17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Dallas
It’s after eight on Friday night when I drive over to the mansion, irritated about this muggy day. Atlanta gets muggy. Willow Cove isn’t supposed to.
I went to The Bridal Barn, the only bridal shop in town, to take some inventory photos of some of the dresses to show my clients. Then I drove to Wilmington but had to leave the home décor store empty handed. It feels like such a waste of my time when that happens. They were out of the silk greenery I needed to fill in the gaps between the freshly cut stuff that Lila Dobbs ordered. Plus, today brought no new bookings and two of my brides called about delays—one of the bride’s preferred bakers might not be able to make her cake because of a double booking and the other bride’s dress might not be altered in time.
You know, just the cake and the dress. No biggie.
I had to leave things unresolved—no answer yet whether the bakers I contacted can squeeze in a wedding cake on such short notice. And every tailor I contacted is already booked a couple of months out.
The refreshing thing, though? Both brides, although they were concerned about the problems, were so nice about it. There was an optimism in their voices, and I got the feeling that they were truly thankful for my help. It’s a refreshing change from many of the brides I’ve worked with before, and I found my own anxieties melting down into a low simmer. I can handle these issues.
And I’m going into this work session with Beck wearing clothes fit for a wastrel again. I look like a thrift store queen.
But not the cool kind of thrifting. Not the kind where you look all sophisticated in your vintage Audrey Hepburn scarves and ballet flats. I’m wearing the kind where you look like a scout troop leader from thirty years ago.
Yep. My holey, yellow T-shirt is baggy in all the wrong ways and even has those scruffy pills under the arms. The only thing going for it is its color. Who doesn’t love a lemon yellow?
I’m proud of myself for putting this on instead of something cute. And yeah, I didn’t want to get my good clothes splattered with paint. But it’s more than that. Beck and I hugged again last night, and it was even better than the first time. So, like the responsible adult that I am, I’m wearing my ratty old T-shirt and baggy shorts to avoid doing that again. And especially to avoid thinking it might be a good idea to kiss the man.
The man who comes to help me after managing construction sites all day. The man who cares about my safety enough to stay even longer while I go on the beach and snap a bunch of photos. The man who coaches the neighbor kid’s volleyball team and drops whatever he’s doing when someone in Willow Cove needs help.
So, see? I cannot kiss him. I’m here to get back on track with The Plan , so that I can take over Amore. I’m here to be so upstanding and good at my job that Shoshana has no choice but to take me back. Falling into a relationship with Beck is not part of that plan at all. And I don’t need to add to my already questionable reputation by doing that.
On the drive over, I realize I’m feeling all sorts of anger, displaced, I’m sure. Fun music on the radio doesn’t even help. Because Beck is a good person. A very attractive, kind person who is quick to brighten my day with a laugh and a smile, who in another life, I might find myself willingly entering a summer fling with.
I can’t. And it bothers me so much that I have to force myself not to flip off the Toyota Tacoma driver who didn’t make a full stop at a stop sign. What a jerk.
I’m glad I didn’t actually flip him off since I can’t afford any cuts to my reputation. But still, it felt good to think about it.
It’s in this sour state of mind that I pull up to the mansion and take it all in. The broken shutters have been fixed but it still needs an exterior paint job and there’s no way I’m doing that. Beck was right when he said I should spend my time doing things that only I can do instead of painting. Of course he was right. I just don’t know how to let go of some things, okay?
It’s a fatal flaw. One that I’ll work on later when I’m safely back in Atlanta with Amore again.
I knock on the richly carved double front doors before opening them a crack and peeking in. I don’t see Beck, even though his truck is outside.
“Knock, knock,” I say. It’s okay for me to let myself in, isn’t it? I’m so crazy as to hug him—twice!—that I might as well continue the streak and just go in.
Music is playing and I follow the sound of Benson Boone’s Beautiful Things past the great room to the kitchen. Maybe some workers left a radio on?
That’s when I see him at one of the newly installed, tall kitchen windows, his back turned to me.
His… bare back. His board shorts are slung low on his hips. Why is it so sexy that Beck is in flip-flops right now? His torso ripples and moves as he’s bent over his work at the window, singing.
Singing! He’s singing a mushy love song. It fits with the Beck vibe, come to think of it. And it fits that he’s in flip-flops, shirtless. But this is work-mode Beck, the guy who I overheard get after an employee for wearing old tennis shoes instead of steel-toed boots on the job.
The music is up so loud he doesn’t know I’m here. I hate to startle him, but this is going to be a little awkward when he discovers I’ve been standing here, watching him, listening to his silky voice.
So, naturally, I do the only thing that makes any sense at all. I start to sing along with him.
The only words I can think of right now have something to do with wanting and needing, and though it comes out softly, I feel like I’m surprisingly on key.
He startles a little and rotates around to see me in all my T-shirt-and-baggy-shorts glory. A bashful expression creeps over his eyes.
Beck is embarrassed? Well, that could be a first. The guy is nothing if not confident.
But right now? He starts to sing again, this time, a little softer. Inexplicably, I raise my voice.
