Page 33 of Take This Heart
Dad leans over the sketches, nodding slowly. “I like that.” He looks up at me. “Does this inspire you at all, buttercup?”
I hate to admit it, but it does. Itreallydoes.
Milo points to another page. “And here—three gas fire features, low and wide, built into rounded stone pits. Not too modern. More organic. They’ll be spaced out to create heat and encourage conversation.” He glances at me. “I imagine string lights overhead and fleece blankets available in winter. It’s meant to be year-round. Cozy, even when the lake’s frozen over.”
He says it like that’s easy to do.
But it’s not. Designing something that works with the environment instead of against it is hard.
I keep my voice neutral. “You’re heating a mostly glass structure. That’s not exactly green.”
He nods. “Passive solar homes work well here. We’ll capture the sunshine here.” He points at the southern wall. “And it’ll retain heat and reduce energy use.”
I look back at the view. The lake stretches out in every direction. I can picture this gorgeous glass structure out here where it’d feel like we’re almost walking on water. The bones of this idea are solid.
“Wow,” Dad says beside me. “I love it.”
I sigh and Dad elbows me.
“Come on. Admit it. He’s winning you over.”
I glance at Milo. He’s watching me carefully. Hopeful.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a full smile. But I do say, “It could be…magical.”
The smile that breaks out on his face dazzles.
I feel weak in the knees and I’m sitting down.
This is not good.
His eyes catch mine, and something flickers. Something hot and dangerous.
I look away fast and pretend I didn’t feel it.
CHAPTER TEN
DOMESTICATED
MILO
I’m beginning to think Goldie Whitman is personally trying to kill me. Not with poison or a shove off the deck, but with nitpicking every single thing I do. She shows up to every design meeting like she’s emerged from a Pinterest board—perfect hair, biting commentary, and an uncanny ability to find the one architectural detail that mightnotbe structurally feasible—and then she makes it my problem.
“You’re going to put the stepsthere?” she says one morning, eyes narrowed. She’d be clutching her pearls if she were wearing any. “Why not just beg people to fall?”
“Great idea,” I mutter, pretending to write it down on my sketchpad.
She hums. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She’s frustrating beyond belief. And brilliant. And unfairly gorgeous in her puffer vest and boots and that ridiculous hair that’s so beautiful I want to touch it.
We’ve been working on the Windy Harbor project for a few weeks now, and somehow Goldie’s managed to wedge herself into every aspect of it—even the parts that don’t concern her. My planner? Annotated. My blueprints? Covered with sticky notes in every color with her many, many thoughts.
Yet, her ideas are really solid.
I just thought it was a lot before she quit her job, but now that she’s here most weekdays too, she is a control freak to the nth degree. She hasn’t moved here yet. Small mercies. But she’ll be moving here full-time soon. Her house is on the market, and she brings boxes whenever she comes to Windy Harbor. I’m staying at the apartment over Kitty-Corner Cafe, which helps since Goldie is invading every other part of my life, including my dreams.
Fortunately, Everett still loves me.
