing beach volleyball right after work. And then I’m coaching my neighbor’s kid’s team practice afterwards. But I’d be happy to swing by the mansion later. Say eight thirty?”
Seriously? He thinks he can take the time to go play on the beach? “Are you sure it’s wise to be playing volleyball at a time like this? I mean, I understand you have to coach but—”
“I’m not going to just not show up, Dallas.”
“We only have a couple of weeks to finish everything, Beck!” My voice wobbles. I hate it when that happens. “This is getting serious, and you think you get to go hang out with your friends like you’re all a bunch of beach bums?”
His cheeks redden. “This is important to me. Besides, taking a short break is only going to help me work faster when I get back over there. You should do something for yourself, too.” His gaze is judgey. Like he knows everything.
“And what do you think I should do? Go get a pedicure? That’s for after the wedding season’s over, Beck. I can’t afford that luxury right now. We are behind. How do you not realize that?”
He grunts and massages his temple. “I know it better than you do. I look at those timelines several times a day, figuring out how to make this work.” Now he’s talking with his hands, gesturing with his arms. “I know it’s tight, but we’ve got this. And I gave my word to my team that I’d be there tonight. I’m not missing my game.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mary says, appearing in the doorway next to Beck. She’s holding a big basket, her arm through the handle. “I just wanted to show Beck my crochet project before I leave for lunch.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I tell her as Beck stands.
I’m not mistaking the way his eyes light up as he looks over the contents of her basket. “It’s coming along,” he says, grabbing a mass of oatmeal-colored yarn and studying it. “Mary is a master crocheter,” he tells me.
“See? These are the sleeves.” She grasps one long column hanging from Beck’s hands and lifts the design up for me to see.
“Oh, now I can see the sleeves. They’re tiny,” I say.
“This is a sweater for her cat, Leif,” Beck tells me, his face serious. “She’s getting started on the Christmas presents early this year.”
“The cats aren’t going to complain about their gifts,” Mary says with a laugh. “It’s the grandkids who change their minds on what they like so often that I can’t start on projects for them until September or so.”
“But with the way Leif eats, he might grow out of this before Christmas,” Beck says, his eyes dancing.
Mary giggles. “Well, then I’ll just give it to the kitten, Mossimo.”
“Good plan,” Beck says, rummaging around the contents of her basket. “Here it is. She’s making me a Christmas gift, too.” He holds up a long panel of brightly colored crochet lines.
She snatches it out of his hands, jams it back into the basket, and turns away. “Beck, please. Did you used to find and open all your presents before Christmas?”
“Never,” Beck insists. He glances at me. “Mary’s made me things before.”
“I gave you a scarf after Chloe left,” Mary says, reaching up to pat his arm.
Beck grows stone still, his back straightening. I’d overheard a mention of a Chloe on my first day on the job and I’ve wondered who it was and what happened.
“Mary.” Beck’s voice is a low growl, subtle, but definitely a warning for her to stop talking.
She doesn’t. “Beck, Chloe leaving, although it wasn’t easy, was the right thing.” She seems to remember I’m standing right here and sighs. “Sorry. It’s a personal matter, so I won’t say more. Remember what I told you when I gave you the scarf? It takes time to heal, but you will.”
He swallows hard and licks his lips. “Thanks, Mary.” He’s good-natured about her sharing something awkward. It’s obvious it bothers him immensely, but he’s being kind about it.
“Because you brought up a painful subject,” Beck adds. “You have to show me my present.”
She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “I won’t. Besides, are you sure Chloe’s a painful subject for real? You know it was the right thing to break up.”
“Maybe the most painful part about it is everyone thinks it’s their business to analyze it and ask me about it every chance they get.” His eyes are blazing underneath the casual tone of voice and whisper of a smile on his face.
“Willow Cove loves ya, Beck. That’s all.” Mary pulls her basket closer to her. “Glad to know you don’t want to talk about it, though. Thanks for being honest about how you feel. I’ll try to stop bugging you.” She pats his shoulder and leaves my office, flicking a quick smile at me.
Seeing the way Beck was with Mary wasn’t surprising. I often hear them laughing at something they’ve said to each other when he’s passing through the reception area. But it’s adding complexity to an otherwise black and white situation here.
It’s cut and dried: whatever pull I sometimes feel to Beck has to be shoved under the mattress and hidden away like a wad of emergency cash. Therefore, he’s not supposed to be extra kind and attentive to ladies in their sixties. It messes with the algorithms of our whole dynamic.
“So? What did we decide?” he asks, lifting his amply muscular arm above his head to rest his hand casually on the top of the doorframe.
