Page 36 of To Have and to Scold

“I’ll see you there at eight thirty.” I stare at him. “Sharp.”

His gaze takes in my office, and I might have imagined it, but he breathes in deeply, maybe smelling the essential oils and potpourri blend I created myself. I lean back in my office chair. I do like how the décor is shaping up.

Sheer blush curtains, new tweed lamp shades, and throw pillows in various textures and shades of pink accent my display case of freeze-dried roses. Two of the four walls of my office contain racks and drawers of samples—every linen, trim, and greenery one can imagine and a fair amount of basic dress options—plus scrapbooks of even more. It’s paradise, really.

A paradise that has spilled over into Beck’s office, as well. I asked him the other day if I could store a rack of bridesmaids’dresses in there. It took him a full twenty seconds of staring into space before he finally agreed. I honestly can’t tell if he doesn’t mind or if he’s one satin bolt away from death over it.

Speaking of death, I’ll defend my office décor to the grave. If the office space in which you’re meeting with clients isn’t on-brand, you can kiss your opportunities goodbye.

And I need opportunities. I need a barrel full of them. I’m cautiously optimistic about the bookings I’ve managed to get so far. I’m also in shock about them because nobody in Atlanta waits until a couple of months before their wedding to secure a venue. But I guess Willow Cove has a different approach. So there’s some hope that I just might be able to pull in enough revenue for the mayor to give me a glowing recommendation to Amore.

Shoshana told me if I take another job and lie low for a while, the Clancys and the Bozzellis might forget all about it and won’t care if I come back.

So that’s the plan. With every wedding I do here in Willow Cove, I’ll remind Shoshana what she’s missing. I’ll show her I’ll never let my personal life affect my ability to get the right cake sent to the correct wedding again. I’ll prove myself to her.

I have to figure this out. Ihave to, have to, have tofigure this out. So why do I keep imagining Beck in beach volleyball shorts for the rest of the afternoon?

*****

It’s fine.

All good.

Beck and I will be hanging out in this huge mansion all by ourselves tonight, probably in semi-darkness because I doubt they’ve finished installing the lighting package yet. That doesn’t mean anything untoward is going to happen. Certainly no hugging to see if I could make it as a professional hugger.

I refuse to have a crush on Beck, okay?

Beck. The man who is infuriatingly behind in this project and can’t seem to fathom why I’m so concerned. He also happens to disagree with me much of the time.

Which is why it’s frustrating that I get a little thrill in my stomach when I see his huge pickup truck parked on the road in front of the mansion. It’s just dirty enough for it to be impressive that he works so hard without it being gross.

Calm down, Dallas.

I let Holden scatter my path throughThe Planand look where that led me.

I jump out of my car, all business. To his credit, Beck seems to be a genuinely good person. Everybody likes Beck. And he doesn’t want anything to do with me.

Except, when I walk in, he’s there in the grand entry and he takes a longer than usual look at me.

“Nice sweats.”

Yes. I wore heather gray sweats, like I’m Sylvester Stallone inRocky. I wore them mostly because I’m likely going to be cleaning tonight. But also, a small part of me chose sweats to purposely make me feel more frumpish than womanly. It’s the equivalent of refusing to shave your legs before a date as a safety precaution—a way to ensure you won’t do anything you’d regret.

It’s not bad hygiene. It’s standard operating procedure for single ladies everywhere.

“Thank you,” I say brightly, looking down at my scuffed-up Vans taking me into even more solid we’re-just-colleagues territory. “How was volleyball?”

Before he can answer, he closes the door behind me and flips on the light overhead.

“Oooh. That chandelier does not disappoint.” It’s large, fitting the scale of the vaulted ceiling. The delicate, brass palm leaves fit the beachy vibe, yet the size of it adds an austere, high-end feel. “It’s appropriately understated, yet whimsical.” I spin slowly, myface turned up to the ceiling. “Perfect for this place. Did you pick it out?”

“That’s exactly the idea. And Martha Dobbs picked it out.” Beck grins. “Volleyball was awesome. We won.” He says it so matter-of-factly. Then he sobers and nods. “And the kids I’m coaching are going to be pretty good.”

“I almost joked about them being good only because you’re their coach, but I won’t feed any flames of arrogance.”

“Good,” he tosses back. “And if I ever start acting arrogant about beach volleyball, kick me, okay?”

“You’d give me permission to kick you? I like the sound of that.”

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