Page 5 of Late to Love

“You heard me. Consider this a lesson in business.”Though, my God, the other kinds of lessons I could teach her.“Never offer a discount up front. Your time is valuable. Your expertise is worth something. Don’t undervalue it.”

A slow, sexy-as-fuck grin spreads across her face. “Why, Mr. Hall, are you saying I’m smart?”

I fight the urge to huff. “I’m saying there’s no way I’m paying a discount.”

“So that’s a yes?” she says hopefully.

“I—” Shit. Did I just get played? I honestly have no idea. “You know what? Fuck it. Sure.”

She jumps up and down, clapping her hands.

Do not look at her tits. Do not look at her tits. You are not a creep. Do. Not. Look. At. Her. Tits.My fists are clenched so tight it’s a wonder my nails haven’t drawn blood on my palms.

“Darcy!” A man’s voice hollers from near the water heater. “Think we’re all done here. Wanna come check?”

Her eyes slide to me. “Wanna come check?” she repeats. “Since, you know, that’s what you came up here for in the first place?”

Brat. She’s impossible. And loud, mouthy, and generally a whirling ball of undeniably sexy chaos any time she’s downstairs bowling. How the hell did I just agree to let her into my home?

Sighing, I wave for her to lead the way. And this time, I manage to keep my eyes to myself.

This will all be fine. I need the place to be renovated, that much is true. Did I need it done by someone who drives me crazy? No.

But it’s fine. It’ll all be fine.

Just fine.

Chapter3

Darcy

ICAN’T BELIEVE he said yes. It’s been a week, and I still pinch myself when I remember the conversation. The whole thing was like a fever dream, because I didn’t mean to do any of it. But I saw the ocean and suddenly I justneededto do it. Before I knew it, I was babbling about discounts and practically begging him to say yes, and he was all growly and“No discounts”and honestly, what was I supposed to do? Insist on it because I have quite literally never done something like this?

No way.

The man wants to pay me full freight, then by all means, give me your money, my dude.

My mouth has gotten me into plenty of interesting situations before. Like the time in fourth grade when I bragged about the tree house that was most definitelynotin the trees in our backyard and declared the whole class should come over for a party, and Todd, the sniveling meanie that he was, totally didn’t believe me and said they’d be there on Saturday. Dad wouldn’t help me, but he did supervise.

The tree house remains in the back yard. It’s almost certainly a safety hazard now, but then? Then, it was a thing of beauty—as much as four walls, a floor, and a crooked roof could be. How no one commented on the new-wood smell that weekend is beyond me.

I still think about the look on Todd’s face when he saw that I actually had a tree house. God, it was good.

Anyway, here I am again, in another self-made situation that I’m absolutely unprepared for, in a loft I would probably murder someone to live in, figuring out how to move forward. He’s barely touched the place, that much is obvious. But it’s clean. No dusty corners, no grimy windows. He cares about his home, even if he hasn’t done anything with it. Something about it is, I don’t know, touching? It’s weird. I can’t describe it.

“Where should we put this?” Jeff holds one side of the drywall while his partner Kevin holds the other.

I point to the long expanse of blank wall along the east side of the building, and the guys head there. Once I’m sure they know where to put the stacks of drywall, I turn back to inspect the space. I have so many ideas. Ways to separate the open areas into something warm and inviting. I may have bulldozed my way in here, but honestly, it’s a dream to get to design this. It’s so far out of my comfort zone that it’s in another country, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere, right?

I scoff. My dreams are so big that sometimes I don’t know how I’ll ever find the time to make them all come true. Because it’s not just the furniture and custom trim that I’m interested in. It’s full-on design and bespoke items that are meant to fit one space and one space only. Heirlooms for families. Pieces that matter. I love a good Ikea bookshelf as much as the next girl, but there is nothing better than staining a set of shelves that you’ve worked hard to build yourself. I have no business doing a full-on renovation of someone’s loft, but if you think that’s going to keep me from doing it, you clearly haven’t met me.

After Kevin and Jeff finish their delivery and leave, I inspect the kitchen—maybe more thoroughly than is strictly necessary, but hey, do you blame me?—and head to the bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, I decide to do the very thing that, were I a girlfriend, I would never do. Or probably wouldn’t do. Maybe I would. Hell, I don’t know. Either way, I take a little tour of the grumpy man’s medicine cabinet.

The damn thing creaks when I open it, the stupid rusty hinges. I squawk like I’m about to get caught, then peek out of the pitiful excuse for a door to make sure that Anthony hasn’t shown up.

Coast is clear.

Back to snooping.

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