Chapter 14
THE FINE LINE BETWEEN PROFESSIONAL AND PERSONAL
NATALIE
Thursday arrived, my day to visit Will’s house.
I hadn’t worked in so long I wasn’t even sure what to wear or bring.
I ordered a small notebook to take notes, something I used to do often.
I even dug out my old Canon camera, charged it up, and slipped it into my bag, even though I realized I could always just take photos with my phone.
It all felt a little odd, like I was stepping into a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years.
I still wasn’t sure whether I was simply trying to help him design his home or if there was something more going on.
A part of me felt like I was walking a tightrope, and I didn’t know which side I’d fall on.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time stressing over my outfit.
I finally settled on a classy houndstooth skirt, a black fitted turtleneck, and high black boots.
I waved my hair, feeling good about the look.
It felt polished but approachable; professional enough to justify my visit but with just a touch of something else.
The question that lingered, though, was: Who was I dressing for? The job or for him?
I arrived at Will’s house at 10:55 a.m., a little early.
He pulled into the driveway just as I did.
His house was modern, all sharp lines, large windows, clean, and minimalistic.
This is definitely not my style, but I could see its appeal.
Still, the entryway felt lifeless, almost clinical.
I pulled out my notebook and quickly scribbled, More plants. Maybe pots with texture.
Will waved me in through the garage, and my heart skipped when I saw him in his suit. He looked so polished and put together, like someone who had his life completely under control.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said, almost apologetically. “I had a meeting that ran over.”
“If you call five minutes early, ‘late’ then sure,” I said quickly, smiling.
He smiled back, and my knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.
He led me through the garage, which was mostly empty, aside from the Escalade he drives when picking up the kids from school; no surprise for a house that still seemed to be finding its footing.
The mudroom was surprisingly spacious, with built-in cubbies for each of his kids. It was functional, but it lacked warmth. The cubbies were perfectly tidy, which told me the kids probably didn’t use them much. I made another note. Mudroom—add personality.
“Should I take off my shoes?” I asked, glancing at the pristine floor.
“No need,” he said, his eyes lingering for a moment on my thigh-high boots. His gaze sent a warm rush through me, and I quickly looked away, trying to stay focused.
We walked into the kitchen, a bright, sprawling space with marble countertops and sleek appliances. It felt like the kind of kitchen you’d see in a magazine, beautiful but untouched.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, opening the fridge.
“No, thanks,” I said, though I suddenly felt parched.
He grabbed a bottle of water, took a quick sip, and left it on the counter.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” he said, leading me into the living room.
The space was massive, with oversized furniture that felt too big for the room. There was a huge sectional couch, an ottoman, and a coffee table, but no decorative touches–––Not a single throw pillow or blanket. It was all clean lines and neutral tones.
I jotted down a quick note. Layers—pillows, throws, textures. Paintings perhaps?
Everywhere we went, the house was filled with beautiful, but absolutely sterile, furnishings.
It was as if he didn’t really live here.
But then he showed me his office, a quiet space tucked away from the main living areas.
He had a photo of his kids wrapped around him and his dimples were carved deep in his smile.
The photo radiated pure love. Next to it was a painted canvas of a rainbow with Ivy’s name in bold and beside that, a small ceramic painted dog with the initials MP.
Now this felt like home. His fatherly side touched something in me I hadn’t expected.
We moved on, and just past the hallway there was a second living room with a piano. I wondered if it got much use. He ran his hands across the keys. “I used to play,” he said, almost dismissively.
Onto the dining room with its small built-in bar, sleek and shiny but uninviting. It looked like something out of a corporate dinner party, not a place the kids would want to hang out. I took notes on each space, cataloging ideas to bring some warmth and life into his home.
When we stepped into the backyard, I felt the sun on my face and took a moment to breathe in the open air. The space was enormous, with a sparkling pool, a half basketball court, and plenty of room for entertaining.
“I haven’t gotten around to buying outdoor furniture,” he admitted, his tone almost apologetic.
