Page 14 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Now wait a minute?—”
“No, no, Jake. You go ahead and do all your manly building things. Your grandmother and I will keep ourselves occupied.”
* * *
Jake wasn’t sure he liked the gleam in Faith’s eyes. A sudden vision of Faith and Ruth behind bars, cheerfully fleecing their fellow inmates at cards, sent a chill down his spine. His grandmother could lead a saint astray without even trying. He was about to reconsider the whole arrangement when the potential bad influence in question appeared.
“It’s about time you two got here,” Ruth called, making her way toward them with surprising speed for a woman of her years. Today she wore a lavender pantsuit that somehow managed to look elegant despite being paired with practical walking shoes. “It’s not safe to leave an old lady alone for very long. What if I’d had a stroke or slipped in the shower? Didn’t I tell you that you wouldn’t be able to charm her so easily? Faith’s not like those flighty women you’ve dated in the past. She’s not going to swoon just because you turn those blue eyes her way or because your butt looks good in those jeans.”
Faith felt heat rise to her cheeks, embarrassed because that’s precisely what she’d been doing moments ago in the kitchen. But Ruth’s comment about flighty women sparked a different kind of warmth—one that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. She might be inexperienced in relationships, but she recognized the bitter taste of envy. Her marriage had been steeped in it, and if Jake Murphy shared that particular quality with her late husband, he was fighting a losing battle.
As Jake guided her toward the trailer, his hand a gentle pressure at the small of her back, Faith promised herself she would proceed with caution. Whatever this was between them—attraction, chemistry, or something deeper—she needed to protect herself. Because despite all her professional knowledge about relationships, Faith knew one truth about herself—when she gave her heart, it would be completely, irrevocably, and just once. And Jake Murphy would have to prove he was worthy of such a gift.
CHAPTERSIX
Five weeks after construction began,Faith pulled her black Audi S8 in front of her house and blew out a breath. October had fully settled in, bringing shorter days and a deeper chill to the air. The maple trees lining her street had transformed from lush green to brilliant shades of crimson and gold, creating a canopy of autumn fire overhead. The neighborhood had embraced the approaching Halloween season—carved pumpkins adorned nearby porches, and elaborate spiderwebs stretched across shrubs and mailboxes.
“Things have to get worse before they can get better,” she told herself, surveying the organized chaos of her property.
The front yard, once merely unkempt, now resembled a construction staging area. Stacks of lumber stood in semi-organized piles, dumpsters overflowed with debris, and work trucks created a small village in what had once been her driveway. Yet despite the apparent disorder, Faith could see the progress emerging. The sagging porch had been completely rebuilt, with fresh support beams and new floorboards awaiting stain. The foundation work had been completed the previous week, and the roof no longer resembled a colander—Jake had prioritized making the house watertight before the inevitable November rains arrived.
She was grateful for the trailer Jake had provided. Living in the midst of construction would have broken even her stubborn independence.
Faith stepped out of the car and attempted to subdue her windblown hair. It was just past noon, and already her carefully styled waves had rebelled into a wild tangle. She’d had an early meeting with executives from Amplify Media, one of the largest podcast networks in the country, and she was tired of having people try to manipulate her time for their own selfish purposes.
They wanted her to sign an exclusive distribution deal that would require expanding to daily podcast episodes instead of her usual once-a-week companion to her radio show. She’d declined. Her schedule was already overflowing with the radio program and the occasional guest appearances at universities and on television networks. She was scheduled to teach a class on relationship psychology next semester at the local college, not to mention the ongoing project that was her house. The money they’d offered had been impressive, but the creative control they wanted in return wasn’t worth it.
And then there was the note. It had been folded neatly under her windshield wiper, and if it hadn’t had her name printed on the outside, she would have thrown it away without reading it. She wished she had. The writer—she assumed it was a man—had only written that he’d been watching her and that she was as beautiful in real life as she was on the radio.
