11. Sutton
Sutton
Swatches of fabric and paint samples litter my office floor. Blueprints teeter on the edge of my desk, and my laptop is buried somewhere under sticky notes and half-empty coffee cups.
My list of trades I need to hire stares back at me. I can almost hear it shouting You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? I rub my temples and let out a frustrated groan.
“Get it together, Sutton,” I mutter, fumbling for my phone. “You can do this.” My heart is racing just looking at the to-do list I wrote last night. Somehow, none of this feels anywhere close to manageable.
“Well, this looks like fun,” a familiar voice says from the doorway.
I jump and look up. Easton is standing there, hands shoved casually in his pockets and a half-smile tugging at his lips. Sunlight spills across the floor from the window behind him. Can he tell I’m in the middle of freaking out?
“Easton,” I say, trying for calm but failing spectacularly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m good like that,” he says, stepping fully inside and surveying the chaos.
I try to straighten a stack of swatches, only for them to tumble into a heap again. I groan. “What brings you by?”
“I was on my way to the police station when I saw the sign for your office.” Easton crouches to help me pick up the mess, then glances at the phone blinking on my desk, signaling I have an incoming call. “Should you get that?”
“Probably,” I admit, but continue to watch the light blink.
“Is everything okay?” He sets the swatches back on my table of doom.
“It’s great. Everything is great.” I force a smile.
“Sutton . . .”
I groan, laying my head down on my desk. “Everything is shit, okay? I thought I could handle Hunter’s remodel on my own, but it’s way more involved than I thought.”
My cell phone buzzes. I snatch it up, knocking most of the samples back onto the floor. “Hello, this is Sutton Bradley.”
“Hi, Sutton! This is Jean Weeks. Sorry it’s taken us a few days to get back to you.” Her voice is cheery, which seems like a good sign. “Listen, about the B and B, I’m sorry but . . .”
My stomach drops.
“We’ve decided to hold off for now. I know we’ve talked about owning a B and B for years, but now that the opportunity is here, it doesn’t feel right anymore.”
“Oh . . .” My voice comes out small.
“We’d love to see Hunter’s house once it’s done,” Jean adds. “Our daughter, Holly, is going to be taking over Torn Pages next year and has been begging us to revamp it, so, who knows? Maybe down the road, you and her might get to work together.”
I blink, and a spark lights in my chest despite the rejection.
My mind races. Showcase Hunter’s house, show off my design skills to the Weeks .
. . “Then you’ll have to come to the open house,” I blurt, because of course I can’t help myself.
The idea feels like a fire now, and I’m grinning before I even finish the sentence.
Easton sits at one of the stools surrounding the table. Another spark lights in my chest. I narrow my eyes at him. He looks side to side and mouths, What?
I smile broadly. “Alright, Mrs. Weeks, well, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with the B and B, but I look forward to hearing more about the bookshop.”
I set my phone aside, lace my fingers together, and stare at Easton. The idea now is a full-on wildfire in my mind. “How long are you in town?”
“Right now, three weeks. Why?”
“How opposed would you be to acting as my mentor? You told me this is your actual job, and someday I’d like to not be a dumpster fire on the project management side of designing.” I gesture at my table of chaos.
Easton’s expression softens. “I wouldn’t be opposed at all.”
Relief floods me. “Wait, seriously?”
“It’s a great idea.” He nods. “I’ve been thinking about expanding into Suncrest Valley. Helping you on this remodel could be a way to get my name out there.”
“So you’ll guide me through the remodel and teach me how to juggle everything that goes into it?”
“It’s a deal,” he says, reaching his hand out.
I take it, and we shake.
“I’ve got a meeting at the police station,” he says, “but maybe we can meet at Hunter’s later? You can show me what you’ve got planned, and we can get started.”
My stomach flutters, relief and excitement washing over me. “Perfect.”
And suddenly, everything feels manageable again.
Hours later, I toss my phone onto my desk and grab my keys, trying to push down the fluttery butterflies taking over my stomach. Hunter’s project has me equal parts excited and nervous. Mostly because it means I get to spend time with him—just the two of us.
I text Hunter, trying to keep it casual even though I’m anything but casual.
Me: I’m headed to your house.
It only takes a few moments for his reply to come through.
Hunter: Okay. Should I be worried?
Me: Just going to get started.
Hunter: On the house?
Me: Thought I’d get some work done before you get home.
Hunter: Don’t do anything crazy till I get there.
