Page 33 of Designing Love
We jolt apart, tension snapping like a rubber band. The strangers stumble off, unaware of the moment they just shattered.
I rub the back of my neck while mumbling under my breath. “The universe has a weird sense of humor.”
She smiles faintly. “At least it keeps things interesting.” She drops her gaze, toes scuffing the sidewalk. “I’m meeting Daniel at Sage’s tomorrow… but maybe I could meet you at the Miller house after that? We can finalize some measurements.”
My spirits lift. “Absolutely. The contractors might appreciate actual numbers instead of my random estimates.”
Her soft laugh enchants me. “Then it’s a date — of sorts.”
I nod, heart thudding at the idea. “Definitely of sorts. Shall I drive you home?”
“Since I came with you, I kind of expected it!” She laughs and I smile sheepishly.
We get into the truck and pull away from the pub, windows rolled down, letting the cool night air carry the tension out with it. It’s quiet but not uncomfortable — like the kind of silence that knows it’s earned.
I park in Sage’s driveway. We hover in a charged quiet. The streetlights cast her face in a gentle glow, and I can’t help noticing how her hair catches the light or how her eyes flick to my lips. Then, in a sudden burst of confidence, she leans toward me and kisses my cheek, lips brushing softly against my skin. My pulse skyrockets.
“Good night, Ethan,” she murmurs, getting out of my truck.
“Night,” I manage, feeling heat creep across my face. I watch her walk away, her silhouette climbing the stairs to the house. Only when she’s gone do I finally move, heading home with my head buzzing like I’m floating.
Yeah, the town’s rumor mill will be spinning, but as far as I’m concerned, let them talk. The only conversation that matters is between Sophia and me — every stolen glance, tense heartbeat, and whispered promise suggesting that we might be more than just a passing renovation project.
15
BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
Sophia
At precisely 9:59 a.m., I’m pacing a small circle in Sage’s beach house living room, which isn’t easy given that eclectic sculptures, half-finished paintings, and various questionable potted plants occupy every available space. I bump into a ceramic frog that stares accusingly up at me, silently judging my life choices.
“I know, I know,” I whisper to the frog. “I’ve made better decisions.”
The knock on the door comes precisely at ten. Daniel — predictable as ever. I hesitate a few seconds longer than necessary before yanking the door open, hoping my expression comes off somewhere between politely detached and not remotely interested.
“Hi, Sophia.” Daniel’s voice is carefully neutral, but the way his eyes flick anxiously behind me suggests he might fear a paintbrush-wielding Sage staging an ambush.
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside. “Sage isn’t home, in case you’re worried.”
“Actually, yes,” Daniel says dryly, stepping in and glancing around the cluttered room. “She and I don’t exactly mesh.”
I smile thinly. “You don’t say.”
He’s dressed casually, or at least Daniel-casual: pressed jeans, a tailored sweater, and leather loafers that have never touched sand. As he moves further into the living room, he eyes a wall-mounted sculpture suspiciously — a half-man, half-raccoon figure made entirely of driftwood.
“What is this supposed to represent?” he asks cautiously.
I shrug. “Sage says it symbolizes the duality of nature. Personally, I think she ran out of ideas and just started hot-gluing stuff together.”
Daniel chuckles briefly, but his face quickly returns to seriousness. “Can we sit down and talk?”
“I’d offer you the couch, but…” I glance apologetically toward a faded velvet sofa covered in sketches and pastel dust. “It’s currently a work in progress.”
“Seems fitting,” he mutters, clearly uncomfortable.
He follows me toward the tiny breakfast nook, where two mismatched chairs flank a small table covered in paint splatter. We sit awkwardly, the silence between us filled only by the distant murmur of the lake and a gentle breeze that rustles the sheer curtains.
“I…” Daniel clears his throat, fumbling for words. “I guess you expect me to apologize for last night.”