She occasionally attracted obsessive fans from her media presence—people who called her home wanting advice or claiming to be in love with her voice. But this note had caught her off guard.
There’d been no signature. She’d shoved it to the bottom of her purse and vigilantly checked her rearview mirror all the way home. Between her editor’s demands and her anonymous admirer, her nerves were stretched taut. All she wanted was a very large glass of wine for lunch and a double fudge sundae for dessert.
She tugged at her black pencil skirt, which fell just above her knees, and adjusted her matching jacket over a cream-colored shell. The dreaded pantyhose completed her professional ensemble. That was another reason she resented these high-stakes negotiations. The executives at Amplify Media always insisted on meeting at some overpriced restaurant in the financial district, where power suits and perfect hair were as mandatory as breathing. Someday, she would demand they meet on her terms, and she would require them to wear sweatpants and slippers just to be contrary.
“Stupid corporate vultures,” she muttered. “Demanding that I drop everything and dress up so they can wave seven figures in my face while explaining how they’d optimize my brand presence and leverage my content across multiple platforms. As if my listeners are just data points on a spreadsheet.” Media executives weren’t exactly at the top of her favorite things list at the moment.
And on top of the meeting with executives and the note left from a crazy person, she got a call from the university telling her they wanted her to write a textbook for the following fall semester since it was important for professors to have a body of work that was endorsed by the university.
“I’ll tell them where they can shove their textbook.”
* * *
Jake noticed the minute Faith pulled up in front of the house. After weeks of daily interactions and long conversations, he considered himself fairly adept at reading her moods, and right now, she was working up a serious mad.
She looked like a tempest in human form, her hair flying in all directions as she muttered to herself. His workers gave her a wide berth, and one even went so far as to cross himself as he passed. But that tailored skirt did amazing things for her legs, and Jake couldn’t help appreciating the view. She was curves and softness in all the right places, and being patient was proving far more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The past weeks had been a delicate dance between them. They’d fallen into a comfortable routine—he brought her coffee and éclairs each morning, they shared lunch when her schedule permitted, and they’d even managed four nights out for dinner, though two of them had not been what he’d call a resounding success. It would be his luck that two of his favorite restaurants were also favorites of two of his exes. What were the chances in a city the size of Dallas?
But Faith hadn’t given him the cold shoulder, though she had been a little frosty for a bit. They’d continued the dance of attraction, and he’d realized early on what she’d needed was to be romanced. But how do you romance the Queen of Romance? That was proving itself to be tricky.
The house was coming along right on schedule. Jake had pulled crews from three other projects and called in favors from every subcontractor and city inspector he knew. He’d worked tirelessly on the kitchen himself, tearing out rotted cabinets and rebuilding from scratch, coordinating with the plumbers and electricians, and keeping an extra eye on his grandmother, who had taken to Faith like a long-lost daughter.
The transformation of the house was remarkable, even with multiple crews working around the clock. The foundation had been reinforced and leveled during the first two weeks, the roof replacement had been completed, and the exterior painting in a soft sage green with burgundy and cream accents that highlighted the Victorian detailing was halfway finished. The downstairs rooms were beginning to take shape, with new drywall going up and the original hardwood floors carefully being restored one room at a time. Jake had discovered several architectural treasures hidden beneath years of neglect—stained-glass transom windows, ornate ceiling medallions, and a marble fireplace that only needed careful cleaning to return to its former glory.
Ruth had proven invaluable in the restoration process, providing historical context for many of the home’s features. She’d regaled Faith with stories of parties she’d attended in the house during its club days, describing light fixtures and wall treatments that had long since disappeared. Jake had used these recollections to guide his restoration choices, determined to honor the building’s colorful history.
His grandmother was gone for the afternoon, getting her nails done and her “skin buffed,” whatever that meant, but she always returned looking twenty years younger, so he supposed it was worth it. With Ruth away and Faith arriving unexpectedly midday, Jake had been hoping for a quiet moment to check in with her about the weekend’s Halloween festival.
