Page 13 of Daddy By Design

“I just so happen to own a design studio.”

“How fortuitous for me.”

Her lips twitched. “Isn’t it? Look, I know you think I’m certifiable.”

“Bet you’d look good in white.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I look spectacular in white. With and without buckles.”

I resisted the urge to laugh—barely. Instead, I gritted my teeth, waiting her out. She couldn’t stop talking as far as I could tell from both of our interactions.

“This house is special. Let me help you bring it back to life.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“Because I already love it. I’ll do everything in my power to make it great again.”

“And what? Take away all the character?”

“What? God, no.” She twirled around to face the house and spread her arms out. All the lithe muscles of her arms were marred with long scrapes and made me swallow down a growl. She was battered and bleeding because of me. “Technically, it’s a Victorian, but Harriette had a taste for Gothic romance. The dangerous angles of the roof with the iron, the twin towers with their turrets. Even the stone details that make up the arches...all of it is so beautiful.”

All the things that had drawn me to Gothic churches and homes. I’d always loved the macabre. Something that me and my sister had always shared. When we used to speak to one another. Sometimes when we’d needed to get away from our dad and his rages, we’d hide under the blankets and watched Halloween just to block out the noises.

Each of us sharing an earbud with the volume turned way up.

I blinked away the memory as Dahlia spun back around. “I don’t want to change anything.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I want to add some modern touches.” When she opened her mouth, I held up a finger. “It’s my house. You’re supposed to want to work with the client, aren’t you?”

She closed her lips for a moment. “Of course.” She skidded her way down the rest of the hill to where I was standing, her shoes pointing up ridiculously since they were now missing the four inches of heel. “I owe you for the truck and the save up there—even if it was your fault.”

I gave her a bland stare.

“Well, it was. And I’m damn good at my job.”

I knew she was. In my endless scrolling, I’d searched out her website. Designing Women was a relatively new firm, yet they already had a dozen high-end properties in their portfolio.

But she was pushy and made my blood boil more often than not. I just wanted peace.

There was nothing peaceful about Dahlia McKenna—I could feel that in my aching bones. She was pushy and opinionated, and while she talked a good game about working with me, I had a feeling she’d be anything but cooperative.

The wind off the water came up and blew her hair around her face and shoulders. Christ, she looked like a goddess with her torn up skin and ripped clothes. With her chocolate hair whipping around and her wild, dark eyes. Her high cheekbones and just a hair too pointy chin. Just imperfect enough to make me want to grab my sketchbook.

The sketchbook that was locked in a trunk at the bottom of a storage unit.

One I didn’t want to take out, dammit. Ever.

“Not interested.”

She grabbed my hand. “You are. I can see it in your eyes. You can’t do this all yourself.”

I twisted out of her hold. “I can.”

“No, you can’t. Do you have demolition training?”

“Who needs training to destroy?”

She folded her arms, winced and let her arms dangle at her side.

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