Chapter 13
Mike drops his pencil and knocks over a stack of boards. “What are you doing?” he yells. “This is a construction zone.”
I slip my sandals back on. “You told me I was free to use the front entrance by the garage.”
“I could have killed you.”
“With a few stray boards?”
He huffs. “I’m not interested in getting sued today.”
“Were you reciting Shakespeare?”
“No,” Mike says.
I thread my way through the debris and walk up the half-finished deck stairs. “Yes, you were. Sonnet 40.”
“You can’t come up here. You’re not even wearing closed-toe shoes.”
He looks genuinely concerned, and then I remember he’s an actor. “Is this place yours, or is there some sort of Miss Havisham character rotting in a wedding dress inside?”
“Come on. By now, I’m sure you’ve pulled the property records and deep-dived into La Jolla’s real estate history.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been too busy unpacking and catching up on five years of missed sleep.” I part the plastic tarps and step inside the house.
Piles of drywall and framing are gathered in the center of the room.
“How many walls used to be in this place?”
“Too many,” Mike says. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”
“Are you a contractor who only moonlights as a cosplayer?”
“Sure. Go with that. Now get out.”
I step around the construction materials and head into a room that has dark walnut paneling, a fireplace, and a picture window facing the ocean.
“Whoa! Look at that view!” I tap the frame of the window. “But this should be twice the size.”
Mike snorts.
“The paneling should be ditched too.”
“I’m not demoing the only decent walls in the house.”
“Then paint them white.”
Mike folds his arms across his chest, which does really nice things for his biceps. Highlighted poetry about love springs to the front of my mind, and I can feel the heat creep into my cheeks. “Where’s the kitchen going to be?” I skirt the pile of drywall and dart past the front door. “Here?”
“That’s going to be a built-in window seat. An island is going to go here with a stovetop in the center. Stacked washer and dryer right behind it. Sink and dishwasher”—he measures—“here.”
My nose wrinkles. “Next to the washer and dryer? That’ll block the view.”
“But it will save money.”
“And the fridge?” I open the back door and smile at the sight of the privacy fence with the roof of my cottage peeking out from it.
“Right next to the pantry.”
“You should demo the pantry, tuck the washer and dryer there instead, put the stove next to the sink, and keep the island free for buffets and eating. It’ll feel more open. Beachy.”
Mike frowns, but he makes some quick measurements. “I guess I could run the vents through the ceiling.”
“How many bedrooms?” I dart down the hall that’s painted like an ocean wave.
“Two, and one bathroom.”
I gasp when I see the dilapidated bathroom. “This is an old house.”
“Built in 1942.” He joins me in the hallway.
“For who?” I poke my head into a bedroom that has even more construction tools than the deck outside.
“My grandmother.” He closes the door to what I am guessing is his room.
This little house is completely charming, even if it is in desperate need of some care. It has character. They don’t build them like this anymore. “What happened to it?” I tap the mural on the wall.
“It was always falling apart. Little old ladies have only so much…” Mike swallows and leans a shoulder against his shut door. “When my grandmother moved into assisted living, she found some renters, who added their own touches to the property.”
“Deferred maintenance?” I press my finger to a bubble in the drywall of the wave, and some plaster falls to the floor.
“You could say that.”
I dust my hands on my linen cover-up. “Are you the sole owner?”
Mike sighs. “Yes.”
“How do you”—I jab my finger against his chest—“get to criticize me for being a Del Mar princess when you own this? You could sell it tomorrow and have millions.”
“It’s a two-bedroom shack with completely stripped wiring and only one bathroom.”
“You could bulldoze this shack, split the lot—”
“I can’t sell it until the remodel is finished.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Why?” I’m standing too close, but the hallway isn’t exactly spacious.
“Because it’s what they wanted. Now, if you don’t mind…” He shuffles past me into the spare bedroom and rummages through a collection of tools on the floor. “I have a deck to finish.”
“And the end of Sonnet 40 to recite?”
Mike looks up.
“The couplet. ‘Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.’ You didn’t finish.”
His mouth twitches. “You make Shakespeare sound like a city ordinance.” He pulls out a set of drill bits. “Do you know any others?”
“Oh, Mike. The least you could do is buy me a drink first.”
He scoffs. “That’s the last thing I’d ever do—pay to hear Shakespeare reduced to a boring courtroom argument from an uninspired, prickly lawyer.”
“I’m not a lawyer anymore.”
“You still sound like one.”
“Highly educated? Intelligent? Successful?”
“Conceited. Smug. Devoid of feeling.”
“Pouring emotions into words only makes you sound like an idiot. It’s the definition of overacting, but maybe that’s not covered for theater majors until graduate seminars.”
Mike grabs a new battery for his drill. “You don’t force the emotion on the words, Bea.
You let them breathe and live the life they were meant to have.
You taste them and enjoy the pleasure…” He trails off, passing a hand over his eyes.
“The emotion comes because you feel the truth of the sentiment and cleverness of the words. Sonnet 40 is better than most monologues. It feels and sounds playful, but it is barbed wire, electrocuted with passion.”
My skin prickles and my stomach pulls taut at the familiar description. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. The man in front of me is not the author of the annotations. He can’t be. “Sounds painful,” I quip.
“And yet the pain is preferable to the alternative.”
My breath catches. “The complete absence?”
“Exactly.” Mike’s honey-brown eyes lock on mine, and it hits me. He’s more than just a cosplay puppet. He’s passionate and articulate and knows how to unravel some of the greatest minds in all of literature.
And I’m in some serious trouble. Because I can’t separate my attraction for the Mike in the margins of my sonnets from my loathing of the man standing in front of me. Even if said man has some really gorgeous lips. “I think I should leave.”
“Text me.”
I freeze. Is he serious?
“If you’re going to stop by again. I’d rather not run the risk of my lawsuit-happy renter tripping on a power cord or getting hit by falling drywall.”
I leave without saying goodbye.