Page 17 of She Was Made for Me

I think.

Back at Rich and Diana’s, I shower and eat, thinking about the day ahead. We got the report from the structural engineer yesterday, and besides some rotten oak planks on the staircase—which I already knew about—and some mortar that needs replacing in the brick façade, the house is in reasonable shape, structurally. Pretty surprising, given the building dates back to 1847.

And Rich wants to modernize the whole thing and carve it up into apartments? I shudder at the thought. It was designed to be a beautiful family home, and I don’t know if I can bring myself to destroy it like that—even if four floors is a little excessive for the average family. Usually I trust Rich’s judgment without question, but I think he might be wrong on this one. Besides, he said he trusted me, didn’t he? Even if technically he is my client, and even if technically he isallowedto alter the interior to that extent, I feel the need to protect the history of the neighborhood I grew up in.

Which reminds me, I’ll need to contact the Landmarks Preservation Commission before we can begin work. No doubt I’ll have to jump through a stack of hoops for this project, unlike back home. I’m not used to working like this, but if it means the history of Brooklyn Heights is preserved, I’m all for it. People have already erased too much of this city’s past.

I head out the door to my truck, making a mental note of what I want to do today. I’m planning to go to the site and make a more detailed list of what needs to be done, and which contractors I’ll need for more specialized tasks. I haven’t asked Violet to meet me, because really, what’s the point? I don’t need to babysit her again, and I definitely don’t need the distraction of her wandering around in those denim cutoffs.

It takes me forty minutes to reach the job site, which wouldn’t bother me if I was driving through the beautiful Kennebec County, but irritates the shit out of me when I’m stopping at traffic lights in Manhattan every fifty feet. If a job was far enough away in Maine, I’d take an air mattress and stay out there for the week. It allowed me more time to relax in the evenings; instead of driving for hours only to be exhausted when I got home, I could use my time after work to swim or hike nearby, cook on an open fire and listen to music under the stars. I’ve made a promise to myself that my job will never take over my life again, and balancing rest with work is essential. While there’s no swimming or hiking here, it might be good to stay on site to avoid the traffic and enjoy being in the Heights more. Plus it would give Rich and Di their guest room back. They’ve done enough for me.

I grab a coffee from Joe’s then head to 14 Fruit Street. The front door is already unlocked when I arrive, and I pause in the doorway, wondering if I forgot to lock up—I’m sure I didn’t—or if someone has broken in. A few tentative steps into the house reveal it’s neither. Violet is here, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the front parlor, leaning over the glowing screen of her laptop. Scattered around her are books, notebooks, and pens; behind her stands a large dry-erase board on wheels, dotted with Post-Its. She’s set a drop-cloth down underneath her, a careful island containing her chaos, and something tugs in my chest. She’s trying to protect the floor.

“Hey,” I say, my voice strangely rusty.

She doesn’t notice, though, because she’s too busy leaping out of her skin.

“Jesus!” she shrieks, one hand flying to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. Were you tip-toeing?”

Despite myself, a laugh slips out. “No. I think you were just very focused.”

She glances at her laptop, rubs her eyes, then looks back at me and closes the lid. “Sorry. I’m trying to get a handle on things after we got the engineer’s report yesterday.”

I nod, looking down at the single coffee cup in my hand and feeling like an asshole. If I’d known she was here, I would have bought her one.

Then I remember I’m not supposed to be chummy with her—I’m supposed to be putting distance between us.

So, here I am. The jerk who accepts her free coffee and doesn’t reciprocate.

I don’t like being this guy.

She pushes to her feet, stretching her arms overhead and yawning. Today she’s in a periwinkle-blue floral cotton dress that rises above the knee as she stretches, revealing the soft, creamy skin of her thighs. My fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch her.

Christ.

I stumble back, hitting the doorframe.

Ouch.

She gives me a strange look. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I grunt, lifting my coffee and taking a scalding sip. I hiss out a breath, both in pain and irritation. I was looking forward to a distraction-free day so I could make some progress. “What are you doing here, Violet?”

Her brows draw together under her bangs. “I’m working on this project too, remember?”

How could I forget?

“I didn’t ask you to come in,” I retort, more sharply than I intend.

She snorts, placing a hand on her hip. “First of all, you’re not my boss, so I don’t need your permission. Secondly, this ismyfather’s house, so I can come whenever I like. And thirdly, I have work to do, so I’m here working.”

I blink. She has no trouble talking back to me, that’s for sure. It’s both frustrating and, weirdly, kind of arousing.

Fuck. I’m in hell.

Work. Focus on work.

“Alright,” I mutter, humoring her. “What have you been doing, then?” It can’t be anything useful, that’s for sure. She might be gorgeous but she doesn’t know the first thing about what needs to be done here.

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