Page 41 of To Have and to Scold

It was good that it was the sub floor and not the actual floors. I turned on the hose around the back of the house and got Acesprayed down, with Dallas’s help. And then I got a power vac from my warehouse across town and cleaned up all the paint, again with Dallas’s help.

I kept telling her she should go home and let me finish the cleanup, but she insisted on staying. Honestly, I don’t know how I would have cleaned up all that paint without her.

Being around Dallas so much has me feeling things. And those feelings? Well, they’re pretty much the worst.

They’re the worst because they don’t make any sense. She is controlling and bossy and does not feel the same about me. Besides, my love life has already been the subject of too much public scrutiny. Six months ago, I decided I wouldn’t put myself in that position of vulnerability again.

My life is just fine without a woman in it. Period.

Dallas and I couldn’t be more different from one another. She’s itching to leave town. As soon as she gets the chance, she’ll be back in Atlanta where she wants to be.

And now her anxiety over the looming deadline has gotten in my head and I’m anxious about it, too. And maybe the other reason has a little something to do with the way she looks in her dowdy sweatpants, her dark red hair tied up in a crazy knot on the top of her head. A knot that won’t stay put to save her life, so she always has these flyaways that cling to her neck and jaw.

Yeah. Okay. I probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that.

I shouldn’t be noticing how kind she is to everyone at Integrity Construction. The only people she’s hard on are herself and me.

And I shouldn’t notice that she smells good. The way she smells does to me what the scent of pizza in the air does to a perennially starving college freshman.

Not that she herself smells like pizza. It would probably make things easier if she did. I’m just saying that there’s something in the Dallas-Olivia-Cardon magic and no amount of common sense will change my mind on it.

And she can’t know about any of it.

We’re painting in the second bedroom tonight, and Ace is definitelynothere, the sludge of paint sticking to the wall from the roller the only sound…except for the ocean waves. Why didn’t I try to persuade her to paint the great room instead—a much larger, open space where I don’t have to be inundated with her tropical scent?

Oh, that’s right. Because I like to torture myself.

“You have plans for this weekend?” she asks me, wearing her gray sweats again with a matching top.

It’s an innocent enough question, something the cashiers at the grocery store ask every customer eight and up. But suddenly, I have images in my mind of hanging out, playing volleyball in the sand, maybe even driving into Wilmington for a nice dinner at Calla Lily.

And in very poor form, all those images have Dallas front and center.

“Yardwork, holding volleyball practice with Leo’s team, and Sunday dinner with my family.” I will my voice to sound as nonchalant as possible. “How about you?”

“I’ll be getting caught up on work. I’m creating some digital sample books for clients to see so they can choose their linens and flowers and things like that.”

“You work a lot.” I glance over at her as we paint. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Hmm. Never heard that one before,” she says with a smirk.

“Sorry, but it’s true.”

“You’re one to talk. Look what you’re doing, after already working all day.”

“I blame you. I can’t let you do this by yourself,” I say. “You’re doing a good job. I just feel bad you have to spend your time doing something that’s not using your skills to their advantage.You should be spending your time making your sample books, not painting.”

She stops rolling the paint and turns to me. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way. This needs to get done, so I’m getting it done.”

There’s a speckle of paint on her cheek and without thinking, I move to dab it off with my thumb. Her skin is soft and tender under my thumb, which is roughened from my construction work. She blinks rapidly before closing her eyes against my touch. A beat passes and her eyes are open again.

She laughs. “Paint splatter, I take it?”

I press a little harder with my thumb, and I’m finally able to get it off. “Not anymore.” I drop my hand, and she touches her cheek with hers.

“Thanks,” she says, with a brief smile.

“I won’t blame you for my own decision to come here,” I tell her. “Sorry.”

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