14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Beck
It’s the best of times. It’s the worst of times.
Besides the obvious, that Ace somehow got out of his crate last night—yeah, I probably didn’t latch it tight—and knocked over the bucket of paint, leaving wreckage everywhere he stepped.
It was good that it was the sub floor and not the actual floors. I turned on the hose around the back of the house and got Ace sprayed down, with Dallas’s help. And then I got a power vac from my warehouse across town and cleaned up all the paint, again with Dallas’s help.
I kept telling her she should go home and let me finish the cleanup, but she insisted on staying. Honestly, I don’t know how I would have cleaned up all that paint without her.
Being around Dallas so much has me feeling things. And those feelings? Well, they’re pretty much the worst.
They’re the worst because they don’t make any sense. She is controlling and bossy and does not feel the same about me. Besides, my love life has already been the subject of too much public scrutiny. Six months ago, I decided I wouldn’t put myself in that position of vulnerability again.
My life is just fine without a woman in it. Period.
Dallas and I couldn’t be more different from one another. She’s itching to leave town. As soon as she gets the chance, she’ll be back in Atlanta where she wants to be.
And now her anxiety over the looming deadline has gotten in my head and I’m anxious about it, too. And maybe the other reason has a little something to do with the way she looks in her dowdy sweatpants, her dark red hair tied up in a crazy knot on the top of her head. A knot that won’t stay put to save her life, so she always has these flyaways that cling to her neck and jaw.
Yeah. Okay. I probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that.
I shouldn’t be noticing how kind she is to everyone at Integrity Construction. The only people she’s hard on are herself and me.
And I shouldn’t notice that she smells good. The way she smells does to me what the scent of pizza in the air does to a perennially starving college freshman.
Not that she herself smells like pizza. It would probably make things easier if she did. I’m just saying that there’s something in the Dallas-Olivia-Cardon magic and no amount of common sense will change my mind on it.
And she can’t know about any of it.
We’re painting in the second bedroom tonight, and Ace is definitely not here, the sludge of paint sticking to the wall from the roller the only sound…except for the ocean waves. Why didn’t I try to persuade her to paint the great room instead—a much larger, open space where I don’t have to be inundated with her tropical scent?
Oh, that’s right. Because I like to torture myself.
“You have plans for this weekend?” she asks me, wearing her gray sweats again with a matching top.
It’s an innocent enough question, something the cashiers at the grocery store ask every customer eight and up. But suddenly, I have images in my mind of hanging out, playing volleyball in the sand, maybe even driving into Wilmington for a nice dinner at Calla Lily.
And in very poor form, all those images have Dallas front and center.
“Yardwork, holding volleyball practice with Leo’s team, and Sunday dinner with my family.” I will my voice to sound as nonchalant as possible. “How about you?”
“I’ll be getting caught up on work. I’m creating some digital sample books for clients to see so they can choose their linens and flowers and things like that.”
“You work a lot.” I glance over at her as we paint. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Hmm. Never heard that one before,” she says with a smirk.
“Sorry, but it’s true.”
“You’re one to talk. Look what you’re doing, after already working all day.”
“I blame you. I can’t let you do this by yourself,” I say. “You’re doing a good job. I just feel bad you have to spend your time doing something that’s not using your skills to their advantage. You should be spending your time making your sample books, not painting.”
She stops rolling the paint and turns to me. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way. This needs to get done, so I’m getting it done.”
There’s a speckle of paint on her cheek and without thinking, I move to dab it off with my thumb. Her skin is soft and tender under my thumb, which is roughened from my construction work. She blinks rapidly before closing her eyes against my touch. A beat passes and her eyes are open again.
She laughs. “Paint splatter, I take it?”
I press a little harder with my thumb, and I’m finally able to get it off. “Not anymore.” I drop my hand, and she touches her cheek with hers.
“Thanks,” she says, with a brief smile.
“I won’t blame you for my own decision to come here,” I tell her. “Sorry.”
“Blame shifting? You should follow my mother on social media. She makes graphics and videos explaining mental health.” She gives up a little giggle. “It’s her new hobby.”
“I’m not on social media.” Although getting to know Dallas’s mom that way sounds interesting.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Her voice is laced with annoyance.
“Why do you sound disappointed in that?”
“Well, why do you care what I think?”
See? I tell my brain. She’s impossible. “Obviously, I don’t because I’m not on social media, so I’m not trying to get a bunch of likes and subscribes.” I roll my eyes.
“Social media has its place,” she says. “In fact, I’ll have you know that it’s because of the mansion Instagram page that I’ve booked a wedding for September just today. Only one more wedding to go for us to be fully booked. They found us because of the hashtags I used and photos of the place. Social media for the win.”