The song mentions having love and it’s probably a good thing that it ends because my cheeks have started to heat up.
“You said you wouldn’t get here until nine,” he says, breaking our gaze and dropping a long strip of dark gray sticky foam on the floor. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m early because he’s smiling, his gaze taking me in. But there’s still a stained flush to his cheeks.
“My shopping trip was short-lived. I’m going to have to order what I need.” I tell my eyes not to ogle Beck’s chest, and they are so disobedient that I have to cross my arms over my own chest and rotate to look out at the ocean. The sun is setting, but I’m not even seeing it because Hello! I have to concentrate on not objectifying Beck.
He rambles to the corner, where his T-shirt is crumpled on the floor. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s hot in here. We need to get the air conditioning tuned up before we start using it again.”
Instead of responding like a normal person, I jump into wedding planner mode—all bossy and prescriptive. “Yeah, your attire is not up to code for a jobsite, that is for sure.”
Why must I be such a stickler for the rules right now? Especially when my heart is racing at his handsomeness.
He chuckles before lifting his arms to slide his T-shirt back on over his head. “Yeah, don’t tell my crew.”
Because I cannot stop myself, I stare pointedly at his flip-flops.
“And these?” He kicks his leg out and shakes his foot. “I had a practice with Leo and forgot to bring work boots with me. Which is why I’m applying weather stripping instead of doing anything too crazy.”
“Yeah, you could get a nail right through the soles of those flip-flops.”
Dallas, will you stop? Who made you the safety police?
He smiles. “Right.”
It’s best for all if I stop talking about anything even remotely to do with shoes or clothing. “Should we paint? Or actually, I’ll paint, and you can finish the weatherstripping thing.”
Of course he can finish weatherstripping the windows. He owns his own company. Sometimes, me and my mouth…
“I was pretty much done. We can paint if we can stand the heat in here.” He nods, pulling at the neck of his T-shirt.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you…” I trail off, gesturing to his shirt. “You’re more than welcome to take it off again.”
He’s fighting a smile. “Oh, really?”
Oh my gosh. “I didn’t mean—” One note of a laugh bursts out of me.
“It’s fine,” he says, leaving his shirt on.
We get squared away with the painting, back to the bedroom we painted the first night I was here. The second coat looks fabulous, and that’s what I’m focused on. The paint and only the paint. Not the stifling heat, even with the window open. Not the stifling hot man next to me.
We’re both quiet, subdued even. Listening to more Benson Boone songs like there will be a test on them
later.
In the silence between songs, Beck’s phone rings. He turns off the music and answers it. “Where’d you disappear to? We’re at your house,” a guy says on the other end. There’s a lilt of feminine laughter joining in.
I don’t try to listen in on other people’s phone calls, I honestly don’t. But the room is small. It echoes. And Beck and I are standing quite close to one another—which only adds to the heat.
“I’m at Willow Wood, just finishing up some painting.”
“Uh, where’s your crew?” The guy on the other end asks.
“It’s nine at night. I’m not going to ask them to come. It’s fine.” He says it dismissively, and his tone tells me it’s his brother on the phone.
He turns away and I, regrettably, can’t hear what the brother is saying anymore, only Beck’s responses. “I’m not sure I can.” He pauses to listen, then adds, “Not until at least ten…I can’t just leave her to work by herself. That’s rude.” Another pause. “Dallas, the wedding planner.” He sighs, puts it on speaker, and hands the phone to me. There’s annoyance and a hint of mischief in his eyes. “My brother would like to talk to you.”
I take the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dallas, it’s Elliott. Hey, will you convince Billy the Workaholic that it’s okay to rest once in a while, that he’s still super cool, even if he takes breaks sometimes?”
I hesitate, then Elliott laughs. “I’m kidding. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you. Although, if the subject comes up…?” He clears his throat. “Anyway. My fiancée and I have a ton of food leftover from an event at the high school and wanted to share. After you guys get done there, why don’t you both come over to Billy’s house and eat with us? I realize it’s late, but it’s the weekend, so—?"
“Oh, I can’t impose like that…”
“It’s not imposing! We’re inviting you,” a female voice cuts in. I must be on speaker.
“Yeah, the lunch ladies made it. But before you have flashbacks to some slop you used to eat in school, be prepared to be amazed,” Elliott says. “We paid them to come in and prepare something different and special. They’re honestly the best cooks around.”
The woman giggles. “I can confirm that the lunch ladies’ catered food is leagues above what they’re allowed to prepare at the school. But you certainly don’t have to come.”
“Yes, she does. You both do. No sense working on a Friday night,” Elliott says.
“Please come?” the woman says. “I’m Portia, by the way, Beck’s future sister-in-law.”
“I don’t know,” is what I say. But sweat is starting to bead on my back and Beck’s cheeks are looking red. My frozen-meal dinner wasn’t nearly enough, either…
“We’ll see you in a half hour,” Elliott insists before the call ends abruptly.
Maybe I imagine it, but there’s something extra behind that big grin of Beck’s.
“You really haven’t lived until you’ve tried the lunch ladies’ short ribs, Dallas.”