Page 8 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

Or, at least, what’s left of it. Which isn’t much. There aren’t any walls on the inside or outside, so it’s basically a few load-bearing beams, and that’s it. I can see everything there is to see. “I was hoping to walk around inside.” Not that there’s a point to it, but still...

“Have you got a hard hat?” Zach’s brother—what did Georgia say his name is?—pokes out his cheek with his tongue like there’s something irritating there that he can’t keep from touching.

I shake my head.

“Come back when you do.” He turns his back to me and picks up a section of lathe. He carries it past me and tosses it in the dumpster. There’s a crash and a cloud of dust, and I have to wonder why he’s not worried I don’t have a hard hat on out here.

But that’s not the question I ask. “You don’t have one I can borrow?”

I hear his sigh before he turns around. “No, I don’t have one, and I’m not going to be responsible for you getting hurt. I’ve got another job to get to in half an hour, and I don’t have time to walk some lady in a dress,”—his eyes go to my feet—“and heels around a construction site.”

I glance down at what I thought was the perfect outfit for a professional meeting, and I hate how wrong I was. I should have known better than to wear a dress to a house in the middle of demolition. I guess I didn’t think it would be quite so demoed.

Which reminds me of something.

“Did you keep any of the trim or casings Georgia wants to reuse?”

He may be in charge of tearing things down, but I’m the one in charge of the project itself. Whatever this guy’s name is, he works for me. Best to establish that relationship first thing.

“I kept what I thought was worth keeping,” he barks, then adds under his breath, “Which is more than Georgia cared about keeping.” He turns around again, this time with a more determined walk. “Come back with a hard hat if you want to see what’s left. Or wait until Friday, which is when I told Zach it would be done.” His voice is gruff and leaves no room for argument.

So I do the only thing I can do until he leaves. “Nice to meet you!” I call after him in my best cheerful voice while I walk back to the truck. “Hope to see you again soon!”

But not today.

I pull back on the main road and spend the next few hours exploring Paradise Valley and the little communities that dot it. Just not Paradise. Because once I drive into Paradise, I head straight to Grandma Rose’s and explore every square inch of it—sans hardhat—until the sun goes down.

Grumpy Thor is not the boss of me.

Chapter 4

Adam

Rosie is waiting at the window when I get home. I see her nose and paws peeking through the sheer curtains before her barking starts. Her daily watch has destroyed the curtains; there are tears and snags all over them. I should care more than I do. I’d rather be coming home to a wife, but at least someone is happy to see me. Curtains can be replaced.

“Hey girl!” I scoop her up as I walk in the door, and she slathers me in kisses. Again, they’d be better coming from a woman, but her kisses still bring the first smile of the day to my face.

By the time I set her on the floor, Rosie is covered in the same dust and dirt that I am. I groan. We’ve both got to clean up now. “Come on, girl. Shower time.”

Again, I’d rather be showering with... Well. You know.

I turn on the water and nudge her into the shower. She lets out a short whimper, but that’s all the fight she puts up. Rosie loves showers, she just forgets from one day to the next.

My arms and shoulders ache from swinging a sledgehammer and picking up junk all day. The last thing I want to be doing is scrubbing down my dog instead of showering myself, but at least one of us is happy, once she remembers how much she likes this. I kneel on the tiled floor with the shower door open and run the handheld shower head over Rosie’s back.

“Georgia’s minionshowed up today,” I say to Rosie. That’s what I’ve decided to call this Evie—or was it Evelyn?—person. A minion. Here to do Georgia’s dirty work—literally. Even if she doesn’t look like a minion. Far from it.

Rosie shoots me a disappointed look. Or, maybe, Boston Terriers are prone to disappointment, since that’s what she usually looks like.

I know the feeling.

“In heels and a dress,” I go on. “A dark purplish-blue thing that matched her eyes.” I noticed those too. Only because I’ve never seen eyes that color. Not because I’m attracted to her.

Big city girl looking to make my small town all sparkly and new is definitely not my type. I know that trope—I’ve read it a thousand times in my hidden romance novels. It may be my favorite.

And I know how it’s supposed to end. Girl falls for flannel-wearing boy, gives up big city life, and they both live happily ever after.

I call bull.

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