It’s hardly fair of him.
Still, there’s an undercurrent of nerves there, like he’s embarrassed about Mary bringing up his ex, Chloe.
It’s not like I can ask him about it, though, since he clearly doesn’t want anyone to be doing that, especially an outsider like me.
“I’ll see you there at eight thirty.” I stare at him. “Sharp.”
His gaze takes in my office, and I might have imagined it, but he breathes in deeply, maybe smelling the essential oils and potpourri blend I created myself. I lean back in my office chair. I do like how the décor is shaping up.
Sheer blush curtains, new tweed lamp shades, and throw pillows in various textures and shades of pink accent my display case of freeze-dried roses. Two of the four walls of my office contain racks and drawers of samples—every linen, trim, and greenery one can imagine and a fair amount of basic dress options—plus scrapbooks of even more. It’s paradise, really.
A paradise that has spilled over into Beck’s office, as well. I asked him the other day if I could store a rack of bridesmaids’ dresses in there. It took him a full twenty seconds of staring into space before he finally agreed. I honestly can’t tell if he doesn’t mind or if he’s one satin bolt away from death over it.
Speaking of death, I’ll defend my office décor to the grave. If the office space in which you’re meeting with clients isn’t on-brand, you can kiss your opportunities goodbye.
And I need opportunities. I need a barrel full of them. I’m cautiously optimistic about the bookings I’ve managed to get so far. I’m also in shock about them because nobody in Atlanta waits until a couple of months before their wedding to secure a venue. But I guess Willow Cove has a different approach. So there’s some hope that I just might be able to pull in enough revenue for the mayor to give me a glowing recommendation to Amore.
Shoshana told me if I take another job and lie low for a while, the Clancys and the Bozzellis might forget all about it and won’t care if I come back.
So that’s the plan. With every wedding I do here in Willow Cove, I’ll remind Shoshana what she’s missing. I’ll show her I’ll never let my personal life affect my ability to get the right cake sent to the correct wedding again. I’ll prove myself to her.
I have to figure this out. I have to, have to, have to figure this out. So why do I keep imagining Beck in beach volleyball shorts for the rest of the afternoon?
*****
It’s fine.
All good.
Beck and I will be hanging out in this huge mansion all by ourselves tonight, probably in semi-darkness because I doubt they’ve finished installing the lighting package yet. That doesn’t mean anything untoward is going to happen. Certainly no hugging to see if I could make it as a professional hugger.
I refuse to have a crush on Beck, okay?
Beck. The man who is infuriatingly behind in this project and can’t seem to fathom why I’m so concerned. He also happens to disagree with me much of the time.
Which is why it’s frustrating that I get a little thrill in my stomach when I see his huge pickup truck parked on the road in front of the mansion. It’s just dirty enough for it to be impressive that he works so hard without it being gross.
Calm down, Dallas.
I let Holden scatter my path through The Plan and look where that led me.
I jump out of my car, all business. To his credit, Beck seems to be a genuinely good person. Everybody likes Beck. And he doesn’t want anything to do with me.
Except, when I walk in, he’s there in the grand entry and he takes a longer than usual look at me.
“Nice sweats.”
Yes. I wore heather gray sweats, like I’m Sylvester Stallone in Rocky . I wore them mostly because I’m likely going to be cleaning tonight. But also, a small part of me chose sweats to purposely make me feel more frumpish than womanly. It’s the equivalent of refusing to shave your legs before a date as a safety precaution—a way to ensure you won’t do anything you’d regret.
It’s not bad hygiene. It’s standard operating procedure for single ladies everywhere.
“Thank you,” I say brightly, looking down at my scuffed-up Vans taking me into even more solid we’re-just-colleagues territory. “How was volleyball?”
Before he can answer, he closes the door behind me and flips on the light overhead.
“Oooh. That chandelier does not disappoint.” It’s large, fitting the scale of the vaulted ceiling. The delicate, brass palm leaves fit the beachy vibe, yet the size of it adds an austere, high-end feel. “It’s appropriately understated, yet whimsical.” I spin slowly, my face turned up to the ceiling. “Perfect for this place. Did you pick it out?”
“That’s exactly the idea. And Martha Dobbs picked it out.” Beck grins. “Volleyball was awesome. We won.” He says it so matter-of-factly. Then he sobers and nods. “And the kids I’m coaching are going to be pretty good.”
“I almost joked about them being good only because you’re their coach, but I won’t feed any flames of arrogance.”
“Good,” he tosses back. “And if I ever start acting arrogant about beach volleyball, kick me, okay?”
