Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
PRESTON
The city’s early morning light drapes Worthington Hills in an apricot haze, but the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment barely let it in.
The glass reflects only me, slouched at my desk, with a mug of rapidly cooling black coffee sitting off to the side while I sketch the same impossible cantilever three times in a row.
This is usually my favorite time of day—alone, in my own space, with all of downtown humming faintly five stories below.
Instead, I’m wrestling with a total lack of inspiration, and all because of one gorgeous woman who’s taken up residence inside my heart and mind.
I drag a palm down my face and try to focus.
The new client wants open-concept, natural light, “soft industrial with farmhouse warmth.” Jude says I’m the only one who can deliver that kind of architectural schizophrenia and make it look effortless.
Normally, that kind of praise would light me up.
Today, my mind is preoccupied with other, less professional matters.
I could blame it on stress. The firm is six months old, and we’re still finding our way.
I should be sweating every detail, every dollar.
Instead, I’m fixated on the brunette with stunning doe eyes and a mouth that looked like it had been made just for me.
I’ve only ever caught her in the wild three times, always in passing.
The first time I saw her, she nearly body-checked me into the lobby’s art wall, then I caught glimpses of her stepping into the elevator and walking along the front sidewalk.
But I’ve never been able to get close to her again.
Each time I try, she slips through my fingers.
I’ve made a career out of noticing details.
It’s my job to spot the flaws in a line, the weakness in a plan.
So, of course, I remember the flush in her cheeks when she looked up and realized what she’d collided with.
I remember the way she said, “I’m just—I mean, you’re really tall,” and then wanted to die right there on the marble floor.
I’d wanted to say something dashing and debonaire. Instead, I said, “And you’re… adorable,” which was not at all what I meant to say, and now that’s the word stuck in my head.
I lean back in the chair, letting my legs sprawl under the desk, and stare at the ceiling, remembering every goddamn detail about her.
I give up on the cantilever and open my laptop, pulling up the project mockups for the Henderson job. Nothing clicks. My mind just keeps returning to her.
I don’t usually do this. I don’t let my mind wander. But there’s something about her that calls to me. Something I can’t fucking forget.
I close my eyes and let my head thud against the back of my leather chair. “Get it together, Voss,” I mutter. Fucking hell. I need to do something. Anything. If I sit here one more second staring at this cursed cantilever, I will actually lose my mind.
Gym. That’s the answer. Move my body, sweat it out, stop thinking about her hair and her smile and the way her laugh hijacked my entire brain.
I push up from my desk so hard my chair rolls back and thunks into the wall. Whatever. At least that’s a distraction. I peel off my shirt, swap it for a clean one, grab my sneakers, and catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.
This is not the face of a man in control of his life. Or his goddamn heart.
I snort and give myself a don’t-be-an-idiot look.
Then I swipe my phone and head for the elevator, determined to out-run, out-lift, and out-sweat the brunette bombshell haunting my every waking minute.
After my grueling two-hour-long workout, I head to the elevator and notice Mrs. Winslet, one of the long-time residents, clutching two paper sacks and a canvas tote that looks older than I am.
Her hair is frosted silver and pulled back in a bun so tight it has its own gravitational field.
She’s wearing a zippered tracksuit in robin’s egg blue, orthopedic sneakers, and an expression that says, “I dare you to question my fashion choices.”
This woman is a hoot. I’ve run into her a few times, and each time, she charms me, then switches to “you really should meet my granddaughter.” Each time, I’ve managed to hold her off, but she’s getting more insistent. “Why don’t you let me help you with those, Mrs. Winslet?” I offer.
“Thank you, Preston,” she trills. “You’re truly a lifesaver.”
She hands over the groceries with a little grunt and peers up at me over her glasses. “I told you to call me Nonnie. Or Elaine, if you must. Mrs. Winslet makes me sound like an English teacher with a ruler and a vendetta.”
I laugh, which makes her smile wider. Her eyes are blue, sharp, and a little wicked. “Well, my Grans always said never to call a lady by her first name unless she’s already accepted your dinner invitation.” We step into the elevator, and she presses the button for the seventh floor.
She waves that off. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was,” I tell her as we make our way down the hall. She walks slowly, so I match her pace.
“Have you caught up with your work backlog?” she asks, giving me a side-eye that says she already knows the answer. Fuck. That was my last excuse to avoid her matchmaking efforts.
“I’m slowly getting a handle on it,” I lie. I was catching up until a gorgeous brunette blew my mind and stole my goddamn heart. Now, I’m back to barely holding my head above water.
“Oh, that’s great.” She claps her hands together as we reach her door. “Then you have to come by Sunday for lunch.”
She unlocks it and motions for me to follow.
The apartment smells like cinnamon, dryer sheets, and a hint of Chanel No.
5. Every surface is covered in photos, knick-knacks, and those books with gold-edged pages that old ladies collect for show.
I set her groceries on the kitchen counter and glance around, trying to figure out how to turn down her offer.
Then a photograph in a fancy frame catches my eye. Holy fucking shit. It's her.
My dream girl. My mystery brunette. In a photo right on Mrs. Winslet’s bookshelf, front and center. And her blinding smile isn’t shy or hesitant. It’s radiant, lit up from the inside out. Her golden brown eyes are bright, and her dimples flash from each cheek.
She’s in a dress that hugs her curves, hugging Mrs. Winslet’s side. Graduation cap slightly crooked, cheeks pink, looking right at the camera like she owns the world. My jaw actually drops. My pulse goes nuts. I reach for the photo before I can stop myself.
My mystery woman must be Mrs. Winslet’s granddaughter. The one she’s always talking about. The one she’s been trying to set me up with.
Holy shit. The universe is having a great time screwing with me.
“That’s Hazel, my granddaughter.” I actually make a noise, like I’ve been gut-punched by fate and also hit with a taser. My brain goes blank, then straight into overdrive.
Hazel like the eyes I can’t get out of my damn head. Like the voice that’s been haunting me for days. Somehow, the name fits so perfectly, it’s like the universe planned it that way.
Mrs. Winslet is watching me, a sly little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Like she knows exactly what’s short-circuiting my brain right now.
“That’s a great photo,” I manage, but my voice sounds like a machine version. “I think I actually ran into her in the lobby last week.”
“Oh.” That gets her attention. “Well, she comes by several times a week to have dinner with me.”
My heart does a triple backflip, and my brain completely short-circuits. I have to grip the granite countertop to keep from embarrassing myself. “That’s nice.” Damn. I sound like an idiot, but that’s all my fuzzy mind could come up with. “It sounds like you have a wonderful granddaughter.”
Nonnie just beams at me, lady-smug and full of grandmotherly matchmaking menace.
“She is. She’s smart as a whip, too. Works at the library, but she really ought to be running the place.
” I file that information away. I nod, but my pulse is pounding at this point.
Now that I know her name and where she works, I can actually do something about this crazy obsession.
“Would you like to come over on Sunday for lunch?” Mrs. Winslet repeats her invitation, handing me the perfect opportunity. “Hazel will be here.”
“I’d love to,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. She beams, then reaches over and pats my hand.
“Sunday at one, then.”
I follow her to the door, already plotting my next move. “I’ll see you Sunday,” I say, pulling the door open. As I step into the hallway, I realize the world seems a little brighter. Fuck. Yes. I almost fist-bump the air, but I manage to hold back.