Me: No promises.
I roll my eyes at his last text, and shove the last few bags of paint supplies and pillows into the trunk of my car. The lid catches when I try to close it. I practically have to lie on it for it to latch.
“Nice try,” I tell the overstuffed trunk, dusting my hands off like I’ve won a small battle.
The drive to Hunter’s property is quick, as traffic is almost nonexistent. It amazes me every year how fast the transformation is from a busy summer town to a slower-paced fall town.
I’m grateful for the change of pace especially after the unexpected emotional weekend I had. After I had told the girls and Luke about my miscarriage, Hunter knew I was running on empty. He told me to spend the weekend with my mom instead of scouting with him.
It hadn’t been my intention to tell everyone I loved about my miscarriage all in the same weekend, but like everything else lately, it seems the little control I thought I had over my life doesn’t actually exist.
Turns out, I hadn’t been very good at hiding my secret from Mom. She told me that when we had been freshly grieving Dad’s death, she had known something else was going on with me. She just hadn’t wanted to pry. Neither of us had expected it would take six years for me to tell her.
By Monday morning, I woke with clearer eyes and a lighter heart. For so long I’d hidden my miscarriage like a crack in the foundation, pretending that if no one knew about it, I could stand as straight and perfect as any home with a strong foundation.
Maybe I don’t have to work so hard pretending everything is fine anymore.
On Tuesday, Hunter joined Mom and me for dinner—he never misses Mom’s chicken-fried-steak night—and before he left, he handed me his credit card.
“Build us a country house,” he said.
His use of the word us may still be playing on a loop in my mind.
When I pull down Hunter’s driveway, a white truck is already parked outside.
“Long time no see,” Easton says as I step out of my car. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets as he approaches me. “So, we’re doing this?”
“Yep.” I smile and pop my trunk open.
Easton’s eyes go wide when he looks inside. “Holy hell, did you buy every pillow in the store?”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.” I laugh. “Everyone knows finding a good throw pillow is a competitive sport.”
I shove three bags into Easton’s waiting arms. Somehow, he also manages to grab a few cans of paint as well.
“I see you’re a bag person,” I say.
He quirks a brow. “What in the world is a bag person?”
“Someone who refuses to make multiple trips.” I nod toward the paint can dangling from his pinky.
“Old habits.” His chest rumbles in laughter. “I live on the fourth floor. Multiple trips are out of the question.”
We make it inside and unload all the bags in the mud room.
Easton’s never been to Hunter’s house, so I take him on a tour, giving him a rundown of my ideas.
The living room needs the least amount of work, so, to me, it’s a logical starting place.
Easton, however, suggests tackling the kitchen and bathrooms first.
“That way,” he says, “the house is only a mess once, and the cabinet and countertop guys can install everything at one time.”
“How long do you think it’ll take? At least the big stuff, cabinets and counters and whatever else pops up?”
He looks around at the layout of the kitchen. It’s wide open, with a large island and cabinets for days. There’s an area for a large rectangular table in front of a span of windows overlooking the property.
“This is a nice house with a great floor plan.” He runs his hands on the edge of the island, a faraway look in his eyes as he takes in the view. “I assume you’re not planning on tearing out walls or changing layouts?”
I shake my head, a half-scoff, half-laugh escaping. He saw my desk. We both know gutting a home and starting from scratch is not in my wheelhouse yet.
“Okay,” he says. “As of now, I’m only here for the next few weeks, but I can extend if necessary.
Then, I’ll be back in January. I’ve got some contacts and could put together a crew.
If you’re up for it, I say let’s start demo tomorrow.
I’ll give you the number for the cabinet company.
If you place the order tomorrow, we should be able to get them installed next week. ”
“Wow, that sounds great!” I say. “Do you think I can start working on other rooms?”
“I’d wait until we get these old cabinets out of here,” he says. “Kind of hard to start making it pretty while my crew and I tear it apart.”
“That’s true,” I say, realizing now I’ve probably gotten ahead of myself with half of my decor purchases.
Easton leans back along the counter, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Want to show me the color palette?”
I’m placing paint samples on the table when Hunter’s old Ford comes rumbling up the drive. I glance down at the samples, then to the window, then over to Easton, suddenly very aware of the colors I chose.
Easton’s smile lights up his entire face. “He wasn’t part of the color-picking process, was he?”
“Um.” My eyes go wide. “No, but it’ll be fine. I think.”