“Maybe it’s just you for the win.”
A smile tips up the corners of her mouth. It’s cute when she feels proud of herself.
After staring at me, she lifts a shoulder. “I’ll take it.”
An hour later, after deciding it’s not quite time to do the second coat on the first bedroom we painted last night, we put our rollers in the paint savers and call it a night.
As we leave out the front doors, Dallas smacks her forehead. “Wait. I can’t leave quite yet.” She throws a look behind her and hesitates. “But you go ahead. I’ll just walk around back from the outside and take care of something really quick.”
“I’m not gonna leave until you do.”
“It’s fine,” she says, her gaze following the pathway that wraps around the house.
“I can’t just let you traipse around back in the dark.”
“Just because I didn’t grow up near a beach doesn’t mean I’m going to get myself killed out there. There are plenty of lights on. I’ll be fine.”
She steps off the grand porch and starts to follow the inlaid brick path along the mansion.
There’s no sense arguing with her, so I only follow her at an appropriate distance. She looks back at me as she winds her way around. At the second toss of a look from her, this one with a deep scowl, I grunt out a laugh.
“Sorry to get your britches in a tangle, Dallas, but I’m only being the gentleman my mama taught me to be, okay?”
“I’m fine,” she insists.
“The beach at night, especially in this remote area, isn’t safe for anyone to be alone. Anyone. I’m not being sexist, and I’m not being controlling.” I jog a couple of steps to catch up with her, but then she stops to take her sneakers and socks off. “I’m just letting you know that you don’t know the rules around here, so I thought I’d help you out, that’s all.”
“I’m not a beach bunny, but trust me, I’m—” She stops herself, letting her shoulders droop. “There’s no sense in arguing with you. I can tell it won’t work and I’ll only get even more angry than I already am.”
I throw my head back. “She can be taught, ladies and gentlemen!”
She snorts and shakes her head, dropping her shoes and socks in the sand. I fall back again to follow at a polite distance. Soon we’re at the rear of the mansion and she’s taking photos with her phone, using the flash.
“I didn’t want to have to wait for the photographer to come at night. I wanted to show how pretty this back area is at night, with the stringed lights and lamps. I just hope my phone’s photos are of a good enough quality to get us by.”
I watch as she snaps photos, both wide-angle shots and up-close detail photos.
“Have you thought more about turning that library into a bride’s room?” she asks, focusing on getting the right angle.
“No, not really.”
“Every venue worth its salt needs a changing area that’s not just another bedroom or something.”
“It would involve asking Mayor Dobbs to expand the budget, and I can’t do that.”
“I don’t want to ask her to do that, either. What if we could do it on a shoestring? Like, I’m sure you have a place where you store your supplies. With the fabric I’ve collected and your paint and some elbow grease, we could do it.”
“You’ve been stressing to me for a week now that we won’t finish in time, Dallas. And now you want to add this project, too?” This woman isn’t making any sense. And the thought of her going through my warehouse? No way. “In the future, I’m sure we could make this happen. But not before Lila Dobb’s wedding.”
She eyes me carefully. “That’s precisely why I want to do this. Think of how Mayor Dobbs will feel when she sees Lila in her wedding dress standing on the pedestal.” She gestures widely with her hands. “I saw some vintage, free-standing mirrors at the thrift store the other day. With any luck, they’re still available. They’d be gorgeous there.” The hope shining in her eyes just about does me in.
The word “no” is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. “The mayor would have to sign off on it,” I hedge, and Dallas hears the weakening resistance in my voice and jumps on it, full throttle.
“I’ll come up with a design layout by tomorrow and we can approach the mayor with it at that point. She’s going to love it.” She taps her mouth. “Or…we could surprise her and Lila.”
“I’m tempted to wash my hands of your idea and let you handle it on your own…"
She gives a terse nod. “And I’d understand if you did that.”
But again, I can’t.
“Things with the mayor are complicated. She was patient with me six months ago, right as we were solidifying the plans with the architect. She’d just hired me, and then, some stuff happened.” I pause, exhaling a short breath. “I tried to show up and be engaged in the work, but I didn’t do a very good job of it at first. I feel like we’re behind on this project because of me. And I can’t ask the mayor for any more changes and certainly not any more money.”
She puts her phone in her pocket and turns to me. “Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?”
I sigh, rubbing a growing spot of tension above my eyes. “You’ll probably hear all about it from Mary eventually.”
The look she’s giving me is open and gracious. Inviting.
“I’m all ears, Beck.”