Page 7 of Daddy By Design

Fucking bananas.

Once upon a time, I’d gotten off on the fact that people wanted my shit. They’d even paid astronomical prices for it. Now I couldn’t look at any of it. It was all garbage—all trite, soulless garbage.

I’d sold every last piece. Like a dragon, I’d hoarded the money. I’d never have to work another day in my life—or for three lifetimes, for that matter. Every piece was a slice of my former life. The Chicago scene, the New York City scene, even my London work.

All another me.

The Devil of the art scene. One of the few artists who made money while they were alive.

Too bad none of them realized that each design had eroded part of me away. Until there was nothing left.

Just a pile of money.

The shadows of the one and only thing that had given me a tiny spark loomed ahead like a shadow against the endless lapping waves of Crescent Lake. I turned onto Harriette Lane and slowly eased my way over the rutted gravel driveway to my house.

The old Victorian on the lake. Right now, it didn’t look like much in the headlights of my truck. The peeling dark green paint and jagged pieces of gingerbread accents that had worn away in the unforgiving wind and storms off the water couldn’t detract from its austere beauty. Whomever had built this had possessed a flair for the dramatic, even adding Gothic accents to play up the spooky factor, and I wanted more of them. The large windows were in rough shape, but I’d replace them with stained glass. The turrets needed some over the top spires and the crumbling roof could use a widow’s walk if I could make it happen. I wanted to be the scary house on the freaking lake.

My deep love of Halloween and horror had been a part of me for as long as I could remember. I’d been looking for an old Victorian since my accident. Having stupid amounts of money meant I could wait and find exactly what I wanted.

Add in the staggering amount of time I had on my hands, I’d scoured the internet for the perfect house. Then I’d tripped over a video of this house on Hamilton Realty’s social media after I followed a hashtag.

I didn’t even tour it. The video had been enough, then when I saw the location, I knew it was meant for me. Like the Universe was giving me a second chance.

Freaking Crescent Cove.

My sister’s adopted hometown. Wasn’t life some shit?

I slid out of my truck and slammed the door. My boots sunk into the wet gravel as the mud and silt from the waterline tried to suck my feet into the earth.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Me and Little Dick were here to stay. I shook my head in disgust before trudging up to my Airstream beside the old house. It needed way more work than I’d been prepared for, but I’d get it done.

Somehow.

Maybe here, I’d find a new Nolan Devereaux.

Maybe I finally deserved a second chance.

THREE

Shelby’s bachelorette party was a success, even if I’d arrived looking like a drowned rat. After my third margarita, I’d actually managed to enjoy myself. And I’d mostly stopped noticing people staring at me.

Okay, maybe I’d ended up wobbling my way home thanks to a bit too much tequila, but I was entitled after the day I had. Perhaps the last round of shots had been ill-advised. We’d poured Shelby into Dex’s hot red convertible at the end of the night, and I was reasonably sure she’d had a much happier ending to her evening than me.

However, I was paying for my sins today.

I pressed my cheek to my desk and prayed for a short day. We didn’t exactly have a nine-to-five kind of job.I didn’t have any appointments today, but we were very open to walk-ins. In fact, we made sure someone was around at all times.

“You really etched ‘LITTLE DICK’ into some strange dude’s truck?” Avery Thomas asked from my doorway.

“I never should have told you,” I mumbled into my blotter.

Avery, our landscaper and plant mama extraordinaire, dropped into the horseshoe chair across from my desk and crossed her insanely long legs. She had dirt on her knees, and I didn’t even want to think about what was on her boots. “Not exactly like you, Dahl.”

“I know, I know.”

She pulled her ever-present pair of cutting shears out of her pocket and flipped them around her finger. “I would have come out and helped if you’d texted one of us.” She released the catch and gave the air a little snip.

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