“You’d give me permission to kick you? I like the sound of that.”
“Ha. Ha.” He looks at the box I’m holding and then reaches to take it from me. “So again, the purpose of this outing is to…?”
“Look. This space is all I have. I can’t recommend a variety of venues to my brides like I’m used to doing. So I just thought that instead of scratching off all my nail polish in sheer boredom while watching the Barbie animated movies all night, I’d see if there was anything I could do to speed the process along.”
“Wow. Okay. There’s a lot I could say.” He snatches my hands to see that I have indeed been peeling off my manicure.
It’s a disgusting habit. Atlanta Dallas wouldn’t have done it. Atlanta Dallas had her life together.
I fight the pull to go into wistful mode right now about my former self and instead try to snatch my hand away. He holds onto it even tighter. “I like the natural look.”
“Natural? Is that a nice way of saying feral? Or like I’m a kid? Cause that’s how I feel.” I reclaim my fingers from his and try to brighten with a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m going to fix it before I meet with clients tomorrow.”
“And the Barbie movies?”
“Just childhood nostalgia. That’s all. They’re actually amazing movies.”
He chuckles. “Never seen them.” He uses a lever to take the top off the bucket of paint.
“You’re missing out,” I say in a teasing voice.
“You’ve been bored here?” Beck asks. “As a Willow Covian, that makes me sad.”
“That’s me.” I laugh. “Sad.” I’m saying it with a smile, since I have to fight that stigma of the uptight, bossy, obsessive wedding planner.
Am I an uptight, bossy, obsessive wedding planner?
Yes. Doesn’t mean I want other people to know that.
A loud bark comes from the kitchen, and I’m accosted with all sorts of wild thoughts simultaneously.
“Is there a wild dog infestation in here?” I ask, only half kidding, widening my stance, feeling my eyes grow large.
Beck chuckles. “I had to bring my dog. He’s in his crate in the kitchen.”
“You missed him too much after working a long day?”
“I brought him to volleyball with me and afterwards he was acting mopey, extra tired. I wanted to keep an eye on him.”
“Well, are you going to introduce me to the beast or what?”
A slow smile spreads across Beck’s face. “Of course.”
I follow him into the kitchen and the golden retriever is chomping at the bit to be let out of his crate. He gets some attention from Beck after being let out and then trots over to me. I hold out my fist so he can sniff and then tentatively place a hand on his reddish-gold head. He swipes his tongue out to lick me before I can do anything about it.
“You sneaky guy, stealing a kiss like that.” I say with a laugh.
There’s a slight air of wonder to his voice. “He likes you.”
“I’m starting to gain a reputation amongst the animals of Willow Cove. First the llama and now your dog?”
“His name is Ace.”
I get down on my knees and meet Ace’s gaze. “Nice to meet you, Ace.” The dog yelps and then spins in a circle. He starts running down the back hallway. He spins again, furiously, and then paws at the back door, the one that leads straight to the beach.
“He must have to go relieve himself really badly,” I say.
“Probably not. He’s just dramatic.”
We reach the back door, and the dog shoots out and toward the sand, immediately stopping his whining. He does a slow trot, gazing around the scene like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“He really doesn’t have to go?”
Beck rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you, he just had a hankering for playing on the beach. He was trying to make us think he was going to have an accident.”
“What a drama queen.”
“Exactly,” Beck says, but his grin tells me he doesn’t mind too much.
Once we get Ace settled back in his crate after a pseudo-strict talking to by Beck to stop crying wolf, we’re ready to work.
“Want to paint?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, but something tells me you do, so let’s go for it.”
“I like that you’re beginning to catch my vision here, Beck. That’s very smart of you.”
“Both my dog and my co-worker are opinionated, huh?”
“Someone has to be.” I pat his shoulder and resist the urge to linger on his well-defined delts. “Let’s paint the bedrooms.”
He shoots out a quick breath. “But we need to paint this area first. No one’s going to see the bedrooms until later into the summer.”
“Beck. I’ll know the bedrooms aren’t done and it will bug me. Come on. We’ll crank out the bedrooms tonight and then paint the great room tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What makes you think I’m available tomorrow?” He shakes his head as his eyes flick around the room. “And what makes you think we can paint multiple rooms in one night? Have you ever painted before?”
“Of course I’ve painted before.” This man. “And how can you not be available tomorrow? This has to get done.”
“We’re not worrying about the bedrooms right now, though.”
I grab the five-gallon bucket, and though it’s heavy, I’d rather die than let him see that I’m having a hard time carrying it. “We’re worrying about everything, Beck.”