“It’s a great space,” I said. “A few pieces out here, maybe a pergola or some string lights, would make it feel a lot more inviting.”
“You make it sound easy,” he said, smiling.
“It is,” I teased, feeling more comfortable now.
We headed back inside and upstairs, and I felt nervousness creeping in again. Being in his personal spaces, his kids’ bedrooms, his master bedroom, felt intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
The kids’ rooms were all uniquely theirs, but each one felt like it had been hastily put together. The walls were bare, and the furniture, though functional, lacked personality.
In one room, I noticed a stack of sports trophies on a shelf. “Your son’s a football player?” I asked.
“Big time,” Will said, nodding. “This is Chase’s room. He’s really into it.”
The next room belonged to his oldest daughter. A framed picture of her with a horse caught my eye.
“She rides?” I asked, gesturing to the photo.
“Every chance she gets,” he said. “She spends all her free time at the barn. I barely see her even when she’s not at school.” I smiled, scribbling a note about adding equestrian touches to her room.
Ivy’s room was next, and it made me smile immediately. Bright pink curtains framed the window, but the rest of the space was surprisingly plain. “This room needs some sparkle, like Ivy,” I said, noticing a set of brightly colored markers scattered on her desk.
“She does really shine,” Will said, his voice softening. “She’s all energy, all the time. I’m just trying to keep up with her.”
“Her room should reflect that,” I said. “It needs some fun, some bold patterns. Maybe a gallery wall for her artwork.”
He nodded. I could feel him watching me closely as I moved around the room, jotting down ideas.
The youngest son’s room was clearly the domain of a budding athlete. Soccer cleats sat neatly by the door, and a baseball glove was perched on his nightstand.
“He’s into sports, too?” I asked.
“For sure,” Will said. “He’s got a knack for it. Soccer, baseball…you name it.”
Finally, we reached the master bedroom. Ridiculous, but my heart was pounding by the time we stepped inside.
The room was massive but almost completely bare, just a king-sized bed with plain white sheets, a thin grey comforter, and a large wall-mounted TV.
“I’ve never really decorated in here,” Will admitted. “It’s…functional, I guess.”
“Functional, yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “But it could be so much more. Some art on the walls, maybe an upholstered headboard, a rug to anchor the space.”
He nodded, watching me closely as I moved around the space, taking notes and mentally taking it all in. I felt his gaze, basking in its warmth, heating me from the inside while the guilt from the desire of it all weighed on my chest.
The bathroom was all marble countertops, a glass shower, and a deep soaking tub that looked like it had never been used.
As we walked back downstairs, I felt a small shiver of relief. We were done with the bedroom, and nothing untoward had happened. Was I also a little bit disappointed that it had not?
I asked if he had a budget in mind, and he shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, casually.
Then, less casually, he asked, “Are you hungry? I was thinking we could grab some lunch.”
“I’d love to,” I blurted out before catching myself. “But I should probably get back home before school pickup. You know how hard it is to get a spot.”
“Right. Another time, then,” he said.
He walked me to my car, and I turned to thank him. But he surprised me by leaning in for a hug. It wasn’t the kind of polite, distant hug you give a casual acquaintance, either. It was warm, lingering just a second too long. I felt his hand on my back, the faintest brush of his fingers.
When he pulled back, his eyes met mine, and I felt the air shift between us. It was as if the world had gone silent, leaving only the two of us in this charged, suspended moment.
I thought he might kiss me. I thought I might let him.
Then reality snapped back into place, and I took a step back, fumbling for my car keys. “Thanks again,” I said quickly, my voice higher than usual. “I’ll send you some ideas soon.”
“Take your time,” he said. His voice was calm and steady, like he wasn’t affected at all. But I knew he was. I could feel it in the air between us.
As I drove away, my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. My thoughts were racing. The lines between professional and personal had blurred, and I wasn’t sure where this was going, or if I could stop it.